Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  Amber grinned to herself. This was so cool. They’d never had anything like this back home.

  ‘And the stage? Are they putting on a show?’

  Mitzi pulled a face. ‘Ah now – the stage is for the Bagley-cum-Russet can-can dancers. I had a bit of a hand in that. One of my Baby Boomers – long story, so many people over fifty on the scrap heap with years and years of useful life ahead of them and nothing much on the horizon and I found myself being one of them, and well, someone had to do something, so I did – I’ll tell you all the gory details one day. Anyway, she had always wanted to be in the Folies Bergère, but at fifty-two it was a bit of a non-starter for her. So we advertised and found a few other like-minded high-kickers in Bagley-cum-Russet and the troupe was born.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all pretty incredible round here,’ Mitzi chuckled. ‘Now for the most incredible bit of all. Meeting Tarnia.’

  The inside of the house, as Mitzi had predicted, was even more amazingly bad taste than out. Amber blinked in the miles and miles of marshmallow pink and white hall. There was a burnished and filigreed Gone With The Wind staircase and statues and fountains and pink maribou-trimmed mirrors everywhere and a stained-glass window which dominated the stairwell.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Amber peered up at the primary coloured panes of the immense window. ‘Stevie Wonder?’

  ‘We’re not entirely sure. My money’s on Martin Luther King – or Lionel Ritchie.’

  Could be, Amber thought, still squinting upwards. Hmmm – probably not Stevie Wonder on second thoughts. No sunglasses.

  Mitzi grinned. ‘Actually, originally the window depicted the entire Beckham family, but when they unexpectedly added little Cruz to their entourage Tarnia commissioned the addition and sadly there was an accident with Victoria’s head during the refurb. The replacement simply didn’t cut the mustard, apparently looking far too much like Anne Robinson before the facelift, so Tarnia went for – er – well, whichever gentleman you now see before you. Ah, and here’s the lady herself.’

  Victoria Beckham? Anne Robinson? Amber really wouldn’t have been surprised to see either of these redoubtable women shimmying down the curlicued staircase. This place was simply surreal.

  ‘Hello, Tarnia.’

  Tarnia Snepps was everything Amber had expected and more. Stick thin, very Botox’d, all-over woodstainorange tan, short black hair with frosted pink tips and the most amazing leather mini dress in gold and white stripes.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d taken on help,’ Tarnia Snepps frowned at Mitzi. ‘I trust this won’t mean your prices will be increased to cover?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mitzi sighed. ‘Not that you’d notice a few hours at minimum wage, I’m sure. This is Amber. She’s staying with Gwyneth Wilkins in Fiddlesticks and is going to be helping me for the summer.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Amber held out her hand, still not sure if she was more stunned by Tarnia or the inside of the house. Both were pretty terrifying.

  Tarnia took her hand and shrieked with laughter. ‘That accent! You’re not from round here, are you?’

  ‘Eeeh, you’re on the ball, luv. Well spotted. I’m from ooop north,’ Amber went into her best Peter Kay routine. ‘On’t trip of a lifetime to see how t’other ’alf lives. It’s a reet treat t’be ’ere, luv.’

  Mitzi was giggling.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Tarnia bared her teeth. ‘Nice to have you here, I’m sure. Mitzi will show you where everything is and tell you how I expect my staff to behave.’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ Amber resumed a more normal voice. ‘And you certainly know how to throw a party. Congratulations on the honour, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tarnia simpered, her trout-pout not moving. ‘Marquis and I have always worked extremely hard for our little community.’

  Mitzi sniggered.

  Amber bravely tried to ignore the sniggers. ‘And your husband has been knighted for services rendered, has he?’

  Mitzi giggled.

  ‘Not exactly, no.’ Tarnia’s rigid gaze flickered slightly. ‘Apparently you need to be a slip of a girl and sail single-handedly round the world, just the once, or win Olympic golds to get that sort of honour without even trying. My poor Marquis, slaving his fingers to the bone for the common people for years and years, merely got an MBE.’

  ‘But that’s really good,’ Amber said. ‘Isn’t it? And if he’s a marquis already …’

  ‘She calls him that,’ Mitzi hissed, her shoulders shaking with mirth. ‘It’s made up. We still know him as Snotty Mark round here.’

  Amber grinned. Tarnia didn’t.

  ‘Mitzi and I have known one another from schooldays,’ Tarnia grated. ‘Sometimes she feels it’s amusing to remind me of that fact. Illustrating, of course, that while I’ve moved on she’s remained firmly rooted in the playground. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have important meeting and greeting to attend to.’

  ‘Superb,’ Mitzi chuckled as Tarnia furiously click-clacked away across the tiles. ‘Absolutely superb. Now, Amber my love, let’s get to work …’

  The sandals had been discarded within an hour. Amber, in a pair of trainers borrowed from a cupboard under Tarnia’s kitchen staircase which were just a bit too small, promised Mitzi she’d find something more suitable for their next sortie. Streams of pretty waiting staff of both sexes flowed in and out of Tarnia’s spacious never-been-cooked-in kitchen, bearing away piled-high plates of Mitzi’s creations. Amber seemed to have spent hours on a treadmill circuit from the fridges and freezers and table. In the too-tight trainers, her feet were killing her.

  ‘You must have spent weeks preparing this,’ she puffed to Mitzi in a lull. ‘Do you do all the cooking yourself?’

  ‘At the moment, yes. It’s been a bit of a trial and error experiment. I started off at home, but due to health and safety regulations and all sorts of hygiene laws and EU directives, once I made Hubble Bubble a commercial venture, I had to find proper premises. Currently I’m operating from a small hut on Hazy Hassocks High Street. Beside the library.’

  Amber looked at the umpteen empty Tupperware boxes strewn across every surface. The labels intrigued her: Midsummer Marvels; Dreaming Creams; Summer Surprises; Full Moon Fricassees; Solstice Supreme – and then some dishes clearly prepared for the announcement of Marquis’s honour: Celebration Cakes; Royal Risotto; Tansy Titles …

  ‘And they’re all magic? Surely not … I mean, aren’t they just old country recipes. How can they be magic?’

  ‘Depends what you understand by magic,’ Mitzi shrugged. ‘They’re all from my grandmother’s cookery book. They all use herbs and natural ingredients which can, if combined properly, apparently cause all sorts of things to happen.’

  ‘But if you don’t believe?’

  ‘You don’t have to believe. The effect is the same.’

  Blimey … Amber shook her head. No doubt Lewis would tell her the same about the stars on Saturday. It was all rubbish, of course, but if the shrieking and laughing and general merriment outside was anything to go by, Mitzi’s cooking had certainly made the party go with a swing.

  ‘So?’ Mitzi looked hopefully. ‘Have you enjoyed it so far?’

  ‘Loved it,’ Amber nodded. ‘Have I been all right?’

  ‘You’ve been brilliant. No one could have worked harder. And this was a bit of a baptism of fire – most of my functions are much smaller. So – are we in business?’

  Amber grinned. ‘Too right we are.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Starlight and Sweet Dreams

  ‘So, which of the local brews haven’t you tried yet?’ Fern leaned across the table in The Weasel and Bucket and ticked them off on her fingers: ‘Andromeda Ale? Hearty Hercules? Pegasus Pale?’

  ‘I haven’t tried any of them, at least not knowingly and while conscious,’ Amber pulled a face. ‘I’ve told you I’m not really much of a beer girl – and don’t go all beady on me. I’m certainly not going to start now, so
don’t even try. I’ll have another glass of Chardonnay, please. Small. Very small. I’ll need to keep a clear head tonight.’

  Fern giggled. ‘Because of Lewis?’

  ‘Because of the star stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever …’ Fern pushed her way through the Sunday evening crowd towards the bar and laughed with Timmy as he served her.

  It was a blessing, Amber reckoned, that this was Zillah’s Sunday off. OK, she’d been much more friendly recently, but somehow it would have been too embarrassing spending an evening with Lewis – however much of a non-date it was – with his mother in the audience.

  She’d rooted around in her still-unpacked bags and come up with what she hoped was a suitable outfit. Her jeans were designer worn and torn, her flimsy camisole top was a wisp of pink and cream chiffon that weighed nothing and had cost almost a month’s salary in the New Year sales, and her sandals were again stilt high and sparkly. She’d managed to get her hair to dry bone straight in the sun in Gwyneth’s garden and her make-up had taken forever.

  Gwyneth had said she looked like a model straight off the telly, and Fern had whistled and declared the whole thing far too Uptown Girl for words. To a man, The Weasel and Bucket regulars had stared at her, open mouthed, and continued staring.

  She hoped Lewis would feel the same way.

  ‘This’ll have to be my last drink.’ Fern plonked a pint and a wine on the table. ‘I’m sitting in with Jem tonight as well as Win. He’s cooking lasagne for us all and I’ve got to supervise. I trust you realise,’ she added, ‘that you’re very honoured to be seeing Lewis without his sidekick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded Jem being here. I think he’s great and—’

  ‘Hey.’ Fern grinned. ‘I know. Don’t get defensive. And it’s Lewis’ night off anyway.’

  ‘And you don’t mind?’ Amber took a mouthful of wine. ‘About him – well, meeting me? Tonight? I mean, it’s not a date and I know you fancy him and—’

  ‘What?’

  Amber smiled. ‘You can’t deny it. You told me you fancied him when we first met – on St Bedric’s Eve. With the Lucky Cake thing. You said you’d made it your green-cheese wish – again. You said something along the lines that it was the thing you’d been wishing for every year and that one day he’d realise that you existed and—’

  ‘Not Lewis!’ Fern hissed, blushing. ‘God, not Lewis! I didn’t mean Lewis. Yes, he’s beautiful and sexy and a fantastic bloke and all that, but he doesn’t press my buttons in that way. I’m not in love with Lewis.’

  ‘You’re not? Who, then?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Fern whispered, glancing towards the bar. ‘And if you promise, cross your heart and hope to die promise, that you’ll keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Promise.’ Amber made all sorts of chest-crossing movements.

  ‘Him.’ Fern jerked her head towards the bar. ‘Timmy. I’ve been mad about him ever since I came to Hayfields – but he’s besotted with Zillah who doesn’t give a fig for him. It’s too Shakespearean to be true. Which is why I’ve been relying on the stars to sort it all out.’

  Timmy? Timmy Pluckrose? Amber managed to keep silent, trying not to look shocked as she squinted across the pub. Nope. However hard she tried, she simply couldn’t see the attraction.

  Fern sighed. ‘See – you don’t understand. I knew you wouldn’t.’

  ‘What makes people fancy other people is always a mystery,’ Amber said kindly. ‘Um – I take it he hasn’t – er – reciprocated?’

  ‘Well, obviously not. Oh, he’s always really nice to me, and we have a laugh, but he never sees me as a woman. I mean while Zillah still keeps him dangling I think there’s still hope for me – but one day I’m sure she’ll just give in and take the easy option and marry him, and then he’ll never know what it could be like with someone who really, truly loves him and my heart will be broken for ever.’

  ‘Er – yes, I can see that … but – um – he’s quite old and—’

  ‘He’s twenty years older than me, that’s all. And what’s age got to do with anything?’ Fern took a frantic gulp of Andromeda Ale. ‘Love transcends age and creed and – oh, all that stuff. I know what you’re thinking – that he’s a tall, thin, bald, middle-aged man with very little going for him. Go on – admit it.’

  ‘No – well, um, yes.’

  ‘But I love him for all that! For it, despite it, because of it – I don’t know! I just love him. I’d lie for him, cheat for him, steal for him – even bloody die for him. I love him that much. OK?’

  Amber took a deep breath. She’d never, ever, loved anyone like that. Not unconditionally. Not with that intensity. Not even Jamie – especially not Jamie.

  ‘But – does he even have an inkling how you feel?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Fern sighed heavily. ‘What would be the point? He’s in love with Zillah.’

  Amber thought for a moment. ‘And isn’t this what the star magic is all about, then? Sorting out tangles like this which seem insoluble? And isn’t it what you’ve asked for over and over again? And nothing’s happened. Which just goes to show that it doesn’t work. What you need to do is the good old-fashioned earthbound stuff – you know, vamping, flirting – letting him know that you’d be a much better bet than Zillah.’

  ‘No one ever said the star magic worked instantly.’

  ‘Flirting would be quicker.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I believe the stars will sort it out.’ Fern drained the last of her pint. ‘I’m pinning all my hopes on Cassiopeia next weekend. And, even if you are my new best friend, if you breathe a word of this to anyone I will never, ever speak to you again.’

  Amber smiled. ‘It’s safe with me. I think it’s just a bit sad, relying on all that hocus pocus stuff.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t love anyone,’ Fern said as she stood up. ‘One day you will and then you’ll understand that desperate remedies are called for when things don’t pan out. Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow?’

  Amber nodded. She was working for Mitzi again the next day, but only for the afternoon. ‘Tomorrow evening? In here?’

  ‘Yeah, great.’ Fern cast a longing glance towards the bar. ‘At least I can look at him even if I can’t touch. Such sweet torment …’

  Amber watched Fern – all curves and curls and Matalan – bounce out of the door and into the musky dusk, then glanced across at Timmy again. She shook her head. How weird this love thing was.

  ‘Anyone sitting ’ere, duck?’

  Amber looked up. A stocky man with a bristly black moustache was leering down at her.

  ‘Er – well, no – but I am expecting someone.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Lewis. And no, duck, there ain’t nothing mystic about me.’ He held out a swarthy hand. ‘I’m Billy Grinley. Bin man at your disposal. I hears all the gossip in Fiddlesticks and surrounding area. A pretty little thing like you wants to be careful with young Lewis – he’s a bit of a love rat.’

  ‘Not like you then, Billy.’ Goff Briggs lurched up to the other side of Amber’s table and winked scarily with his one eye. ‘Don’t listen to him, young lady. And whatever you do, don’t invite him to sit at your table. You’ll never get rid of him and – oh, hello Slo – come to join us?’

  ‘Come to see if anyone’s got a spare ciggie.’ Slo Motion, wearing a check vyella shirt and a Fair Isle tank top, with stripy braces over both despite the heat of the night, smiled with stained teeth. ‘And to say hello to this little minx.’

  Minx? Amber clamped her lips together.

  ‘She’s going to be doing a function for us tomorrow,’ Slo continued, his fingers twitching over Billy Grinley’s packet of Bensons. ‘With Mitzi.’

  ‘Am I? I know we’ve got a private party booked, but I didn’t realise it was for you. Is it for your birthday?’

  ‘No, bless you.’ Slo lit the cigarette at the speed of light, coughed extensively over Goff, and finally blew
a luxurious plume of smoke into the air. ‘Ooooh, that’s better. It’s a wake. For old Bertha Hopkins.’

  A wake? A funeral tea? Amber blinked.

  ‘Ah,’ Slo continued, calmer once the nicotine had started coursing through his veins. ‘Mitzi does all our wakes – for them as doesn’t just want to go down the pub or put on a bit of a spread themselves. You’ll be sure to wear black, won’t you? Old Bertha’s lot hold all the traditional values dear to their miserly hearts. They don’t want none of this all wearing bright colours and smiling and doing the hokey-cokey up the aisle after the coffin malarkey.’

  Amber was still stunned. She’d had no idea that Hubble Bubble catered for such a wide range of occasions. She’d only ever been to one funeral – her grandmother’s – and she’d been absolutely devastated by it. Would Mitzi sack her if she cried over Bertha Hopkins?

  ‘Anyone seen Zillah?’ Yet another middle-aged man suddenly joined the group round her table. ‘Don’t tell me it’s her night off. Damn – I only comes in here to look at the barmaid.’ He stared down at Amber. ‘Blimey – you’re a corker. You don’t fancy popping behind the bar for a bit to gladden an old man’s heart, do you, darling?’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ Slo wheezed round his filter tip. ‘She’s gainfully employed by young Mitzi Blessing and therefore subcontracted to us. She don’t want to do no bar work …’ He coughed spasmodically, then beamed at Amber. ‘This is Dougie Patchcock – local builder and handyman – or so ’e says. He’s another one you’ll need to keep an eye on.’

  ‘Do I have to join the queue to speak to Amber – or are you issuing tickets like the deli counter in Tesco?’ Lewis grinned from behind Slo. ‘And I’ll tell my mum of you, Billy Grinley – flirting with another as soon as her back’s turned.’

  Amber grinned back at him, hoping the grin looked casually ‘pleased to see you’ rather than the ‘bloody hell – he’s sooo fit’ that she felt inside.