I don’t say that aloud of course. Mainly because Larry the Louse is right beside me and if I do, I’ll be flung straight back on the dole for insulting customers faster than you could say P45. Now the thing is, if Eva had looked me in the eye and been straight with me; if she’d said something along the lines of, ‘I’m so sorry, this is awful, this is rubbish, that your once fabulous life has come to this …’ I might just have been able to handle it. Because honesty goes a long way with me. But she didn’t. Instead she went down the Marie Antoinette route of patronising me so much, that only the threat of losing a job I was lucky to get in the first place prevented me from flinging a scalding hot Smiley Tea into her immaculately spray-tanned face. She actually pats my hand and says, ‘Well, it’s so wonderful to see you back working again! This is terrific for you and … hey! Congratulations! Right then … we’d better get going now. Must dash! Lovely seeing you!’
They don’t even wait for their order, just bolt out the door, the whole family and I swear to God, as soon as she’s safely outside, I see her through the glass doors whip out her diamante-encrusted mobile to call, oooh, probably everyone she’s ever met in her entire life to tell them. Including, it goes without saying, He Whose Name Shall Forever Remain Unspoken.
No time to brood though. Or get angry. Or even call Sharon to tell her that I’ve pretty much had a shovel just taken to my insides. Because Larry the Louse, who’s famous for inflicting petty torments if you dare annoy him (he’s not unlike a prison warder that way) takes me off till duty and puts me onto mopping the floors. Fine. In the mood I’m in. Because frankly, I feel like a Viking village right after being pillaged. Five minutes later and I’m furiously bashing the mop off table legs and chairs, white hot with rage and full of smart-alec indigestion of all the things I should have said to Eva and Nathaniel when next thing, someone grabs my arm. A man’s hand. Connected to ridiculously long legs that are in my way.
‘So do you charge extra for wiping my shoes or what?’
‘Sorry sir,’ I mutter, not meaning it. Actually thinking, move your fecking feet, moron, can’t you see I’m trying to clean up?
‘Jessie, it’s me.’
For the first time I look up and … it’s Steve. Hannah’s big brother. Oh shit. Oh bugger. Steve Hayes that I abandoned to Joan that horrible night, when he called to the house with flowers and … OK, gotta get out of here.
‘Oh, hi Steve. Look, emm … sorry about, you know … everything, but I really better get back to the kitchen …’
‘Jessie, sit down.’
I don’t know why I do as he says. I rarely do what anyone tells me. But now I’m sitting opposite him, in a Smiley booth, looking straight into the big blue eyes and there’s no getting out of this.
‘OK. Here goes,’ I sigh deeply. ‘I know that what I did that night was unforgivable …’
He waves this away and instead leans forward, pushing a Smiley tray out of the way and focusing on me directly. ‘Jessie, are you OK?’ he asks, concerned.
‘Emm …’
‘I don’t mean to be nosy, but I was standing in the queue just now and I saw those people you were talking to. Tell me to mind my own business if you like, but whatever they said seemed to upset you.’
‘Long story,’ I say wryly.
‘People from your past life? Gave you grief about working here?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Wild guess. Tell you what you should have told them though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you’re on the witness protection programme. That would have shut them up pretty pronto.’
I smile in spite of myself. Then I remember. I still owe him an apology. ‘Steve, that night when you called to the house, I have to explain what happened. I feel awful about it. You see, well … I had to be somewhere, it was important, so important that I wasn’t even thinking straight …’
‘You don’t need to explain,’ he smiles.
A nice smile. Friendly and warm.
‘No, I really do …’
‘No, you really don’t. Sharon told Joan who told my mother who told my sister who told me. About, where you rushed off to that night and … well, about what happened when you got there.’
Shit. I’m always inclined to forget that life on our street is lived under a microscope. Even if you’re a semi-recluse like me. Everyone knows everything. It’s like if one neighbour hears you sneeze at 9 a.m., by 9.30, someone will have knocked on the door to say they heard you were laid up with a terrible dose of pneumonia.
‘I’m sorry you broke up with your ex. But if you don’t mind my saying, what an arsehole.’
It’s the first time all day I’ve cracked a smile.
‘I’m also glad you didn’t end up with a prison record for breaking and entering.’
‘So am I.’
‘So you’re one of the Smiley crew now.’
Absolutely no judgement in that statement.
‘Yeah, and I was lucky to get any kind of job at all. Anyway, speaking of which, I’d better get back to work, or …’ I glance over to the tills to see Larry the Louse glaring at me and pointing at his watch.
‘And do you enjoy working here?’ he asks innocuously. Faux-casual.
‘Come on Steve, what do you think?’
‘It’s just that, if you didn’t, I might be in a position to offer you something else. Something let’s just say a bit more suited to your talents.’
An utterly unfamiliar sensation washes over me: hope.
Chapter Thirteen
I think Sharon’s met someone. Can’t be too sure until I worm the whole story out of her, but when I get home from my shift later that night, she meets me in the hall wearing a smart new jacket, fully made-up with her hair all washed and glossy. Then she stuns me by saying that we’re going out for a drink. Which is so completely unheard of in this house for anyone other than Joan, that I have to ask her to repeat herself.
‘OUT out? Outside of the house? Like as in … away from the TV?’
‘What’s wrong with that? It’s a Saturday night and we’re going out. Like people do.’ Then, dropping her voice, she adds, ‘I’ve something to tell you, and we may as well get out of here so we can chat properly.’
She gives me exactly two minutes to whip off my minging Smiley uniform and change into jeans and a T-shirt and next thing, we’re out the door and on our way down to the Swiss Cottage, leaving Maggie in the TV room all on her own for her usual Saturday night telly-fest of American Idol and X Factor.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re tucked into a fairly quiet corner of the pub, with two glasses of Bulmers in front of us. Funny, but I’m actually developing quite a taste for cider these days.
‘I’ve news for you,’ she says, taking a big gulp out of her drink.
‘I’ve news for you too, but you go first.’
‘Oh Jess, I’ve met someone. OK, pause for reaction.’
I ooh and ahh accordingly, prodding her for more info.
‘Well, you won’t believe it, but he’s actually nice and normal. At least I hope to Jaysus he turns out to be nice and normal and not, like, emailing me from a prison library or something.’
‘Tell me everything,’ I say firmly, taking a sip of the cool, sweet cider. ‘And omit no detail, however trivial.’
A quick, grateful smile from her. ‘He’s called Matt and he’s an actuary, whatever the feck that is.’
‘Oh, something to do with working out probabilities, I think. Like when you go for insurance, they calculate whatever the likelihood is of your having an accident might be. Pretty much the same with the online dating, if you think about it. Didn’t I tell you that it was a numbers game and that if you just stuck with it for long enough, then in all probability you were bound to meet someone?’ I grin, delighted to be proved right. For once.
‘An actuary,’ she says, slowly. ‘Jeez, I hope he doesn’t turn out to be some kind of anorak, train-spotter type. You know, the sort of eejit who g
oes out to the airport on Sundays just to look at the planes. A gobshite, in other words.’
‘Well, you won’t know until you meet him, will you?’
‘Well when I do meet him, you’ve got to get me ready for the date and drop me off too. As far as I’m concerned, you’re part rabbit, Jessie.’
‘What?’
‘You know, a bit like a rabbit’s foot. I need to rub you for luck.’
I let that hang, thinking that I didn’t exactly bring her much luck last time around. Then something else strikes me. ‘Of course I’ll drive you to your date, hon. But this time I’ve a tip for you. Maybe best to say nothing at home, for the moment at least. If things don’t work out, it’s hard enough to cope with your own disappointment, as well as having to cope with everyone else’s as well. If you’re with me.’
‘Yeah, but I’m still wary, Jess. I mean, you would be too if you hadn’t been with a fella since the Clinton administration. And that other gobshite who took one look at me in Starbucks and ran away did nothing for my confidence, I can tell you. Maggie still slags me about it.’
‘He was your Defibrillator Guy, nothing more,’ I say firmly.
‘My what?’
‘Defibrillator Guy. The one who brings you back to life after you’ve been off the dating scene for a while. Or possibly, you could call him your Sight of Land Man.’
‘Explain?’
‘You know how, centuries ago when explorers went in search of continents to discover? They’d always see a sight of land first. Like a small island or something. It wasn’t what they were searching for, but it was a sign that you were almost home and dry.’
‘Oh, right yeah, I get it,’ she nods. ‘I’m nervous though, Jess. I mean, this guy Matt sounds lovely. He keeps messaging me all the time saying he’s dying to meet up, but suppose he turns out to be just another eejit?’
‘Then we write him off as Knock Off Guy and move on.’ She looks at me, so I explain, ‘Knock Off Guy? You know, one that initially seems to be the real thing, but when you get to know him better, he’s just like one of those Prada handbag knock-offs. Looks the biz short-term, but ultimately you know it’ll only fall apart in a few weeks.’
‘You are really good at this.’
‘Well, I used to be out there, you know, at the dating coalface. Before I met, well … you know. Before.’ Not an avenue of misery I particularly want to reopen, so instead of going down that route, we keep on messing and inventing dating code words and silly nicknames for guys. As the cider kicks in, we’ve pretty much devised the Jessie and Sharon Woods Definitive Dating Guide.
The Punxsutawney Phil of dating is one. Someone who takes one peep at what’s on offer out there, then shrivels back into their nice, warm, cosy lair and stays there until winter’s safely over. Runway Guy is another. In other words, a fella who may as well have runway lights leading from his hall door to his empty double bed, wanting sex from you but very little else. And needless to say, the minute you sleep with him, you’ll never hear from him again. Guaranteed. Then there’s Pamplona Guy. One of those fellas that, when you’re with him, it’s the greatest adrenaline rush ever, but ultimately you know you’re going to end up getting gored alive.
‘Or Air Bag Guy,’ I suggest to Sharon, who’s guffawing so hard I’m worried she might bring up an organ.
‘What’s that?’
‘When two guys approach you in a bar and only one is interested. But he’s too nervous to get chatting to you on his own, so he brings a pal with him, on the understanding that if you give him the brush-off, then the friend is his air bag.’
‘Canary Guy is what I’d christen him,’ says Sharon. ‘You know, like when they used to send canaries down coalmines years ago, to see if there was anything doing?’
We both fall around laughing and I get up to order another round, delighted to actually be able to pay for it with money that I actually worked hard for and earned myself. Funny, the little things that can fill you with pride.
Anyway, the pub is filling up in earnest now and as I’m standing at the bar waiting to be served, more than a few people come up and say, ‘Howaya Jessie?’ like they’ve known me for years. I just nod and smile back, a bit annoyed with myself for being terrified about getting out and socialising locally, among neighbours. In fact, when I look back now, I’m completely mortified at how ridiculously agoraphobic I used to be. What exactly did I think would happen anyway? The worst thing anyone could possibly do is laugh in my face and I’m feeling so strong in myself now, that if that happened, I’d just tell them where to go. Or else set Sharon on them.
No, everyone’s being lovely, really concerned about me in fact. A few people have even asked me if I’m OK tonight, which is more than kind of them. Then, on my way back to Sharon with the drinks, I see Mrs Foley and Mrs Brady from our street sitting companionably at a table together side-by-side, nursing small whiskeys.
‘Jessie?’ Mrs Foley calls me over. ‘I just want to say it’s great seeing you out and about this evening. You’re dead right, love. Feck them all anyway!’
‘Absolutely,’ Mrs Brady nods in agreement. ‘Best thing you can do is to be seen in public with your head held high. Fair play to you, Jessie. Don’t let the bastards get you down, I always say!’
I smile and thank them, then head back to Sharon. ‘Ehh … why is everyone being so nice to me?’
‘Because we’re nice people, dopey. Why do you ask anyway?’
‘Because, well, there’s being nice and then there’s being a bit too nice.’
The mystery deepens two minutes later when Joan breezes in, dressed in scarily matching colours as usual (canary yellow tonight, and where she managed to find a handbag that exact colour is beyond me), and is greeted by a huge round of applause. Suddenly it seems like everyone in the pub is clapping her and she obliges by doing a little twirl and a bow, then spots us in the corner and totters over on the heels. In great form tonight, as it happens.
‘Well there you both are, girls!’ she smiles. ‘I was wondering where you pair were hiding. Maggie’s at home spewing fire at being left on her own, you know.’
Sharon and I look guiltily at each other. But then, that’s one particular bridge we’ll just have to cross later on, isn’t it? And preferably the more canned up we are for that, the better. I don’t know, maybe it’s because Sharon and I have grown closer, or maybe it’s seeing Sharon actively looking for love online, but honest to God, these days Maggie is acting like the poster girl for anger. And why she can’t express it by coming out and getting drunk like the rest of us, is beyond me.
‘What was all the clapping for?’ I ask Joan, deliberately changing the subject. For a second innocently wondering if it was because of her outfit.
‘Oh, you mean you didn’t know? Because this evening …’
‘What she means to say is that, this evening, she has rehearsals for the musical you’re putting on, don’t you Ma?’ Sharon interrupts, warningly.
‘Oh, ehh, yes, we’ve a musical soirée in the back room here later on. Doing The Mikado, you know,’ she adds uselessly, but it’s already too late. My suspicions are well and truly aroused. The game is up a second later when a chunky, florid-looking middle-aged man slips his arm around Joan’s waist and tells her that she’s a fine-looking woman and that she should appear on TV more often. Then, as he escorts her to the bar to buy her a Chardonnay, I turn on Sharon.
‘OK, nice cover-up, but would you please mind telling me what Joan was doing on TV tonight?’
But no sooner have I asked the question than the answer begins to dawn on me. Oh dear Jesus. I am such an idiot to have even forgotten in the first place. In the end, Sharon and I say it together. ‘The documentary.’
I slump against the wall of the bar and rub the cool glass over my forehead, like a cold compress. Of course. The A Day in the Life programme which was shot over the most monumentally awful twelve-hour period of my entire professional career. And of course, Maggie, Joan and Sharon would all
have featured in supporting roles, given that they were interviewed for it way back when. I can’t believe I’d edited it out of my mind.
‘Let me get you another drink,’ says Sharon, concerned.
‘No. Just answer me one thing. How bad was it?’
‘Well, I didn’t see the whole thing, because you literally came in the door just before it was over, but what I did see … really wasn’t that bad at all,’ she lies.
‘That’s why you were anxious to get me out of the house tonight.’
‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want you to get upset. We all said some things in it that, well, that weren’t very fair. Me and Maggie particularly. And I’m sorry, Jess, I really am. It’s just I didn’t know you then like I know you now. But if that same crowd came to our front door tomorrow, I’d say very different things. I’d tell them how cool and fantastic you are. I’d tell them that … that …’
‘You don’t have to finish that sentence,’ I interrupt, afraid I might just start getting teary and emotional. ‘But, still, thanks for starting it.’
‘But I really want you to know something, Jessie. You’re my best friend.’
Now I’m touched. Really touched. ‘Thanks, Sharon. You’re my best friend too. I wouldn’t have got through the past few months without you.’
‘And I’m sorry for calling you a loser.’
‘You didn’t call me a loser.’
‘I did in my head.’
‘Come on,’ I say, all decisive. Determined not to get sentimental and to put the whole shagging documentary thing clean out of my head. That was my old life and this is the new. Simple as that. ‘Let’s get another round in. Let’s stagger home tonight as stewed as newts.’
‘Now that’s the kind of nagging I can live with,’ grins Sharon. ‘Sure, we have to toast the end of your first successful week working in Smiley Burger anyway, don’t we?’
Hopes & Dreams Page 21
