‘Advice!’ Julia’s face was reddening under her coagulated crust of foundation. ‘You need more than that, Noreen, you need an exorcist for this little tramp.’
The audience gasped. Headphone woman waved her arms frantically.
‘Gettin’ in a ragee are ya auld woman?’ Bathsheba shouted. ‘Watch ya dain’t burst oot of yer suit now.’
‘You little bitch!’ Our delightful host ran towards the stage, arms flailing and eyes blazing. The camera focused on the wall as security struggled to control the situation.
‘I think Trisha’s approach is a bit more effective,’ I muttered to the girl next to me. ‘More discussion, less untamed violence.’
I couldn’t help but laugh, and took a second to scan the audience for Maz’s face. Suddenly a flash of obscenely bright salmon viscose obscured my view.
‘What about you then?’ Julia Juniper screeched in my face. ‘What is your problem?’
She was losing it, I could tell. We were nearing the point of no return on the talk-show scale. This made the infamous Jerry Springer series look like a brownies’ gang show.
‘I don’t have a problem,’ I said, instantly aware that my face was now being broadcast live on national television.
‘Of course you have,’ she squealed. ‘All you common people have problems. You’re all whingers, that’s what you are!’
I held my breath. Headphone lady, Torica and various television crew raced around the studio like a herd of cattle with BSE. Pandemonium would be an understatement.
‘Come on then!’ she squealed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Um … what?’
‘NAME!’ she yelled, thrusting her distorted face into mine.
‘Um … Jennifer,’ I stammered.
The audience hooted with delight.
‘PROBLEM!’
‘I … I don’t have a problem, I told you.’
‘Then what the HELL are you doing here, Jennifer?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whimpered. ‘I … I … we only came for a laugh …’
‘LAUGH! You think this is funny do you?’
People ran in all directions, lights flashed and the audience were on their feet. Julia Juniper was almost sitting on my knee.
‘And the free champagne,’ I wailed, ‘we wanted free champagne.’
‘Ah-ha!’ she shouted. ‘So that’s it, is it?’
‘Is it?’
‘You’re an alcoholic aren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘And in denial too. That’s your problem!’
‘What?’
I couldn’t believe what was happening. This mentally deranged woman had obviously taken an instant, very big, dislike to me. So, I’d laughed at her inability to control an unruly thirteen-year-old. So what? That didn’t really give her the right to brand me an alcoholic on national television.
‘Hang on a minute!’ I shouted. ‘I’m supposed to be in the audience.’
I looked at the crew, begging for help. Headphone girl shook her head disapprovingly and refused to spring to my assistance. Camera two stayed on my frantic face.
‘You’re a loser!’ Julia screamed. ‘Admit it, go on!’
‘You’re mental,’ I replied.
‘You’re all losers,’ she wailed, turning to face the excited audience.
All of a sudden, it appeared her grasp of the Queen’s English had escaped her as she threw a full-blown tantrum.
‘I don’t give a damn about your pathetic problems. I hate you all!’
The cameras continued to roll as security tried to take control and remove Julia Juniper’s witchlike hands from my hair. Magenta and George started to argue while Bathsheba roared with laughter. It was wild.
As all hell threatened to break loose, a loud voice suddenly boomed from the midst of the animated audience.
‘Wait just a bleedin’ minute!’
Heads and cameras turned towards the direction of the voice. I looked up, past my attacker, straining my eyes against the lights. I saw Maz strutting down the stairs towards the scene of anarchy on the stage. Amid the confusion, my tall, confident friend oozed control and order like a ringmaster in a disorderly circus.
‘Now jest hang on woman,’ she said loudly, reaching the stage.
Maz towered over the buxom talk-show host and fixed on her a stony gaze. ‘Howay, get yer flippin’ hands off wor mate,’ she said, grabbing Julia’s arms firmly, ‘or I’ll flamin’ deck ya.’
Julia spun round, momentarily releasing her grip on my hair. She stared up at Maz, who by now was breathing heavily and shaking her head.
‘Get away from me,’ Julia wailed. ‘This is my show.’
‘Aye, worst luck,’ Maz added.
‘Security, please!’ Julia screeched.
I waited for the burly guards to drag Maz away from the action but they stood mesmerised. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen.
Maz placed a firm hand on Julia’s padded shoulder and forced her into the empty seat, previously occupied by the equally tempestuous Philip.
‘Howay, sit doon and shut up!’ Maz yelled.
Julia Juniper stared open mouthed.
‘And you two can give it a rest an’ all,’ said Maz to the squabbling George and Magenta.
A strange hush descended on the studio.
‘Why-aye lass,’ shouted Bathsheba with new-found fortitude. ‘I’m gan yem,’ she said, and left the stage.
Maz stood in the centre of the stage, her eyes fixed on our host, completely oblivious to the cameras between herself and the audience. ‘What a star,’ I whispered, suppressing a smile. She looked completely at home in this totally bizarre situation.
Julia began to speak. ‘The problem with people like you is–’
‘The problem, woman,’ Maz said defiantly, pointing her finger at Julia, ‘is stuck-up cows like you who think you can treat people however you bloody well fancy. You come on here all smiles and foundation, but as soon as the camera switches off yer aboot as friendly and approachable as a traffic warden on a bad day. You’re a bleedin’ disgrace. You dain’t deserve the title of talk-show host. You divny give a toss about any of these people, do ya?’
Maz gestured to the remaining guests on the stage and then stepped closer to the quivering host. ‘I tell ya, these people are the show. Aye, I meybe common in your eyes. I may be too chuffin’ “regional” to get a job like yours, but I kna one thing. Just cos yer a legend in yer own mind, that doesny mean you can gan aroond treatin’ people like the dirt on the sole of yer designer shoe. Everyone deserves respect woman, so if you deen’t wanna give us any you can piss off!’
Julia Juniper gasped and turned a dangerous shade of puce. A tumultuous cheer rose from the audience. The entire studio was on its feet applauding my fearless friend.
‘Howay, Jen,’ Maz said, reaching out her hand, ‘we’re leavin’.’ She wasn’t even shaking. Maz was as solid as a rock.
At that moment, amid the rapturous applause, which, admittedly, was not for my benefit, I instantly felt like a glamorous heroine in a cheesy Hollywood movie. This would be the heartstring-pulling moment. Good conquers evil, girl gets guy, America saves the world, gathered crowd cheers loudly. It was all I could do to stop myself thumping my chest with my fist and yelling, ‘God Bless America!’
Fortunately, we reached the studio doors before I could get too carried away. I was about to push them dramatically when a young man stepped in front of me and held the door open. I smiled at his chivalry and glanced at his face. His green eyes twinkled mischievously. Eyes like pale green glass. I took a sharp intake of breath. It was my drinking partner from the previous night. Of course, I remembered, he was doing work experience on the show. We paused momentarily. He looked even better by day, I thought. Practically edible. Like a family-size bar of Galaxy. Maz and I had probably wrecked his work experience with the last hour’s antics. I wanted to say something but I was never very good at awkward moments. I opened my mouth.
‘Howa
y, man, let’s gan yem,’ Maz yelled in my ear, pushing me through the door.
I stumbled but didn’t fall. I knew we should leave quickly before the Julia Juniper protection squad caught up with us. In the background, the elevator music blasted into action. I could still hear the audience cheering as we raced down the corridor, looking for the exit.
As we reached the end and made to turn left, I glanced over my shoulder. The studio door swung slowly on its hinges, but there was nobody there. I sighed heavily. He was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
3rd March, 10:30 a.m.
‘Bad cheese,’ said Dave thoughtfully.
‘Can you see my knicker-line, Maz?’ I asked, going on tiptoe to try and see my rear view in the mirror.
‘Na, they look canny, Jen,’ Maz replied.
‘Are you sure? They don’t make —’
‘Do NOT say “do they make my bum look fat?”.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘That’s a’reet then.’
‘I was going to ask whether they made my whole miserable, pudgy lower half look any less like a stodgy English pudding … possibly.’
‘Ah howay,’ Maz laughed. ‘Paranoid low self-esteemed woman in the vicinity. Clear the room of fatty foods before she devours them all in an act of self-hate.’
‘Fish,’ said Dave.
‘I don’t hate myself actually.’
‘You could have fooled me, pet.’
‘I like my good bits, which are few and far between, of course. Actually I can’t think of any good bits.’
‘Yeah, fish might do.’
‘Dave,’ Maz said in an exasperated tone, ‘what the hell are you talkin’ aboot?’
‘Fish. Yeah, I wur thinkin’ fish might do the trick.’
‘What trick man?’
‘Shite loads of stinkin’ bloody fish. All o’er the place like. I reckon that would get rid of them buyers.’
Dave’s wavelength, although generally not of this world, became a little more comprehensible. The sale of the pub was forging ahead. Potential buyers had been found and Dave’s mission to temporarily devalue the land was in the pipeline.
‘Fish won’t work, man.’ Maz shook her head and stretched out on the saggy brown sofa. ‘The buyers dain’t want the buildin’, they want the land. They won’t give a toss what the place smells of as long as they can flatten it, build their poncey flats or whatever and make a packet.’
Dave looked sullen.
‘Hey don’t worry, mate,’ I said, patting him sympathetically on his broad back. ‘You’ll think of something good. There’s no real rush anyway. Matt said he’d call when the date was confirmed for the buyers to visit.’
‘Aye, Matt,’ Dave nodded his head. ‘That wur ’is name.’
‘Whose name?’ Maz asked stiffly.
‘The guy who rang yesterday.’
Maz and I both sat up straight and stared intently at Dave.
‘What did he say?’ we yelled in unison.
‘Didn’t I tell ya?’
‘No!’
‘They’re comin’ the neet.’
‘Who?’
‘Them poncey buyers and their bloody lawyers.’
Dave continued. ‘Well not really the neet. More like three o’clock. Aye. That’s why I’m thinkin’ of wor plan.’
Maz leapt out of her seat and began pacing the room. It didn’t take many paces, it was so small. ‘Ah shite man Dave,’ she said, shaking her hands furiously. ‘You could have tell’t us, like.’
‘I jest did.’
‘Aye, I mean last neet!’ Maz yelled. ‘The chuffin’ buyers are comin’ today. Ah howay, there’s nay chance. I’m losin’ the pub and I cannot do anythin’. Ah shite, shite, shite, shite, shite, shite …’
Maz continued her prolific monologue while Dave lit a fag and reached for the paper.
This wasn’t good. We were totally unprepared for the big visit and only had a few hours to come up with a way of eradicating the threat of an impending sale. Maz was frantic, Dave was oblivious, and my mind went into overdrive. There had to be something we could do.
Ever since our farcical television debut, Maz and I had been treated as legends in the realm of the Scrap Inn. Maz was being heralded among our customers as the next Robert Kilroy-Silk while I was simply the infamous alcoholic barmaid. Jennifer Summer, Freak of the Week.
Thinking I could reach no lower point in my mother’s eyes had been a misconception. I had, according to Mother Summer, not only dragged the family name through the proverbial mud but also laid it to rest in a coffin of cow dung. Well, that was the gist of what she had spluttered. Mum was ashamed to show her face in the upper echelons of Newcastle society. Rosemary Conley nights were now out of the question. As for afternoon tea in Fenwicks, unthinkable. Oh the shame! She could not bring herself to venture further than her extortionately priced and highly overrated therapist’s office. Pathetic really, considering the immense appetite and respect her gaggle of cronies had for a good bit of scandal. Nationally-broadcast scandal was even better. I would have done wonders for Mum’s street cred. Evidently she did not agree. I had now been sent way beyond Coventry by my mother, Susie, Sebastian and their two horrible children, which pleased me greatly. I sensed I had been sent to rot somewhere on the outskirts of Swindon.
My born-again dad, on the other hand, found the whole incident highly amusing and seemed to revel in Mum’s obvious distress. Despite Mum’s protests, he maintained his twice-weekly visits to the Scrap Inn to join Auld Vinny et al. in their quest for the holy ale.
The pub had also now become Maz’s main concern in life. The experience with Julia Juniper had left Maz totally disillusioned as far as talk shows were concerned. She still worshipped Ricki Lake, but Maz had given up any hope of fronting her own show after destroying Ms Juniper in front of several million viewers.
It’s a strange thing when a lifelong ambition suddenly seems hopeless. In my experience it can be likened to fancying a famous pop star in your oh-so-simple younger years. You dream of an idyllic pop-star life with your leather-trousered man in your pop-star mansion with your two-point-four funky pop-star kids. The dream is absolute perfection until you finally meet the object of your desires and realise he’s a rather sad, unwashed, arrogant, brain-dead, suede-leather-tassley-jacket-wearing tosser. Romantic trauma at age nine and three-quarters. Personally I still blame him for my life-long string of useless love affairs. Well, surely they couldn’t all be my fault.
Every so often I would catch Maz staring dreamily at the shrine to Ricki Lake above the bar. Nevertheless, she would not admit to feeling upset. All that mattered now, she said, was saving the pub from its threatened flattening. Stuff the quivering Gordon. Maz intended to run the joint and make it successful if it was the last thing she ever did.
Thus, the importance of Dave’s tardy message. This could be the day that the Scrap Inn, Maz’s new hopes and yet another of my careers were all sucked down the drain. All thanks to the ever-bastardly Jack.
‘Dave, man,’ Maz yelled, ‘get your mates round here now! Tell ’em we need a bit of back-up at the pub.’
‘Aye.’
‘Mention lawyers, man, and they’ll come runnin’ with baseball bats. Nay offence, Jen.’
‘None taken.’
‘Aye well, howay then, Dave.’
‘What’s the plan then, like?’
Even the usually unflappable Dave was beginning to look flustered.
‘I’ve got absolutely no idea man but I tell’t you we’re gonna have to think bloody fast.’
Dave sprang – as much as a sixteen-stone giant under the influence of marijuana can spring – into action. He left the flat in search of manpower. Grant and Phil Mitchell would have been particularly appropriate. I had always sensed that Jack was petrified of the dastardly duo whenever he dared to watch EastEnders.
Maz poured herself a large tequila from a discoloured bottle which lay fermenting in the cupboard behind the sofa.
/> ‘Eugh shite,’ she muttered, running into the kitchen in search of salt and lime.
Pathetically disguising my voice to avoid recognition, I dialled the number for Glisset & Jacksop and asked to be put through to Mr Matthew Capley.
‘Matt Capley.’
‘Hi Matt, Jen.’
‘Jen? Oh bloody hell, hiya ex-colleague. Receptionist said it was some mad Scotswoman for me. Bloody panicked I did.’
‘Disguise.’
‘Yes, hon, cunning. So what’s up?’
‘It’s about the pub, Matt. I just heard the buyers are supposedly coming today. Is that true?’
‘Yes darling, totally true I’m afraid. Your ex-heartthrob has been racing about like Linford Christie with the runs all morning. You’d think this was his number one client or something. Honestly.’
‘Number one vendetta more like.’
‘Hmmm. He doesn’t take kindly to public humiliation. Bummer eh, hon?’
‘Well, as I managed to ruin a live TV show for his numero uno client, I reckon I am now officially public enemy number one.’
‘Oh yes, darling, I heard. Hilarious. I always knew you were a bit of an alco.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Soz.’
‘Anyway Matt, my major concern is saving this pub. Jack is set on destroying me and dragging the Scrap Inn with me. I’ve got about five hours to stop him.’
‘Three, babe.’
‘What?’
‘Three hours. He’s scheduled for two to two-thirty so you had better get your toosh moving, chick.’
‘Oh bollocks. Matt, what can I do?’
Matt paused in thought while I silently prayed for a flash of divine inspiration.
‘I can’t say too much, Jenny babe. This call is probably being recorded as it is and I don’t want to end up in the sequel to Spy Master, I better watch my back.’
‘I thought your boyfriend did that for you.’
‘OK, clever clogs. Well, all I can say is … your buyer is a housing developer. Not from the North-East, so they’re fresh to this area. Geordie virgins, of which there are few. Ha, ha, ha. So, babe, just think of ways to surprise them. What would put them off buying? What would put you off buying? Put on your lawyer head, sweetheart.’
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