Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  By now the tears were rolling down my face. My mascara was in danger of becoming floor polish but Jack didn’t care. He was in his element and continued regardless.

  ‘Maybe I should get Vicky out of the Beemer. She would find this absolutely hilarious I’m sure.

  My heart sank. Vicky. Bloody Vicky. I had hoped she had caught some rare, tropical disease and died a slow, painful death. No such luck. Before I could say anything Maz leapt over the bar and grabbed Jack by the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Right, you little pile of shite,’ she yelled. ‘That’s enough! Get oot of my pub before I bloody well throw you oot, piece by piece!’

  Jack’s face was turning red but he continued to smile and struggled to get free.

  ‘But it’s hilarious,’ he spluttered. ‘I mean, look at these people!’

  That was it. A lawyer in the Scrap Inn exuding wealth was bad, but a cocky lawyer publicly degrading the locals was as good as dead.

  ‘Get him!’ roared the crowd.

  ‘Ya f’kin’ poncey bastard.’

  Tables and chairs flew as Maz let Jack loose and the charge began. The dogs were after the hare with their teeth bared. Howls, growls and screams filled the smoky air.

  In a flash he was gone, pursued by my new friends. I couldn’t see his loafers for dust. I don’t usually condone violence but after that verbal assault I felt peculiarly happy to see him run. He really knew how to trample on a girl’s feelings. Before long, the roar faded and the pub was empty except for Auld Vinny snoring in the corner. I let out a deep breath. Maz locked the front door.

  ‘He’ll let himself out.’ She nodded at the birthday boy and led me to the door of the flat like a lost child. I still hadn’t uttered a word.

  Maz lifted a bottle of vodka from the shelf as we passed the bar.

  ‘Come on, let’s get pissed,’ she said, smiling at me knowingly. ‘A toast to that tosser,’ she said, raising the bottle above her head. ‘And God help his shiny shoes when they catch him!’

  Chapter Seven

  10th February, 7:00 p.m.

  The next four weeks passed by monotonously. Everything that had been new to me became the norm as my previous life turned into a distant memory. Maz and I worked hard at the pub, managing to increase the number of customers with cheap deals, gimmicks and partially cloaked bribes, in an attempt to convince the brewery not to sell.

  Auld Vinny and Co were a constant source of entertainment, and I soon found myself becoming acquainted with people whom I wouldn’t even have considered talking to a few weeks before. Many would not have been regarded as ‘appropriate’ friends for a city lawyer, especially those who had often sat on the other side of the legal divide.

  Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t heard from Jack since the day of the fight. Rumour had it that he had surpassed himself in his athletic attempt to escape the pursuing crowd. To my selfish delight, he had omitted to stop for the lovely Vicky and his BMW.

  For the first three weeks I was more celibate than Cliff Richard. Much longer and I would have been dangerously close to taking a train to Wimbledon to sing ‘Living Doll’ in the rain with Sue Barker.

  When I wasn’t working, my nights were spent in front of the TV with a depressing movie, a bottle of wine, four tons of chocolate and a roll of super-absorbent toilet paper. My a-ha tape was on constant play, blaring out melancholic Norwegian ballads at all hours. It was only when I turned to my 1982 Greatest Love compilation album that Maz threw in the towel and made it her mission to rectify the situation, much to my annoyance.

  My first organised date therapy was with Pete, a motorbike enthusiast from Byker. After having promised Maz that I would put some effort into her new venture, I had gone to the expense of a manicure, a hair-do, and a new outfit. I looked about two feet taller with my hair piled high – what the hairdresser called ‘renaissance style’ – and my feet shoved into a pair of high-heeled mules. I had to hand it to bar work, though – all those hours on my feet seemed to have done wonders for my legs. What had previously been well-cultivated fat had now been upgraded to relaxed muscle and, in my opinion, worthy of a mini skirt. I felt like a slapper, but it would keep Maz happy and I wasn’t looking for a meaningful relationship anyway.

  Pete was rugged, with a slight quiff and far too long sideburns. I had to admit that some girls would find him attractive if they had ever had a thing for Fonzy or Alvin Stardust. He was friendly, though, and chatted constantly as we sat in the pub getting to know each other.

  It was only when I had a black-and-red-flamed helmet shoved on my £12 hair-do and a leather jacket emblazoned with ‘Pete’s Chick’ forced over my velvet basque that Maz and I finally realised our mistake.

  Three hours later I managed to dislodge myself from the back of Pete’s super-bike and peel my legs away from his leather trousers. Of course, this was only after I had been given a full description and practical demonstration of the effects of G-force at 120 miles per hour. Conversation had been nearly impossible at that speed, but Pete had tried his damnedest to shout over the roaring engine for fear that I’d overlook some glorious feature of his grown-up toy.

  ‘Hey, doesn’t this baby zoom. Woo-hoo yeah, feel that acceleration! I’m moving up model next month, double muffler and eighteen hundred cc … Yeah, baby, let’s rock!’

  Feeling like I’d been on a date with ZZ Top, I was finally deposited back at the pub, much to the shrieking delight of our regulars. I declined the invitation to see Pete’s ten-year collection of Motorcycle Monthly and strongly resisted a private viewing of his newest tattoo, a naked ‘babe’ riding his ‘throbbing machine’.

  Naively I believed Maz when she assured me the next date would be much better. How could it possibly be any worse? So along came Stuart, later known to Maz and I as ‘Nervous Stu’. Date number two was a friend of Gordon’s, the manager. A computer programmer from Jesmond, he was wealthy, intellectual, and in need of an escort to his company’s February bash. ‘He can be a little nervous,’ Gordon had said on a rare visit to the pub, ‘and he’s not too confident with women, so be nice.’

  Nervous! Bloody hell, this guy was the epitome of a blubbering wreck. Being a friend of Gordon’s, I should have known. The trouble was, I had always been attracted to the idea of a wealthy, intellectual type. Surely there was one who wasn’t a geek? Apparently not. Nervous Stu arrived in a chauffeur-driven limo, already suffering from the effects of having quickly consumed a bottle of bubbly.

  After smashing several glasses in the pub, poking his bony, shaky finger in my eye when he tried to kiss me, and calling me every name except my own, Nervous Stu proceeded to throw up in my lap as I took my first ever ride in a limo.

  ‘Oh … I’m sorry, I’m … I’m j … j … just a bit nervous with women and you’re … you’re … beautiful.’

  Torn between a choice of mothering him, even though he was old enough to be my father, and calling him a stupid twat, I decided on the latter. I then felt pathetically guilty when he appeared to be about to burst into tears. Against my better judgement, I decided not to throw myself immediately in front of the nearest bus home and agreed to go on to the party (after stopping the limo at a roadside McDonald’s to sponge the puke off my skirt).

  The party was a swanky affair packed with computer whizz-kids and their compu-literate partners. I smiled dumbly while my dinner companions bounced around the latest computer language and discussed websites, packages and megabytes. I tried to join in the conversation but, being about as computer-literate as a Masai Mara farmer, I could add little of value. All my computer work at Glisset & Jacksop had been done by my secretary. That made me realise that Vicky knew far more about computers than I did, which only served to make me more depressed and sealed my decision to drink myself into oblivion.

  Nervous Stu, I noticed, was also downing the free drink with great enthusiasm. As his bravado increased, every now and then he would gingerly attempt to touch my bum or stroke my breasts. On the third such occasion, I threatened to sh
ove his megabytes where technology wouldn’t reach them. At this point, my date dropped profiteroles down my cleavage, vomited all over his boss’s wife, and wet himself, before passing out on the dessert trolley.

  Nervous Stu was followed by John. John was, like many men, a passionate football fan and did little or nothing to hide his religious adoration of anything remotely connected to St James’ Park. He pledged his allegiance to Bobby Robson every morning and lived his life in black and white stripes. We spent our date behind the goal at a Cup match, shouting obscenities at the Liverpool fans and cheering on Shearer and ‘the lads’. I learned several Newcastle team songs, which made Gary Barlow’s creations sound promising. Mind you, having to chant ‘Toon, Toon, Black and White Army’ in return for watching twenty-two fit pairs of legs chase a ball around a pitch seemed to be an ideal way to pass an afternoon. It was just unfortunate that John so strongly disagreed with the linesman’s offside ruling in the fifty-ninth minute. Storming the pitch, punching the official and flashing to the crowd had not been well received by the ground’s security force. I had been picked up as an accomplice and we had spent the remaining thirty-one minutes plus extra time locked in the cells. We had then been reprimanded, fined, and forcefully removed from the ground and told never to return. My first and, apparently last, live football match and I didn’t even get to see them exchange jerseys at the final whistle.

  After experiencing Liam, the wannabee pop star, Gio, the wannabee actor and Pierre, who had a penchant for porn, I considered signing up for the lesbian darts team. Perhaps they had the right idea after all.

  ‘Howay Jen, just one more date,’ Maz groaned, stomping around the flat behind me.

  ‘Maz, I may look desperate but I’m not a registered charity. Give me a break!’

  ‘He’s geet nice,’ she persisted.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what you said about the other bunch of cavemen you sent me.’

  ‘And he’s rich.’

  ‘So he says. Maz, you may be my best friend but I think I give your choices of date the red card.’

  I started to run a bath and slopped handfuls of ‘Magic Mud’ on my face. After my recent spate of apocalyptically bad dates, I was looking forward to a night in with my good friends, self-pity and self-indulgence. Their team-mates, alcohol and kilocalorie would be popping in at a later stage.

  ‘Please, Jen.’ Maz burst in through the bathroom door. ‘Aaagh, your face!’

  ‘Aaagh, yours too!’

  I climbed in the bath and grabbed my tacky magazine. ‘Rock his world – a sexy how-to guide’, ‘The British male and his desires’, ‘Great loving in ten days’.

  ‘What is this female magazine preoccupation with men?’ I shouted. ‘I should have bought Combat Weekly.’

  ‘Jen!’ Maz roared. ‘Please go on the date.’

  I glanced at my friend. She was pacing nervously up and down the length of the room, fiddling with her watch and biting her nails.

  ‘Maz, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ More nail biting.

  ‘Right. Good. I’ve said no and I mean no, so piss off and leave me in peace, you mad woman. You’re making me nervous.’

  Frantic fiddling with hair and lip-gnawing.

  ‘Maz, your body language is not looking good to me. You’re practically strangling your watch.’

  Twisting of ring and humming.

  ‘Oh shite,’ she said finally. ‘The thing is, he’ll he here in five minutes.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘Troy.’

  ‘Troy who? Who’s Troy?’

  ‘Troy, your date. I met him in the pub earlier. He seems canny, Jen, and the thing is he’ll be here in …’ Drrring. ‘… about now.’

  A deathly silence.

  ‘Oh damn, he’s here!’

  I jumped out of the bath screaming, ‘You cow, I hate you, you interfering old tart!’

  I frantically began scrubbing Magic Mud off my face. I soon discovered the magic was in its abnormal powers of bonding with human flesh. I had a choice between emerging from the bathroom closely resembling a female mud wrestler, or simultaneously scraping off the mud and three layers of skin. I must admit it certainly unblocked the pores.

  Troy, for God’s sake. Which reject of the human race had she dug up for me this time? Just by the name, I envisaged a second-rate gladiator in a white Lycra thong. All pecs and no performance.

  ‘This is the last time, Maz,’ I muttered to my reflection in the mirror.

  White thong, if only. This man was a peach. Ripe, luscious and good enough to eat. Whilst being introduced, I was speechless, in the taxi I was drooling like a rabid dog and by dinner I was positively gagging, legs akimbo with two large glasses of wine stirring in my loins.

  ‘So Troy, tell me about yourself.’

  I stared at this perfect specimen through the plastic tulips on the table. His wide blue eyes glistened against the tanned skin of his smiling face. His blond hair was cut close to his perfectly sized head, and two rows of sparkling white teeth reflected the glow of my over-exfoliated skin.

  ‘OK, uh, I’m twenty-nine, I’m from California but I have a house in Hawaii.’

  ‘Hawaii!’ I squealed, almost choking on my garlic bread. Visions of white beaches, palm trees and me in a grass skirt flashed through my mind. Lose the ‘me in a grass skirt’ bit and it was almost perfect.

  ‘Hawaii,’ I repeated. ‘How lovely.’ (Lame I know but I was trying to play it cool.)

  ‘Yeah,’ he drawled, ‘it’s paradise for sure but I’m considering a move to England.’

  ‘Good God, man, you must be mad.’

  ‘No I like it. It’s really historical, everything’s so old. And the pubs, wow man, the pubs are just so cool.’

  I smiled inanely, trying to think of something to say, but his sparkling smile was so distracting. I opted for another slice of garlic bread instead.

  ‘So Jennifer. Can I call you Jenny?’

  (You can call me Frank if you like. I’ll still answer.)

  ‘Yes sure, Jenny’s fine.’

  ‘So Jenny, do you enjoy working in the pub?’

  I loved the way he said my name. ‘Jaynee’, it made me feel like a movie star. Damn, I really must concentrate. My conversational skills appeared to have slipped somewhere below my waist. I fiddled with the garlic bread. What was the question again? Oh yes.

  ‘The pub? Yes, it’s great, it’s fun. Great people and lots of fun.’

  ‘It’s fun then?’ he laughed.

  I blushed.

  ‘I bet you’re a fantastic barmaid,’ he smiled. ‘Not that I’ve seen you in action yet.’

  What are we waiting for? Action stations, I’m ready when you are. God, this was getting desperate.

  ‘I’m fairly new actually,’ I replied. ‘I used to solicit but …’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Solicit … solicitor, solicitor. I mean I was a solicitor, ha ha.’ My laugh erupted like Lulu on acid. ‘I was a lawyer but I got fi — I left. Yes, over a drug problem. Not my drug problem, I don’t have one of course. Ha ha. I know they say denial is the first sign of addiction but I really don’t. Big misunderstanding.’

  Shut up, Jennifer.

  ‘Silly really,’ I added.

  Blimey, a fly on the wall next to our table would have been marvelling at the social incompetence of the human race by this stage. I’m supposed to be an intelligent woman, for God’s sake. Why, when I’m trying to impress, do I lose all ability to string more than two words together? I saw Troy’s brow wrinkle in an ‘oh no, she’s a complete lunatic’ kind of way, so I opted for silence and reached for the last slice of garlic bread. Except that there wasn’t one. I’d eaten it all, his portion and mine. Fat trollop.

  ‘So what are your hobbies, Troy?’ I asked, making an attempt at sensible conversation.

  He grinned. ‘Shopping. I just love shopping.’

  ‘Shopping? But you’re a man. Men loathe shopping. Any man I’ve ever tried to take shoppin
g loses all ability to stand when he gets within a mile of a clothes shop. That’s why they have sofas in stores these days.’

  He laughed raucously. ‘Man, you’re so funny.’

  ‘I bet you that was the whole reason behind the Internet,’ I continued. ‘That way, men can shop without moving out of earshot of the football.’

  ‘Not me. I love the whole shopping thing,’ he winked. ‘Especially the changing rooms, if you know what I mean.’

  I have absolutely no idea but whatever you say.

  ‘You’re weird,’ I laughed, sitting back to let the waiter place a huge bowl of pasta in front of me.

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiled, also sitting back and giving the waiter an obvious wink.

  Must be an American thing, I thought, tucking into my dinner. Thank God I’d had the sense not to order spaghetti.

  ‘English people are so different,’ Troy said dreamily, turning his head slowly from the direction of our retreating waiter. ‘I thought you’d all be really stiff upper lip.’

  ‘And live in castles?’ I added.

  ‘Yeah and read Shakespeare.’

  ‘And have tea with the Queen.’

  ‘Exactly! Man, you are so funny, Jenny. You’re all so friendly. Everyone’s cool. The guys … and the chicks of course.’

  I felt the blood surge to my cheeks.

  ‘I’ve never been called a chick before,’ I giggled.

  In one smooth sentence, Troy had propelled my fantasies from part-time barmaid in the Rover’s Return to red-swimming-cozzie-clad silicone beach babe on Baywatch. I was Pamela Anderson and Troy was my David Hasselhoff. Only, Troy was better looking, about twenty years younger and without the dodgy hair-do.

  ‘Of course you’re a chick. You’re a great chick and I’m glad I met you.’

  ‘So am I.’ I rested my chin on my left hand and gazed into his blue eyes. Blue and tranquil like unpolluted oceans.

  ‘And I hope we can be great friends.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  Friends? Stuff the friends part, lover boy, I’m going to marry you. Marry you, move to Hawaii and hula till the coconuts come home. OK, I’ll admit, I was one hundred per cent swayed by his looks. I hardly knew the man and there was something about him that I wasn’t sure about, but my hormones were all aboard the rocket, blasting off for planet pleasure. My mind had gone fluffy and I had to concentrate far too hard on making decent conversation to worry about niggling little doubts. I gazed at his tan. We just don’t make men like that in England.