Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Why-aye woman,’ shouted one Kappa-clad youngster, ‘nice knickers yer wearin’. Give ya two pount fer them.’ Hysterical laughter followed.

  ‘Aye missus, show wur some more like!’

  Shocked by the fact that I was being sexually harassed by a group of pre-pubescent little runts, I suddenly turned into my mother.

  ‘Don’t be so disgusting you little … Shouldn’t you be in bed by now? … Where are your parents? … Just wait till I tell them …’

  ‘Gladiators ready!’ roared the throng as they began to shake the gates furiously.

  I held on for dear life as memories of many a PE lesson involving wall bars came flooding back. My pathetic threats and cries for help were lost amid the taunts of my juvenile attackers.

  ‘Nice knickers.’

  ‘Aye, lush shreddies!’

  ‘Gis a shag missus!’

  ‘Howay auld woman!’

  ‘Ha ha ha.’

  As the gate shaking became more and more furious, my glitter-varnished nails began to scrape painfully down the adjoining wall. I could feel the Lycra in my skirt straining as my post-Christmas body weight gave in to the force of gravity. One final shake, my skirt gave way and I plummeted headfirst and skirtless into the mountain of rubbish bags on the other side of the gate. My attackers cheered and roared with laughter. Their voices became more distant as they legged it into the nearby housing estate.

  ‘Happy New Year y’auld slapper!’ they yelled.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I groaned and slipped into darkness.

  Chapter Two

  1st January, 10:00 p.m.

  Maz and I lounged in my front room, surrounded by an impressive mosaic of comfort food wrappers. Having vowed, only this morning, never to touch alcohol again, we were doing a grand job of polishing off the entire contents of my wine rack. On the television, Julia Roberts was in the middle of a full-scale shopping extravaganza on Rodeo Drive with Richard Gere’s gold card.

  ‘How come a prostitute can get a rich lover who treats her like a queen and I can’t get anyone?’ I moaned through a mouthful of popcorn. ‘I get put back on the shelf so much I’ll be paying rent there soon.’

  ‘Howay,’ Maz sighed. ‘You can get a fella, it’s just you keep pickin’ reet tossers.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like Jack.’

  I was about to jump to his defence but noticed the menacing look in Maz’s eyes. I turned my attention back to Pretty Woman.

  ‘She’s got curly hair but somehow she doesn’t look like a walking bird’s nest. How does she do it?’ I bit into a chocolate éclair. The cream oozed down the front of my sweatshirt.

  ‘Could be somethin’ to do with her figure, pet. She’s got legs growin’ oot of her armpits and a waist the size of an ankle. I doubt it’s her personality he’s after.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ I groaned.

  ‘Bitch,’ we said in unison.

  Maz was struggling with a packet of Jaffa Cakes while trying to balance a full glass of wine on her knee. I glanced enviously at her telescopically long legs. Maz could give Julia Roberts a run for her money any day. I was just considering going out to find a fat, ugly friend to make me feel better when Maz ripped open the packet, sending Jaffa Cakes flying in all directions and emptying the contents of her glass all over my trackie bottoms.

  ‘Ooops!’ she giggled.

  ‘Oh my best outfit.’ I faked distress. ‘These cost £4.99 from Quality Seconds you know.’

  We roared with laughter and began throwing any pieces of food we could lay our hands on at each other. I emptied a bowl of tortilla chips on Maz’s head. She retaliated with a lemon meringue pie.

  ‘Stop! Not the Häagen-Dazs!’ Maz roared. ‘I wanna eat that!’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ I laughed, clutching my stomach.

  ‘You could turn professional after last neet!’

  I collapsed back on the sofa and thought back to my New Year’s Eve. The nightmare had ended only at eight o’clock this morning when I had woken up to find Maz and a stunning Italian-looking chap gazing down at me as I lay among the rubbish bags in the pub yard. Maz had been considering getting the Italian stallion to give me mouth to mouth but I had stirred at precisely the wrong moment. Bloody typical.

  ‘What the hell are ya doin’, man?’ Maz had whispered, as if not wanting to break the uncomfortable silence. ‘Are ya al’reet like?’

  ‘Me? Yep, fine, morning guys,’ I had chirped. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ (Act cool and no one will notice. Always the worst policy.)

  ‘But Jen, pet, you’re sleepin’ in our rubbish tip.’

  ‘Mmmm, yep.’

  ‘And … and you’re not wearin’ a skirt.’

  I had looked down to see my attempt at seductive lingerie was on show for the world and his uncle. Unfortunately, the slimline pull-me-in knickers and black Lycra hold-ups seemed to have given way to the large volume of flesh shoved inside them. Pasty white thighs oozed out of every possible space in a manner guaranteed to put Maz’s incredibly foxy date off his breakfast. He looked like the sort of person who would never have come into contact with cellulite before.

  Having muttered something about being mugged, drugged and abandoned, I had been carefully extracted from the debris and shepherded into Maz’s car (aptly named ‘The Shoe’, being smaller than most shoe boxes) much to the amusement of her new friend. ‘Paolo’ was left to fend for himself in Maz’s usual disinterested manner. It was clear that her night without me had not been as terrible as I had imagined.

  The first day of the New Year had been spent nursing a hangover and getting in training for another one. Ludicrous amounts of food were consumed and my flat had been turned into a haven of self-pity. It was only when I had suggested playing my entire library of a-ha songs that Maz had realised the extent of my depression. If Maz ever heard the voices of Morten Harket and his two Norwegian friends coming from my flat, she knew things were bad.

  ‘Do you think I should dye my hair blonde?’ I asked, pulling at a bedraggled curl which could only be described as ‘mousy-brown’.

  ‘Na, not blonde,’ said my flame-haired friend.

  ‘What about my bum?’

  ‘What, dye it blonde?’

  ‘No you idiot, is it too fat? Has it volumised over Christmas?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really! That’s just what he said. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He who?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Ah howay. Dain’t listen to a word that plonker tells you. He’s a pig, Jen, and he isny fit to do up the buckle on yer sandals.’

  Maz grabbed another packet of crisps and fiddled with the remote control. In fact, my friend was rarely to be seen without some sort of food, drink or fag in her mouth. Despite that fact, Maz remained irritatingly thin. I put it down to her having more space to spread the calories out in, being 5′10″. I was much more ‘compressed’, shall we say, being an average 5′5″, size 12 and completely tone-free. Let’s face it, mine didn’t even deserve the title ‘body’. Elle ‘the Body’ Macpherson. Jennifer ‘the Blimp’ Summer. Average, average, average.

  ‘The problem with you, Jen,’ Maz said between mouthfuls, ‘is your low self-esteem.’

  (Oh here we go again.)

  ‘You reckon you need a man to make you feel confident so when he gives you the elbow you fall apart. You feel shite.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Trisha.’

  ‘What, she said “shite” on TV?’

  ‘No, I’m improvisin’, like. If you’ve got low self-esteem, pet, a man just meks it canny worse, I tell you. You’ve gotta start lovin’ yerself furst, Jen.’

  Miss Talk-Show Host was in full swing. I knew she was right but I pretended not to listen and just nodded sarcastically. Maz knew all the phrases from all the shows. Trisha, Ricki Lake, Jenny Jones, they were all Maz’s sources of inspiration. Even the tough-nut regulars in the pub were forced to endure three hours of talk show
s most afternoons as Maz soaked up the gossip. Mind you, none of them dared to complain, Maz didn’t take any nonsense.

  Maz’s unorthodox upbringing had prepared her for most eventualities and probably gave her a good basis for solving problems. Maz had been there, done it, nicked the T-shirt. After her mother died, Maz had been left to care for a family that became completely dysfunctional. Her dad didn’t have the slightest interest in his three children. At school, some of us had thought it would be pretty cool to have a father who would let you do whatever you wanted but, for Maz, the reality was far from idyllic. All through school, she had juggled her studies and part-time jobs to try to keep the family afloat. Her dad would disappear for weeks at a time and, when he was home, he was like a distant stranger. The combination of no love and no money took its toll. Maz had failed her exams, gone to work in a pub and built up her tough exterior. Her eldest brother Dave had got involved in petty crime and finally took up residence in Durham jail. James, the middle child, had headed for the London drug and club scene and was never heard from again.

  ‘Let’s dae a makeover,’ Maz yelled, suddenly leaping up from the sofa.

  ‘What? This isn’t the Richard and Judy show you know.’

  ‘Howay man, it’ll be a laff.’

  ‘I don’t need a makeover, Maz, I need Jack.’

  The mention of his name made me feel instantly depressed.

  ‘Jack bollocks,’ Maz groaned. ‘Look, Miss Summer, you’re an intelligent lass with a lush job, a geet nice flat and bags of opportunities but you can be reet stupid sometimes. Jack is a poncey twat who’s messed you aboot for the last ten months and given you nowt but trouble. Now get over it, Jen, and stop bein’ such a miserable cow.’

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.

  ‘Get off yer backside and let’s cheer worselves up!’

  Ten minutes into the ‘Copper Charm’ hair dye activation period, the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello Jennifer, it’s Mother.’

  ‘Hi Mum. Can I call you back? I’m in the middle of —’

  ‘I just called to wish you Happy New Year seeing as you hadn’t bothered to call.’

  I could feel a lecture coming on from the dragon lady of the Summer family.

  ‘Daddy is doing the crossword and I am terribly bored. I expected you to be here for dinner, darling. It is a New Year after all, or are you too busy with your own little friends to bother with your family any more?’

  My mother had a very annoying habit of talking to me as if I was still in my first training bra. Whenever she called, I knew I was in for one of her guilt trips.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, but I’ve had a bad day. I …’

  ‘At least your sister keeps in touch on these occasions …’

  (Bloody Susie.)

  ‘… Susie is wonderful, darling. She appreciates us you know. If you had bothered to call, I would have invited you to dinner and Daddy would love to show you the new fencing he put up in the garden.’

  Oooh, exciting. My poor, downtrodden father. He had obviously spent a long New Year’s Day outside, trying to avoid the nagging of his tyrannical wife. Hogmanay would have been spent alcohol- and vice-free, not by choice of course. If Dad so much as sneezed or breathed too heavily, Mum would chase him with the hand-held Hoover and totally disinfect the surrounding area. Her house was so much like a show home, it amazed me how any normal human being could reside there without going completely insane.

  I realised my mother was still talking at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could also see Maz jumping up and down wildly and pointing at my hair.

  ‘Bring your young man.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To dinner, Jennifer. I said bring James.’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll get the beds ready.’

  Beds. Noticeably plural. There was no chance of scoring a bit of horizontal lambada at Mum’s house. How I was ever procreated is one of life’s little mysteries.

  ‘Jack and I aren’t together any more, Mum. He —’

  ‘Oh Jennifer. What did you do this time?’

  ‘Me? Why do you automatically assume it was my fault? I didn’t do anything …’

  ‘Oh Jennifer, I despair, really I do. Honestly dahling.’

  Dahling. Ever since moving up North, my mother had become increasingly southern. Only areas south of Northampton were regarded as acceptable by her and her stuck-up friends.

  I was beginning to tire of the voice droning on in my ear and I was aware of the need to rinse my hair.

  ‘Look Mum, I really must go …’

  ‘… Susie and her husband are so fantastic together …’

  ‘Yeah look, I’ll call you later …’

  ‘… Why you can’t be more like her I’ll never know …’

  Because I’d probably have to kill myself. ‘OK, bye Mum.’

  ‘… Sebastian is such a nice chap …’

  ‘Mum, please …’

  ‘… Were you drinking?’

  ‘Mum, I …’

  ‘… I don’t know where I went wrong with you …’

  ‘MUM!’

  ‘Yes dahling?’

  ‘BYE!’

  ‘Oh … yes … goodb —’

  I slammed the phone down and ran to the bathroom. Maz was about to shove my head in the basin when the phone rang for a second time.

  ‘Aye, what d’ya want? … Who? … Aye, a’reet.’

  ‘Jen!’ Maz hollered. ‘It’s some posh git from gusset and jockstrap!’

  Glisset & Jacksop. My law firm. My boss!

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Miss Summer? This is Peregrine Bottomley-Glisset here. I’m so glad I caught you on New Year’s Day. Are you busy, Miss Summer?’

  ‘Hmmm, no, no not at all Mr Bottomley-Glisset.’

  I rubbed the red dye out of my stinging eyes. ‘Copper Charm’ had now had about thirty-five minutes to activate.

  ‘I am in the office, Miss Summer, and I see you have a holiday booked for tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, yes that’s right.’

  ‘Anything nice planned?’

  ‘Ummm, yes. Well no, nothing special actually, just relaxing you know. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather and I —’

  ‘Good. Cancel it.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Cancel it, Miss Summer.’

  ‘Certainly Mr Bottomley-Glisset.’ (He can’t do this to me!)

  ‘I want you in the office at seven-thirty sharp.’

  (Yeah right, as if.) ‘Of course. Seven thirty. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Excellent. Goodnight, Miss Summer.’

  ‘Goodnight. Happy New Year.’

  He had already rung off.

  ‘Bastard!’ I screamed and ran to the bathroom.

  Maz forced my head into the freezing cold water, which turned a hideous shade of orange in an instant. I decided at that point that this wasn’t the best cure for an apocalyptic hangover. I came up for air just as the telephone rang for a third time.

  ‘Leave it!’ Maz shouted, almost drowning me as she pushed my head into the basin.

  I heard the answering machine click into action.

  Glug, glug, gasp.

  ‘… Jack here …’

  I struggled to get free but Maz was determined to rinse my hair.

  Glug, glug, glug.

  ‘… to see you if possible …’

  Glug, gasp.

  ‘… I want it …’

  Glug, glug.

  ‘… a date and …’

  Glug.

  ‘… don’t mind …’

  Gasp.

  ‘… love …’

  At last I wriggled free and ran to the phone in the hallway. My hand reached the receiver just as I heard a click from the other end.

  ‘Damn!’ I yelled. ‘Maz did you hear that? He wants to go on a date with me.’

  I felt as excited as I had done on receiving my first Valentine card. Oh life was so simple then.

/>   ‘He loves me, Maz. I knew he’d want me back.’

  ‘Um, Jen, hang on a minute, pet.’

  I was too hormonal to listen. My self-esteem had just rocketed to new, dizzy heights.

  ‘He loves me. I’m sexy. I’m gorgeous. I’m a couple again.’

  I grabbed the receiver and took a deep breath. This was not the time to play hard to get.

  ‘Wait up, pet,’ said Maz, trying to peel my fingers from the phone. ‘You’re like a dog on heat, man. Just calm doon and listen will you.’

  ‘Let go, Maz! I know you don’t like him but he’s my boyfriend …’

  ‘Yer “regular date” you mean.’

  ‘Yes, well whatever. I love him and I’ll call him if I bloody well like.’

  My raging hormones were making me completely unreasonable. I dived for the telephone buttons just as the doorbell rang.

  ‘It’s Jack!’ I screamed hysterically.

  ‘You’re canny mental,’ Maz replied.

  I flung the door open with a huge, beaming grin and came face to face with my neighbour Mrs Diasio. She was the wife of the local pizzeria owner and not-so-secret mistress of my hideous landlord, Mr Brown. In fact, Maz said she was like a doorknob, everybody got a turn. She was an infuriating woman who stuck her nose into everyone’s business and thought herself to be well above her station.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Mrs Diasio exclaimed. She looked at me with a peculiar gaze.

  ‘Yes, what?’ I replied impolitely.

  ‘The thingy outaside.’ She pointed towards the stairs. ‘That poor excuso for a motor car.’

  ‘Aye, that’s my car,’ Maz butted in.

  ‘Moove it a’now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It looks a’terrible. Ita devalue my property.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ we said in chorus.

  ‘It’sa in my space so mooove it eh? Otherwise, I get a’someone to moove ita for you.’