All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Well, it’s only celery salt.’ Mum was sounding wounded.

  ‘On your own head be it, San. Well, your own toilet, actually.’

  And with that she sprang up. I could see she had a paperback in her hand and was jabbing it towards me. It was one of several books that had been published recently, allegedly detailing the back stories of various Acacia Avenue characters. This one was the one about Sister Agatha, They Know Not What They Do, and displayed a watercolour painting of my ugly mug on the cover, staring pensively into the middle distance. It was a look that either said, I’m just concentrating on Jesus, or, Can’t for the life of me remember if I left the iron on.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘would you mind signing this for my lovely neighbour Pauline? She’s gone blind with her sugars and I just know you’ll make her day.’

  ‘Sign it big, Jodie. If she’s blind,’ Mum urged.

  ‘I could puncture it in Braille if anyone’s got a pin?’ I suggested.

  ‘Have you got a pin, Vern?’ Val worried.

  ‘That . . . was a joke,’ I explained.

  ‘Just as well, coz she can’t read Braille,’ Vern said, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or joking.

  ‘Dyslexic,’ Val mouthed, like it was a curse.

  ‘Stuart’s a plasterer, aren’t you, Stu?’ Dad was trying to bring Stuart out of his shell.

  ‘That’s right.’ And out of his shell he popped.

  ‘Always good to have a skill.’ There was something of the bossy primary school teacher about Val, as she practically took my eye out passing me a permanent marker to sign the book with. ‘Vern’s rag-rolled the whole of my downstairs.’

  ‘Too much information,’ Stuart murmured under his breath, and I took this as a good sign that he was in a positive mood, content to be my ‘plus one’ in what was turning out to be a very intimate personal appearance. I giggled nervously and Dad chuckled into a serviette.

  Val was going, ‘What? What was that?’

  Mum offered her a quail’s egg – hopefully to distract her or shut her up – but Val shooed her away with the shake of a heavily braceleted wrist.

  ‘Saving myself for my starter, San.’

  ‘I’m not doing a starter,’ Mum gasped, with all the panic of a murderer who’d just had their alibi quashed.

  ‘Oh, well pass ‘em here, kid.’ And with that she grabbed a handful, like she was nobbling some M&M’s, and bobbed them into her mouth in one go. Eating didn’t stop her speaking.

  ‘Be good to lose a bit of weight anyway, eh Vern?’

  ‘We could always stop for fish and chips on the way home!’ He pulled an ‘Aren’t I hilarious?’ face and Val guffawed.

  ‘Oh wait till you hear about this dinner party we went to last night, San. Oh you’ll howl.’

  ‘Shall we sit down, Stu?’ I ventured. He nodded and we set up camp on the settee as Val sashayed up and down the through lounge, calling through to Mum, who was having a nervous breakdown in the kitchen and alternately turning her head to look at us.

  ‘We went to Ruby and Naveen’s house. Lovely semi round the back of the Polish drive-through? Jaroslaw and his boys bring the Daewoo up lovely. Anyway, Ruby’s always trying to show off with her alleged culinary skills. Well, you’ll never guess what she served us for the main course. What was it called again, Vern? Karen Carpenter sang a song about it.’

  ‘Solitaire?’ he joked, doing his funny gurn again. Stu and I laughed politely.

  ‘Jambalaya?’ offered Dad nervously, then shot a look towards the serving hatch.

  ‘Jambalaya! That’s it. Oh it was hideous, wasn’t it, Vern? I had to tip some in my clutch while she wasn’t looking. It was like chicken and mussels and yellow rice. Yellow rice, San! Oh I could’ve vomited, couldn’t I, Vern? We had to stop at the Chinky on the way home and get a portion of chips.’

  ‘That’s racist,’ said Stu quietly, with the air of a man seriously losing the will to live. I knew how he felt.

  ‘No, it’s a really lovely Chinky,’ argued Val. ‘I’ve written them letters in the past. They’ve got one of them pinned up on the corkboard.’ Then she looked at me. ‘Jambalaya, Jodie. What on earth was she thinking?’

  I gave an ‘I don’t know’ look.

  ‘Jamba-friggin-laya, Jodie,’ said Vern in a ‘Would you believe it?’ way.

  ‘Anyway,’ Val said, brightening as she turned towards the serving hatch, ‘what you cooking, San?’

  We heard a plate smash in the kitchen.

  Mum’s Jambalaya was much nicer than Ruby’s, according to Val and Vernon, though Mum went frostily quiet as we pushed the mulchy ricey mess around our plates and gurgled appreciative hums. Of course her silence went unnoticed by Val, who hadn’t shut up since we arrived, and she continued her breathless monologue once we sat down. Mostly she wanted to know all about Acacia Avenue, so she fired off a list of questions to me, which she invariably answered for herself before I’d managed to get my words out. Mostly it went like this:

  Q: The one thing I’ve always wanted to know, Jodie, is how you learn all those goddam lines? What am I like, Vern? I shout at the screen! ‘How do they do it? How do they learn all those goddam lines?!’ It drives Vern mad.

  A: Well, I suppose what I’d do if I was learning lines would be, I’d get a bottle of plonk out and just read and read and read and read. And hopefully it would sink in, d’you know what I’m saying, Jodie?

  Q: What’s Nona Newman really like?

  A: I bet she’s lovely. I saw a gorgeous This is Your Life about her and she came across lovely, didn’t she, Vern? When her husband sang ‘The Rose’ to her, I was in bits. All that success, that gorgeous house on the Wirral, and she still had to have a mastectomy. I take my hat off to her, I really do.

  Q: Oh I hear there’s a serial killer going to be let loose on the avenue. What’s the goss?

  A: Well I suppose you can’t tell me, coz you’d have to kill me and all that. But I’d really like to know, wouldn’t I, Vern? You see I’m quite clever. And what I try and do is, I try and predict the outcome of each storyline. Don’t I, Vern? It drives him up the wall, Jodie, it really does. I think, but obviously I’m not a hundred per cent sure on this, but I think it’s going to be that street sweeper, don’t I, Vern? Coz he’s got a sly look in his eyes and, well, we all saw what he did with that Lambrini at the factory Christmas party. Oh, I thought that was evil.

  Q: How many wimples does Sister Agatha actually have?

  A: Coz I say to Vern, don’t I, Vern? I say, I bet she’s got—

  At this point Mum practically spat across the table, ‘Val, if you want to ask so many questions, maybe you should try and let Jodie answer them.’

  Val didn’t appear to blink for the longest time.

  ‘You’re hogging the airways again, Val,’ grimaced Vernon. But instead of appearing upset, Val flickered back into life and chuckled, finding herself a complete hoot.

  ‘Oh, what am I like? I’m always doing that, Jodie. Aren’t I, Vern? I’m always hogging the airwaves. Drives him demented, doesn’t it, Vern?’

  ‘I know the feeling.’ Mum sounded bitter and a hush descended on the table.

  At this point I didn’t know where to put myself. Stu was looking as tormented as a BNP member forced to attend a rehearsal of the London Gospel Choir. He was holding his head at a funny angle, as if he’d cricked his neck, as though if he averted his gaze from the table and stared at the china praying hands ornament that my mum loved so much and thought looked ‘distinguished’ on her nest of tables, then he wasn’t really here and this wasn’t really happening. Mum looked as if she was going to burst out crying; Dad and Vernon were chomping away as though nothing had happened – typical men – while Val kept nudging her Jambalaya round her plate as if Mum had served up dead baby’s entrails. Mum cleared her throat and looked at me, trying to smile, and said, ‘Any news on the Soap Awards, love?’

  Oh God. Did she have to keep this thread of conversation going? Couldn’t w
e talk about something else? I looked at Stu, half expecting him to have a gun pointing at his head and a sign round his neck reading, ‘Don’t think I wont do it, bitch.’ He was still intrigued by the praying hands.

  I shrugged and replied, ‘Well, I know I’m on the long list.’

  ‘What’s a long list?’ asked Val.

  And so I explained the ins and outs of the selection process for the awards. Although I was awkward, tentative at first, I soon got on a roll, seasoning my explanation with provocative bits of gossip about the other cast members, which, of course, Val and Mum lapped up. By the time I’d finished my impromptu stand-up routine, I noticed that Stuart’s plate was tellingly clean, like he’d lifted it up and licked it repeatedly. I hurried to finish mine off as I noticed I was lagging behind even Val. As I hoovered the last of my yellow rice down I prayed that someone would ask Stu something. Anything – ‘What was it you do again, Stu?’ ‘How’s life in plastering, Stu?’ ‘Should I fake my orgasms, Stu?’ – But they didn’t. And as I heard Val asking me, ‘What did it actually feel like when you got the part of Sister Agatha?’ I decided now would be a brilliant time to go to the bathroom.

  ‘I’m so sorry Val, but I need to visit the little girls’ room.’

  ‘See, Vern? Even celebrities need to poop!’

  I quickly looked at Vern and gushed, ‘I’m only going for a wee!’ quickly.

  ‘I’m mad like that, Jodie!’ Val was saying as I stood up from the table and gave Mum a thumbs up about the empty plate, ‘I say to Vern while we’re watching telly. “You might think Hyacinth Bucket’s got it all, Vern, but even she poops like the rest of us.”’

  ‘Well that’s true, Val,’ Mum chipped in, ‘coz I’ve actually been in the loos at the green room at the studios.’

  ‘I imagine a lot of them are hooked on laxatives, am I right, San?’

  I pecked Stu’s head and ruffled his hair as I passed. He flinched, alarmed at my sudden advance and probably sensing I was doing it for effect, as if to say, I’m not the only person here who works. Stu’s here and he does, too. But it made no difference to Mum, who continued to describe, in minute detail, exactly what her olfactory senses recalled from her brief visits to the ladies’ loos at work. Amazing what could pass as acceptable dinner party chat when laced with the spectacle of celebrity.

  I didn’t actually need to go to the toilet. I was going in the hope of instigating a conversation change, so I touched up my make-up and sat on the side of the bath, looking around, bored. The bathroom wall opposite the bath was festooned with framed family photos from across the years. Me and Our Joey in an awkward school photo, Dad and Mum on their wedding day, that kind of thing. But on the right-hand side a new picture had been put up, taken from a magazine. It took me a few seconds to decipher who it was. It was Our Joey. It was a gorgeous black and white photo, taken by some really cool photographer, and Joey looked amazing. The image was startling. Black background. Our Joey lit from below in a faded denim jacket, which was half falling off his toned, naked flesh. Taut neck, square chin, his lips pouting in ecstasy, his eyes shut, like he was reaching orgasm. In his hand he was holding a bottle of milk. The lid was off and what looked like a cloud of talcum powder was exploding all around his head, so it looked like he was being showered in either milk or cocaine. The caption alongside the image read, ‘MR MILK. The white stuff’s good for you.’ I looked closer, my pupils practically touching the frame, and saw that it was in fact a page from Wallpaper magazine. I felt at once insanely jealous – that magazine was so cool, much cooler than any publication I’d ever been in – and insanely proud. That was my little brother! No wonder Trudy had said he was hot. He looked incredible. He looked like a big, butch, grown-up bloke. A proper full-on bloke!

  My brother, who used to traipse round the back garden with a sleeping bag round his shoulders pretending to be Miss World now looked like a bruiser. He had bloody pecs, for God’s sake! And he was obviously doing so well in his job that he was becoming famous.

  The other feeling I had was one of sadness. There we were in those childhood snaps, looking like two peas in a pod, the best ofmates, and we were, wehad been. But now our lives had taken us in different directions and we had absolutely zero contact. Our Joey would have been able to make me laugh tonight. He’d have found Val camp, entertaining, delightful. He’d have made it all bearable. There he was, off being successful in his chosen field, and here I was, doing well and feeling miserable. And part of that misery, if that wasn’t too dramatic a word, was because I no longer had him in my life. And that was his choice. And I didn’t know why. I’d written to him when I’d broken my leg, but never heard back. The truth was probably that I just didn’t register any more. He’d managed so long without me, what need did he have of me now? And if he worked in nightclubs and was doing so well, he was probably never at home to see Acacia Avenue. He probably hated the soaps these days. He probably only read trendy magazines like Wallpaper, so what would he care about my career, my life? Fair play to him. He’d apologized for his bad behaviour, waited two years for a reply from me, received it and no doubt decided to move on.

  I suddenly had a memory of Our Joey. Dancing round the through lounge in one of Mum’s skirts. He must only have been about eight. I remember watching from the kitchen, transfixed. I wanted to laugh, to call out that he was a knobhead, but I couldn’t. I admired him too much. I admired the way he could dance, not caring who saw or what people thought. I wanted to walk back into the through lounge and find it empty, table folded away, and Sister Sledge on the CD as Our Joey, eyes shut, lost himself in ‘We Are Family’.

  There was an urgent knock at the door. I hurriedly flushed the toilet and approached the door. I wanted it to be him. I wanted him to be stood there, tears in his eyes, all big and butch like in his photo, but with a sleeping bag round his shoulders, saying, ‘I fucked up, Jodie.’

  And for me to say, ‘I fucked up, too, Joey.’

  I turned the handle nervously. Stuart was stood there with a face like thunder.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s doing my head in. I’ve told them I don’t feel well, been off-colour for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said as panic rose inside me like mercury in a thermometer.

  ‘No, stay. You’re in your element.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You love it.’

  ‘I hate it.’ The look he gave me told me he didn’t believe me. He was heading for the front door. I ran into the through lounge and grabbed my bag.

  ‘I’d . . . better go with Stu,’ I said breathlessly as I grabbed my bag.

  ‘But I’ve defrosted an Arctic Roll,’ said Mum, stung.

  ‘I know, but if he’s not feeling well.’

  ‘Let her go, love,’ Dad said awkwardly.

  Val was looking at me despondently. I kissed, hugged, air-kissed again and ran to the front door, which Stu had left open. I saw him dawdling at the end of the street, head down, hands in pockets, and in that moment I knew the night was not going to end well.

  ‘Stuart!’ I called out as I cantered down the path. ‘Wait for me!’

  He didn’t look back. I ran to catch up with him and tried to link arms, but he shrugged me off.

  ‘Stu, what is it?’ I bleated, despite knowing exactly what the problem was. He didn’t reply. ‘This isn’t working, is it?’ I ventured, hoping to elicit a response.

  It worked. Without looking at me he said, ‘So what do we do? Split up?’

  ‘No, we work it through. Unless you want me to go.’

  ‘You make me feel like a nobody,’ he said sadly. Not that you could really say those words and sound thrilled.

  ‘I don’t. That’s not fair.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘It’s knobs like Val that make you feel like that, not me.’

  The streets were so quiet. The only sound was my heels on the paving stones. Stu made no sound in his
trainers.

  ‘You love it,’ he repeated, this time disparagingly.

  ‘Oh shut up. Will you listen to yourself? You didn’t mind gegging in and getting a slice of the action when we did that interview for Hiya! magazine. You loved me being famous then.’

  ‘Yeah, well I was a knob. And now I hate it. OK?’

  ‘Then I’ll go,’ I offered. I wasn’t sure why, I wasn’t sure where, but it had to be better than coping with Stu’s attitude to my work.

  ‘You can’t. We’ve got a joint mortgage. We’re trapped.’

  ‘Oh piss off, Stu, that’s fucking ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’

  Anger swelled in me.

  ‘Yeah, you’re being a fucking knob now. So I’m on the telly, so people wanna talk about it, deal with it.’

  He looked at me, anger burning in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t mind the benefits it brings you. Posh flat, money to burn. Maybe I should just go on the dole and we’ll see how much ale you can sink then.’

  It was provocative. It was meant to be provocative. But what I was trying to provoke was an apology. An admission that he was in the wrong. Reassurance that things weren’t good and we could sort this out.

  What I actually provoked was a smack in the face.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  From: Jodie McFee (Liverpool)

  To: Matthew Martin Maxwell (France)

  Subject: HELP!

  Matthew if you there will you go into chat and talk to me? Please? I in a bit of a mess and need someone to talk to. I am in work and I’m a bit pissed. That’s bad, right? And when I say pissed I mean tipsy rather than American pissed which means pissed off. I’m not completely pissed but I can tell I’ve had a drink. You’ll probably think I’m a driunken lush and never want to speak me again but at least I’m being honest. Thing is I something really bad last night. I was a bit tipsy (running theme) and I fell over on my way home from my Mum’s and now I a big black eye. It’s really obvious. Now I know usually having a black eye would be no big deal when you work in plastics company as administrative assistant stroke secretary but today is a special day when they are filming us and we have to go in front of the cameras and talk about our jobs for a website or something so there was no getting out of coming in and now I have I wish I hadn’t. I only had a drink this morning coz my eye was hurting so much and I thought numb the pain, plus I was a bit shaken up by it all and thought it might steady my nerve. Me and Stu aren’t getting on at the moment (but he didn’t push me over or punch me I genuinely fell. Bit worried folks here will think he did) so I can’t talk to him. He just seems pissed off all the time, like he’s jealous of my success. (I am a really successful administrative assistant, in the Plastics world I have a really good reputation) Anyway I have come into work, think I said that, and this woman in the office Yvonne (sometimes I call her Nona in old messages), saw my eye when I went into her office by mistake and she’s told Eva (the boss) and Eva is coming to my office to see me in a bit and all is too hideous for words. I want to run away but I’ve got nowhere to run to. If I don’t hear back from you I’ll understand. I’m a nightmare. My life is chaos. I’m burdening you with all this shit and all you’ve ever done is be nice to me and are not a bastard and have the nicest smile (and the dirtiest way with words when you want to, but it’s not about that) but if you’ve got a moment it’d be good to hear from you. Jodiexxx