Girl, 16: Five-Star Fiasco (25 page)

‘Oh, sorry I haven’t,’ said Jess hastily. It was so odd with goths, Jess thought, they look rather scary, but they’re usually incredibly polite and gentle.

‘How’s your mum?’ asked Polly. ‘I thought she was really, really nice – much too good for Dad.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Jess with a wry smile. ‘I thought your dad was awesome – much too good for Mum!’

‘Oh, no, no.’ Polly shook her head vigorously, causing a tinkling sound. ‘Your mum was really, really interesting, and my dad’s stuck with these really Stone Age attitudes, like, you know what he said after our evening?’

‘What?’ enquired Jess fearfully. She hoped Ed the Builder hadn’t said anything insulting about Mum – that was Jess’s job.

‘He said he thought your mum was really nice,’ said Polly, ‘but he never felt comfortable with clever women. He said they made him feel inadequate.’

‘Well, that’s kind of a compliment for Mum,’ said Jess, relieved.

‘Yes, but it shows how his mind works! He’s going out with a shelf-stacker now,’ grumbled Polly.

‘There’s nothing wrong with shelf-stackers,’ suggested Jess thoughtfully. She had a feeling that, if her comedy career didn’t take off, she might stack shelves herself one day.

‘No, I know, but your mum is so interesting! A librarian! She reads all these amazing books! The shelf-stacker just smokes and drinks and watches those TV shopping channels.’ Polly gave a contemptuous snort.

‘But your dad must believe in educating women,’ Jess pointed out, ‘because you’re at college, right?’

‘That’s mainly my mum’s influence.’ Polly shrugged. ‘And he just has to accept it. Plus he thinks it’s OK because my course is Hospitality Supervision NVQ Level 3 – what he thinks of as women’s work. If I wanted to be an astronomer or a surgeon or something, he’d be sneering and making jokes about it all the time.’

‘Dads!’ sighed Jess with a smile.

‘How’s your dad?’ asked Polly. ‘He sounded really cool.’

‘He’s fine, thanks,’ said Jess. She didn’t want to go into all that now. There was a brief silence.

‘Well, nice meeting you again,’ said Polly. Then she hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come out on Saturday? See a movie or something?’

Jess was tempted. ‘That sounds really nice,’ she mused. ‘Aaaagh! No! Wait! What am I thinking of? I’m organising a dinner dance on Saturday night!’

‘Really?’ Polly’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’

‘At St Mark’s Church Hall,’ said Jess. ‘It’s called Chaos.’

‘I’ve seen the posters!’ Polly nodded in recognition. ‘They were great. Who designed them?’

‘I did,’ admitted Jess, embarrassed.

‘Wow! Well, you’re very talented, Jess!’ insisted Polly.

Jess shook her head and felt awkward. ‘Well, I must go,’ she murmured. ‘Got loads to do. Nice seeing you.’

‘Keep in touch,’ Polly beamed. ‘Send me a text sometime when you’re free and we can hook up, OK?’

‘Yeah, that would be great!’ Jess grinned. Polly seemed like a really nice person. Once the nightmare of Chaos was over, maybe they could get together and do something. Though Jess had never wanted to be a goth herself, she quite liked the idea of walking through town with one.

At last she arrived home. As she opened the front door Granny popped out of her room, looking tense.

‘Oh, Jess, love!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d never come home! I’ve got some bad news for you, I’m afraid!’

Instantly Jess’s heart lurched up towards her tonsils. ‘What? What?’ she gasped. Mum dead? Dad dead? Mum and Dad dead? Or – possibly even worse – reconciled?

‘Don’t worry, dear, nobody’s died,’ said Granny, clutching Jess’s hand.

‘Ill?’ gasped Jess. ‘Injured? Run over?’

‘No, no, Jess, nothing like that. Calm down.’

‘Well, tell me what it is, then!’ yelled Jess. Granny could be infuriating sometimes.

‘It’s Deborah – I asked her about the dinner dance buffet, but the most she can do would be the desserts, love. Just a couple of cheesecakes and about four fruit flans, she said. I’m so sorry. You must be disappointed.’

Bad though Jess’s arithmetic was, even she could see that a couple of cheesecakes and four fruit flans wouldn’t go very far towards feeding a hundred. Unless Jesus himself appeared and rolled up his sleeves, when it came to catering, she was going to be in the very depths of doo-doo.

Chapter 31

‘Never mind, Granny,’ said Jess. She squeezed Granny’s arm. ‘I’ll think of something. Get back to Miss Marple!’ She could hear the unmistakable sound of the sleuth’s signature tune wafting out from Granny’s den. Jess slouched through to the kitchen, her heart heavy as lead.

There was a note on the table in Dad’s handwriting:
Jess, lighting sorted, i
t
’s going to be terrific! Ji
m
’s had a cancellation so we can have the works: mirror ball, the lot. Gone out to buy ingredients for celebration curry. Back soon. Love, Dad x

Dear Dad! He’d done his best. Chaos was going to look amazing – unless a fuse blew or something. And Martin’s band might be really good, because there was something reassuring about Martin, and guys still playing in a band in their forties have had plenty of time to get it right.

Jess’s hosting script was sizzling along nicely. But what on earth were the guests going to eat? A couple of fruit flans weren’t going to satisfy people who had paid £75 for a double ticket. Jess slumped down in a chair and cradled her head in her hands. The most delicious curry in the world wasn’t going to lift her out of despair – not unless it came in ninety-four portions next Saturday night. For a split second she considered asking Dad to do the catering for Chaos. But he was already doing the lighting. And though multi-talented, he wasn’t Superman.

Suddenly her mobile rang. It was a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Hi, Jess?’

‘Hello?’ She didn’t recognise the voice. Some girl – oh please, God, not Gemma Fawcett pestering for a refund.

‘It was really nice to see you today.’ Not Gemma, obviously – seeing Gemma had been possibly the most unpleasant moment in a day packed with angst. Who else had she seen today? Jess had had so much on her mind that though she ransacked her memory banks, they could not come up with the ID of a single female person she might have seen in the past week.

‘Sorry, who is this?’ Jess asked impatiently. She so hated people who didn’t identify themselves. It was unbelievably big-headed of them just to assume she would know who they were. She detested this person already.

‘Sorry, I’m such an idiot. It’s Polly.’ For a split second even knowing it was ‘Polly’ didn’t help; her mind was still a fog.

‘Oh, hi, Polly. Sorry, I’m a bit distracted at the moment,’ said Jess. It was Polly the Goth!

‘Oh, have I rung at an inconvenient moment?’ Polly speeded up. ‘So sorry, I’ll be quick, then. I only rang to ask if there are any tickets left for Chaos? It sounds really, really cool, and I was telling my friends Simon and Jules and Bart about it and we’d really, really like to come.’

‘Uh . . .’ Jess hesitated. She liked Polly, but how could she sell more tickets for an event that was still lacking the most essential ingredient – grub? ‘Polly, I’m not sure I can actually sell you tickets for Chaos,’ she faltered. ‘It’s just . . . you see, I’m having terrible trouble organising the catering. Stupidly, because I am basically a five-star nincompoop, I left it too late and by the time I started getting in touch with catering companies they were already fully booked. I’ve messed up big time and I feel like disappearing off the map and getting a job in South America.’

Jess felt a wave of relief at having unburdened herself and confessed all, even if it was to a random semi-stranger.

‘But, Jess, you should have told me,’ said Polly, not sounding disappointed at all – in fact, sounding bizarrely excited.

‘I’m telling you now,’ said Jess. ‘It’s going to be a five-star fiasco. There won’t be anything to eat.’

‘No, listen, Jess – catering, that’s what I’m studying, right?’ Jess’s heart gave a feeble little skip of hope and surprise. ‘I told you I’m doing Hospitality Supervision NVQ Level 3, didn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Jess blankly. ‘Sounds impressive, but what does it mean?’

‘It’s all about organising events!’ enthused Polly. ‘Things like your dinner dance! My mates and I would love to do it! What’s your budget per head? Give me a couple of hours and I’ll come back to you with some menus!’

‘Oh wow – amazing! Oh wow – amazing! Oh wow – amazing!’ That was all Jess could say for a split second. ‘Can you really do this, Polly? Because if you can, you are literally my guardian angel!’

‘Of course we can do it,’ Polly assured her cheerily. ‘It’ll be a piece of cake – not literally, of course, but you may want some gateaux for dessert, even though nowadays people find gateaux a bit old-fashioned.’

Briefly Jess and Polly worked out a basic budget – well, Polly worked it out, really, based on the ticket price, while Jess just gawped and made admiring noises. Then Polly rang off, apparently delighted to have been handed this most awful of responsibilities. Jess could only sit in her chair and marvel at how different people were. The thought of having to organise dinner for a hundred people made Jess feel limp with terror, but Polly grabbed the opportunity like a dog pouncing on a juicy bone.

‘Thank you, God,’ said Jess fervently to the ceiling. Then she grabbed her phone again – she had to call Flora and give her the good news. But not Fred. Fred could wait. After a conversation with Flora which consisted mainly of high-pitched whooping noises, and after explaining to Granny (with Miss Marple paused over a corpse in a cupboard) just what the whooping signified, Jess ran upstairs, flung off her clothes and had a long, hot shower, singing wildly all the time. For a moment Jess experienced a wild desire to be a rock star, although she knew that comedy was more her thing.

Hmmm – the hosting routine! Jess finished the shower, her mind racing. Five minutes later, dried and dressed, she was crouched over her laptop, working on her stand-up again. It was going brilliantly. Jokes just seemed to crowd into her head. In fact, Jess began to wonder how she was going to fit them all into three or four relatively short appearances. She didn’t need much material: just a welcome, an introduction to the band, and then, presumably about an hour later, an invitation to the buffet and, finally, a long goodnight. But it would have to be slick, smart, funny and well-rehearsed. She began to rewrite the script, feeling excited; there were some great jokes and she couldn’t wait to perform it.

She was deep in her rewrite when her mobile rang. It was Polly again.

‘OK, Jess, I’ve got a sample menu here. This is based on a cost of twelve pounds a head, OK?’

‘Uh – yes, fine,’ agreed Jess. Her head was reeling already.

‘Right,’ said Polly, ‘here we go. This is a hot fork buffet, OK?’

‘Of course,’ said Jess, though she had a brief hallucination of a hot fork being used as a weapon in some kind of catering skirmish.

‘Right,’ said Polly importantly. ‘I thought we could have a choice of tuna or chicken main course, with pasta or mushroom stroganoff for the veggies. So that would be Basque chicken (chicken with haricot beans and Spanish spiced sausage in tomato sauce) or chargrilled tuna with tabbouleh –’

‘With what?’ gasped Jess.