by Sue Limb
‘Keep in touch,’ Polly beamed. ‘Send me a text sometime when you’re free and we can hook up, OK?’
‘Yeah, that would be great!’ Jess grinned. Polly seemed like a really nice person. Once the nightmare of Chaos was over, maybe they could get together and do something. Though Jess had never wanted to be a goth herself, she quite liked the idea of walking through town with one.
At last she arrived home. As she opened the front door Granny popped out of her room, looking tense.
‘Oh, Jess, love!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d never come home! I’ve got some bad news for you, I’m afraid!’
Instantly Jess’s heart lurched up towards her tonsils. ‘What? What?’ she gasped. Mum dead? Dad dead? Mum and Dad dead? Or – possibly even worse – reconciled?
‘Don’t worry, dear, nobody’s died,’ said Granny, clutching Jess’s hand.
‘Ill?’ gasped Jess. ‘Injured? Run over?’
‘No, no, Jess, nothing like that. Calm down.’
‘Well, tell me what it is, then!’ yelled Jess. Granny could be infuriating sometimes.
‘It’s Deborah – I asked her about the dinner dance buffet, but the most she can do would be the desserts, love. Just a couple of cheesecakes and about four fruit flans, she said. I’m so sorry. You must be disappointed.’
Bad though Jess’s arithmetic was, even she could see that a couple of cheesecakes and four fruit flans wouldn’t go very far towards feeding a hundred. Unless Jesus himself appeared and rolled up his sleeves, when it came to catering, she was going to be in the very depths of doo-doo.
Chapter 31
‘Never mind, Granny,’ said Jess. She squeezed Granny’s arm. ‘I’ll think of something. Get back to Miss Marple!’ She could hear the unmistakable sound of the sleuth’s signature tune wafting out from Granny’s den. Jess slouched through to the kitchen, her heart heavy as lead.
There was a note on the table in Dad’s handwriting: Jess, lighting sorted, it’s going to be terrific! Jim’s had a cancellation so we can have the works: mirror ball, the lot. Gone out to buy ingredients for celebration curry. Back soon. Love, Dad x
Dear Dad! He’d done his best. Chaos was going to look amazing – unless a fuse blew or something. And Martin’s band might be really good, because there was something reassuring about Martin, and guys still playing in a band in their forties have had plenty of time to get it right.
Jess’s hosting script was sizzling along nicely. But what on earth were the guests going to eat? A couple of fruit flans weren’t going to satisfy people who had paid £75 for a double ticket. Jess slumped down in a chair and cradled her head in her hands. The most delicious curry in the world wasn’t going to lift her out of despair – not unless it came in ninety-four portions next Saturday night. For a split second she considered asking Dad to do the catering for Chaos. But he was already doing the lighting. And though multi-talented, he wasn’t Superman.
Suddenly her mobile rang. It was a number she didn’t recognise.
‘Hi, Jess?’
‘Hello?’ She didn’t recognise the voice. Some girl – oh please, God, not Gemma Fawcett pestering for a refund.
‘It was really nice to see you today.’ Not Gemma, obviously – seeing Gemma had been possibly the most unpleasant moment in a day packed with angst. Who else had she seen today? Jess had had so much on her mind that though she ransacked her memory banks, they could not come up with the ID of a single female person she might have seen in the past week.
‘Sorry, who is this?’ Jess asked impatiently. She so hated people who didn’t identify themselves. It was unbelievably big-headed of them just to assume she would know who they were. She detested this person already.
‘Sorry, I’m such an idiot. It’s Polly.’ For a split second even knowing it was ‘Polly’ didn’t help; her mind was still a fog.
‘Oh, hi, Polly. Sorry, I’m a bit distracted at the moment,’ said Jess. It was Polly the Goth!
‘Oh, have I rung at an inconvenient moment?’ Polly speeded up. ‘So sorry, I’ll be quick, then. I only rang to ask if there are any tickets left for Chaos? It sounds really, really cool, and I was telling my friends Simon and Jules and Bart about it and we’d really, really like to come.’
‘Uh …’ Jess hesitated. She liked Polly, but how could she sell more tickets for an event that was still lacking the most essential ingredient – grub? ‘Polly, I’m not sure I can actually sell you tickets for Chaos,’ she faltered. ‘It’s just … you see, I’m having terrible trouble organising the catering. Stupidly, because I am basically a five-star nincompoop, I left it too late and by the time I started getting in touch with catering companies they were already fully booked. I’ve messed up big time and I feel like disappearing off the map and getting a job in South America.’
Jess felt a wave of relief at having unburdened herself and confessed all, even if it was to a random semi-stranger.
‘But, Jess, you should have told me,’ said Polly, not sounding disappointed at all – in fact, sounding bizarrely excited.
‘I’m telling you now,’ said Jess. ‘It’s going to be a five-star fiasco. There won’t be anything to eat.’
‘No, listen, Jess – catering, that’s what I’m studying, right?’ Jess’s heart gave a feeble little skip of hope and surprise. ‘I told you I’m doing Hospitality Supervision NVQ Level 3, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Jess blankly. ‘Sounds impressive, but what does it mean?’
‘It’s all about organising events!’ enthused Polly. ‘Things like your dinner dance! My mates and I would love to do it! What’s your budget per head? Give me a couple of hours and I’ll come back to you with some menus!’
‘Oh wow – amazing! Oh wow – amazing! Oh wow – amazing!’ That was all Jess could say for a split second. ‘Can you really do this, Polly? Because if you can, you are literally my guardian angel!’
‘Of course we can do it,’ Polly assured her cheerily. ‘It’ll be a piece of cake – not literally, of course, but you may want some gateaux for dessert, even though nowadays people find gateaux a bit old-fashioned.’
Briefly Jess and Polly worked out a basic budget – well, Polly worked it out, really, based on the ticket price, while Jess just gawped and made admiring noises. Then Polly rang off, apparently delighted to have been handed this most awful of responsibilities. Jess could only sit in her chair and marvel at how different people were. The thought of having to organise dinner for a hundred people made Jess feel limp with terror, but Polly grabbed the opportunity like a dog pouncing on a juicy bone.
‘Thank you, God,’ said Jess fervently to the ceiling. Then she grabbed her phone again – she had to call Flora and give her the good news. But not Fred. Fred could wait. After a conversation with Flora which consisted mainly of high-pitched whooping noises, and after explaining to Granny (with Miss Marple paused over a corpse in a cupboard) just what the whooping signified, Jess ran upstairs, flung off her clothes and had a long, hot shower, singing wildly all the time. For a moment Jess experienced a wild desire to be a rock star, although she knew that comedy was more her thing.
Hmmm – the hosting routine! Jess finished the shower, her mind racing. Five minutes later, dried and dressed, she was crouched over her laptop, working on her stand-up again. It was going brilliantly. Jokes just seemed to crowd into her head. In fact, Jess began to wonder how she was going to fit them all into three or four relatively short appearances. She didn’t need much material: just a welcome, an introduction to the band, and then, presumably about an hour later, an invitation to the buffet and, finally, a long goodnight. But it would have to be slick, smart, funny and well-rehearsed. She began to rewrite the script, feeling excited; there were some great jokes and she couldn’t wait to perform it.
She was deep in her rewrite when her mobile rang. It was Polly again.
‘OK, Jess, I’ve got a sample menu here. This is based on a cost of twelve pounds a head, OK?’
‘Uh – yes, fine,’ agre
ed Jess. Her head was reeling already.
‘Right,’ said Polly, ‘here we go. This is a hot fork buffet, OK?’
‘Of course,’ said Jess, though she had a brief hallucination of a hot fork being used as a weapon in some kind of catering skirmish.
‘Right,’ said Polly importantly. ‘I thought we could have a choice of tuna or chicken main course, with pasta or mushroom stroganoff for the veggies. So that would be Basque chicken (chicken with haricot beans and Spanish spiced sausage in tomato sauce) or chargrilled tuna with tabbouleh –’
‘With what?’ gasped Jess.
‘Tabbouleh.’
‘What’s tabbouleh?’
‘It’s basically cracked bulgur wheat.’
‘What’s bulgur?’
‘Well, it’s a sort of grain thing, with chopped parsley, mint, tomatoes, spring onions – it’s yummy!’
‘OK,’ said Jess faintly. ‘Go on.’
‘This would come with Charlotte potatoes, right?’ Polly ranted on. Jess had never heard of potatoes called Charlotte, but she found the whole thing immensely glamorous.
‘Lovely,’ she murmured.
‘Plus seasonal vegetables and salads,’ Polly added. ‘Then pear and ginger tart or passion fruit cheesecake, with tea and coffee. Does that sound OK?’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ groaned Jess. ‘But won’t it cost a bomb?’
‘Oh no,’ trilled Polly. ‘Like I said, this is based on a cost of twelve pounds a head, without wine, obviously – we can sell that separately.’ Jess felt dizzy at the thought of selling wine separately. ‘There will be ten of us working on this,’ Polly went on briskly. ‘We’ll do all the prep at college and then come and set it up at the venue. We’ll do it for fifty pounds each. Is that OK?’ Jess’s heart lurched in terror. What was ten times £50? Was it big bucks? Could they afford it?
‘Fine!’ she squeaked.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ gabbled Polly. ‘This is so exciting, wonderful! I’ll call back later with some more details. Bye!’
She rang off. Jess slumped down at the kitchen table. Could she afford to pay Polly’s catering friends? What was tabbouleh? What was bulgur? What was pear and ginger tart? And what would it all cost? She still hadn’t the faintest clue about her budget. And the whole point of organising Chaos was to raise money for Oxfam. What if, instead, she made a loss? That would be shameful. She sneaked into Granny’s room and cuddled up on the sofa with her. Somebody on TV was being lavishly murdered with a golf club. Compared with having to organise a dinner dance, it seemed quite an attractive option.
Chapter 32
Eventually Valentine’s arrived. There was no card from Fred, but there probably wouldn’t have been under normal circumstances anyway. He’d been away all week with the flu, and Fred was such a grouch when it came to conventional things that he probably wouldn’t have sent one even if they hadn’t had the big bad bust-up. Jess was cross with herself for even thinking about the possibility of a card from him, especially because she was in such a strop with him that she hadn’t even considered sending him one. And even if he had sent one, she would have burnt it. It would take more than a piddling valentine card for Fred to get back into her good books.
Mum, Dad and Granny had sent her a card with fluffy animals on – they hadn’t signed it but she recognised Dad’s lame attempt at disguised handwriting on the envelope and she could tell from their expressions that they were all in on the joke. Although it was nice of them, it hardly fitted the bill, and Jess didn’t have time to fret about her rock-bottom sweetheart status. This evening Chaos would unfold – only in one sense of the word, hopefully.
The problem of what to wear had been solved by her Cinderella role. To dress down she’d made a kind of holey net which slipped on over her black stretchy top and footless tights, and there was a piece of elastic which went round her waist, with ragged bits of random cloth hanging down in ripped shreds. On stage she would be barefoot (she’d take her favourite shoes, of course, even though, as they were killer heels, she’d actually be more comfortable when she kicked them off).
It was kind of liberating to be spending the evening literally in rags. As long as her make-up was brilliant it wouldn’t matter. Most of the time she’d be circulating with her mates, and obviously she wanted to appear heartbreakingly ravishing in case Fred was there – if he’d managed to force himself off his sofa to turn up and show support. So she spent her usual three hours on her make-up, designing a pair of Cinderella eyebrows emphasising her innocence and poverty but hinting at her royal destiny (Jess was becoming an eyebrow expert). She sprayed some glitter in her hair and painted her nails black (cinders, right?) and then, basically, she was ready to go.
Mum, who would be assisting Ben Jones front of house, drove her to the venue an hour early. Dad, of course, had been there all day fixing the lights which he’d got from his Oxford chum, and Martin had said his band would be there in the afternoon to have a look at the space and rehearse a number or two. Gordon Smith’s disco, which would take over in the band’s rest breaks, would also be all set up when Jess arrived.
All the same, her heart was hammering as she entered the hall. There was a big banner hanging over the entrance – this had been cooked up in a hurry by Flora and Jodie. It read CHAOS and was decorated with hearts and arrows and snowflakes – the usual stuff. Jess secretly prayed that their choice of name for the dinner dance would not prove to be a spooky premonition.
She entered the lobby to find Ben Jones in a tux, looking like a million dollars.
‘Oh, hello, Ben, you look very smart,’ said Mum, but then she effortlessly looked away to the table where she was going to sit. How could Mum bear to tear her eyes away from such a dazzling sight as Ben? Jess marvelled. It must be a generation thing.
Somebody had put up signs showing where the loos were, and there was a little bolt-hole that had been adapted to a cloakroom. There was a girl inside untangling coat hangers.
‘This is my cousin Melissa,’ said Ben. Jess beamed at her.
‘I hadn’t realised we’d need a cloakroom!’ gasped Jess. ‘Thanks so much!’
‘No problem,’ said Melissa with a cute grin. ‘I just hope there’s room for a hundred coats in here!’
Jess wondered if Melissa and Ben were an item as well as being cousins. She hoped not somehow. Although she knew that Ben Jones was Not For Her, she didn’t really want him to be for anybody else, either. It’s the same way one feels about dishy actors or singers – you like to think of them going home to a lonely house, not dating horrid bimbos or even perfectly nice other girls who are simply, tragically, Not You.
Jess entered the main hall, and gasped. Dad was up on a ladder fixing some lights, and the place looked amazing. Polly came bustling up. Though she still had a fair amount of metal in her face, she looked very professional in chef’s whites and she seemed to have a team of people milling around some trestle tables at the back of the hall, arranging hotplates, bringing in piles of plates and cutlery and so on.
It was amazing to see all these people busily conjuring up her dinner dance – people she’d never even met, all confidently doing their bit. Suddenly she realised it was going to be OK. The DJ had set up his disco corner with coloured lights sweeping across the stage. Martin was up there talking to a thin guy with a shaved head who was doing something to a drum kit.
‘You see,’ said Mum in her ear, giving her arm a secret squeeze. ‘It’s all under control!’
Jess heaved a huge, huge sigh.
‘I thought around 8.30 would be the best time to serve the food?’ asked Polly.
Jess panicked again. The moment of relief had been short-lived. Evidently she still had to make decisions, not to mention perform the hosting routine. A cold thrill of terror ran through her ribcage.
‘That would be kind of not too early but not too late,’ Polly went on. ‘And before that there’ll be some dancing and people can buy drinks at the bar. We’ve put nibbles on every table.’
>
Jess noticed how nicely the tables had been dressed, with pink and purple paper cloths, and paper butterflies on long bendy wires stuck into a central cluster of little flowers – the butterflies moved slightly in the currents of air. Each table had dishes of olives and nuts, and tiny sparkly confetti hearts were scattered randomly about. Jess wondered how much it had all cost, but Polly assured her that dressing the tables would be included in their fee, and in fact she had a friend, Kylie, for whom table-dressing was a passion.
‘I see they’ve put the bar in the side room,’ Mum pointed out.
Jess’s heart gave an anxious little skip. Fred’s dad had agreed to run the bar, of course. Halfway down the hall, there was a door leading to an extra room where, presumably, Fred’s dad would be installed. Jess hoped that he wasn’t missing any important football tonight, as a grumpy barman would be a bit of a downer on Valentine’s. She wondered, even more urgently, if she should go in there and ask him how Fred was, or at the very least if he was still alive. (Despite everything, this option was preferable.)
‘If you go backstage,’ said Mum, ‘I expect you’ll find a green room where the performers can chill out. I’ll go back to the lobby and make sure everything’s OK there – people will be arriving soon.’
Jess postponed the chat with Fred’s dad and went backstage, entering the green room. A couple of middle-aged men looked up with cheery smiles.
‘We’re part of The Martin Davies Quartet,’ said a bearded one. ‘And you must be Cinderella! I’m afraid there aren’t any Prince Charmings here, love.’
Jess smiled, and at that moment Martin came in and introduced everybody. The bearded guy was Bill the saxophone player, and the other guy, who was thin and smiley, was Roy the bass player. The drummer was apparently called Dave.
‘I think there’s a little dressing room for you, Jess,’ said Martin, pointing to a corner. ‘You’re the star of the show after all.’
‘There’s a message for you in there,’ said Bill with a wink. ‘Somebody delivered a card.’
