Maz was a roaring success as a talk-show host. Her dazzling personality, Geordie accent and no-messing attitude made her a big hit almost immediately, but she was still just Maz. She bought the flat next door and we spent many a night drinking better bottles of wine, eating bigger bars of chocolate and gossiping about her latest run of marriage proposals. Maz’s real moment of glory, though, came when she sieved through her mountain of fan mail one morning and happened to stumble across a letter of praise … from Ricki Lake.
Randall, gorgeous, adorable, dishevelled Randall, finally introduced me to his real house and asked me to move in. I said that any house which needed a cross-country train service to take you from the bathroom to the kitchen was too big for me and opted, instead, to move with him into his flat. I redecorated it, of course, and made a bit more mess to feel more at home … and put take-away baltis in the fridge, and sat my Argos ghetto-blaster next to his £2000 stereo, etc. I also convinced him to give me a job at the TV company. He said as the fiancée of the owner’s son, I didn’t really need to work, but I had to have something to erase the memory of working in the stamp-licking department. I took over as a legal adviser – to use the term lightly – on Maz’s show. Luckily, his dad didn’t ask me for a reference and kindly erased my previous misdemeanours from his memory. Oh, and Randall asked me to marry him. I said no at first, low self-esteem apparently, I didn’t trust the fact that I could be so happy, but I changed my mind. I am happy and I deserve to be.
‘The Chimes!’ Maz yelled, jumping unsteadily to her feet.
We listened to the countdown, gripping our glasses of champagne with excited anticipation, then Big Ben let rip. We cheered. Maz ran off to kiss everyone in the room. I looked into Randall’s eyes. What a difference a year makes, I thought happily.
‘Happy New Year, pet,’ he beamed. ‘Let’s hope it’s a good one.’
We kissed.
‘Happy New Year,’ I smiled. ‘Here’s to twelve months of Summer time.’
Oh, wait a minute. I almost forgot Jack. Actually, I have forgotten Jack completely. After Paradise TV took their business away from Glisset & Jacksop, Jack’s desk was cleared faster than he could say BMW The lovely Vicky left him for the head of corporate finance and Jack soon discovered the meaning of isolation. The last I heard, he was a plastic-flip-flop seller in Morocco … or was that just wishful thinking?
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