Serve Cool (21 page)

‘I … I’m … I’m such a … such a f … failure,’ I wailed.

‘Turn down the music!’ a voice shouted.

‘I … I’ve m … messed up everything,’ I sobbed.

‘Aye, we wanna hear what she’s sayin’,’ someone shouted.

‘I’m a … a loser,’ I groaned.

‘What did she say?’ said a voice.

‘She’s a loser,’ shouted another.

‘You’re not a loser,’ my dad insisted.

‘I thought he loved me,’ I whined.

‘Who?’ my dad asked softly.

‘Who?’ someone shouted.

‘R … Randall,’ I answered.

‘Randall of course,’ they replied.

My dad moved closer and put his arm around my shoulders. His affection only made me even more emotional.

‘He … he hasn’t even called,’ I wailed.

‘Who?’ asked someone.

‘Randall,’ the crowd replied.

‘Git!’ said another.

‘But of course he has,’ my dad said, holding me closer to him.

‘Has he?’ I asked.

‘Has he?’ the pub repeated.

‘Every day,’ my dad replied.

‘Every day!’ the crowd yelled.

‘Shut up will you,’ my dad shouted.

The audience stepped backwards.

I stared, open-mouthed, at my dad. What did he say? Did
he just say that Randall had called me every day for the last four weeks? I asked him to repeat himself.

‘Yes,’ he assured me. ‘Your mother took most of the calls while you were at work but I spoke to him a couple of times.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘She said she had told you. She said you weren’t interested and not to bother you.’

Not interested! The bitch, the stupid interfering, heartless cow! Here I was, trying to make head or tail of what had happened, believing I had been used up and thrown away by someone I had actually cared for, and there she was, hiding the fact that he had called me at least twenty-eight times! That was the limit. Who did she think she was? I jumped up from the table, knocking the rest of my pint onto the floor. The crowd gasped. I grabbed my father’s arm and marched him towards the door. I was furious. If my mother had managed to conceal a score of phone calls, what else had she been hiding from me? It was time to find out.

Luckily for my mother, she was nowhere to be seen when I stormed through the door with my father hot on my heels.

‘Perhaps she/was just trying to protect you,’ my father protested.

‘More like humiliate me,’ I replied, ‘cut me off from my own life. Where
is
she?’

I was disappointed. The beer had warmed me up for a good argument, and twenty-six years’ worth of tension was about to emerge. It was typical of my luck that she had
decided to go out just at the vital moment. It was only the letter addressed to me that I found lying beside the front door which stopped me spontaneously combusting.

It was an invitation to a party. Party – I had a vague recollection of what one of those was – music, Twiglets, snogging, but would I remember what to do when I got there? The party was to celebrate the launch of a new talk show,
The Maz Way,
destined to be Paradise TV’s ‘hottest new project’. A lump appeared in my throat as I read the invitation.

‘Meet the star of this new, exciting show. Mingle with the cast and party in this extraordinary location.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ I croaked, looking at the impersonal typed piece of cardboard, but I couldn’t help but feel pride for my once best friend. She had made it, she had achieved what she had always dreamed of. At least one of us had. I was tempted to throw the card away, but the words ‘extraordinary location’ caught my attention. I looked for the address – just out of curiosity, of course – but couldn’t find the words. I turned the invitation over. On the back was a map, marked with a large red cross. The location was instantly recognisable. I stared at the words next to the cross: ‘The Talk Inn pub,’ it read, ‘previously the Scrap Inn.’

I almost collapsed.

‘Wh … who?’ I exclaimed. ‘Wh … what? Where? How? Umm …’ My grasp of the English language escaped me momentarily. What was Maz doing holding a launch party at the pub we were evicted from? Anyway, the pub had been demolished, hadn’t it?

My eyes raced over the words again and again until they
finally settled on a handwritten message at the bottom of the invitation. ‘Jen, please come, love Maz xxx’.

‘Yeah right, as if,’ I said huffily. ‘No way am I going to some stuck-up media party at my old pub so I can be humiliated even more. Nope, nope, noo, absolutely
no
way, José!’

Chapter Twenty-one

21st April, 8 p.m.

I went to the party. Of course, it was against my better judgement. I didn’t really want to go at all. In truth, I only went to satisfy my dad’s curiosity about the pub – or so I tried to convince myself. My mind had been in turmoil since receiving the invitation. I was sure it was someone playing a joke on me, after all, Maz and I had been thrown out of the Scrap Inn, so why would she go back there? Nothing made sense any more … finally, I understood what it was like to live in Kim’s world.

At work that day, I was even more distant than Simon, which was quite an achievement as Simon wasn’t even there. Rumour had it that Playstation had brought out a new game so Simon had stayed home to practise. We probably wouldn’t see him for weeks. In fairness to Kim, she was very enthusiastic about my invitation to a media party – or medium party as she called it. I had been bursting to tell someone, in an
effort to get things clear in my mind. On a scale of helpfulness, it had come down to a choice between talking to Kim or talking to the filing cabinet. Kim had won on sheer eagerness. To be honest, she hadn’t really served to clear the confusion, but she had offered to lend me a dress for the occasion. I gratefully declined the offer but assured her that if I happened to shed four stone during the course of the day, I’d get back to her.

Dad agreed to accompany me to the party, so at 8 o’clock, we caught a cab to Byker. In honour of the glamorous occasion, Dad had somehow managed to squeeze himself into his 1960s tuxedo. The trousers were at half-mast and the edges were slightly moth-eaten, but I had to admit he looked good. The darkness of the suit contrasted vibrantly with the whiteness of his hair, and his face glowed with excitement. He didn’t get out much. I had opted for a plain black velvet cocktail dress, simple black shoes and pearls, which made me feel a bit like Selina Scott, but my glamour wardrobe consisted of only two outfits and I didn’t think my turquoise satin bridesmaid’s dress would be particularly appropriate. Since seven o’clock my hair had been up and down more times than Kim’s knickers. My styling decision was finally made for me when my curls collapsed with exhaustion around my ears and refused to go anywhere near a hairpin. The ‘relaxed, tousled’ look it was then.

Luckily, Mum was absent again when the cab arrived. Her usual compliment, ‘What
do
you look like, Jennifer?’ would not have been greatly appreciated.

As our ‘C’ reg beat-up Ford Escort banged and clattered its way along the quayside, I felt a knot form in my
stomach. By the time we had turned left to begin the steep ascent to our destination, I felt as if my intestines had been crocheted into a small tank top. Visions of our party entrance flashed through my mind. Here I was, about to turn up to Maz’s star-studded event with my dad as my date in a barely-roadworthy car which suffered from a greater rust problem than the
Titanic
(post-sinking). The other guests, meanwhile, would glide to the door in chauffeur-driven stretch limos, oozing glamour and wealth with gorgeous escorts on their arms. Maz would die of embarrassment. In fact, she had probably only invited me out of sympathy. She would never have expected me to actually turn up. Damn, what an idiot.

‘Stop!’ I yelled.

Pedro, our Spanish cabbie, slammed on the brakes. A short while later, the mechanism kicked in and we ground to an unsteady halt. Two miles stopping distance … not bad for a ‘C’ reg.

‘Wha?’ he exclaimed to the space where the rear-view mirror should have been.

‘Wha madder miss?’

‘I can’t go,’ I screeched. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘Do it?’ he repeated. ‘You wan’ do it?’

‘No!’ I shouted.

Pedro shrugged his shoulders.

‘What’s the matter, Jenny?’ my dad asked gently.

‘I can’t go to Maz’s party,’ I wailed.

‘But why?’

‘I’ll embarrass her.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘She doesn’t want me there.’

‘Of course she does, why would she invite you if she didn’t want you to come?’

‘I don’t know!’

Pedro watched the exchange over his shoulder.

‘I can go mees?’ he asked.

‘No!’ I yelled.

‘Yes,’ replied my dad.

He started the engine then thought better of it when he saw the murderous look in my eyes.

‘No worries mees,’ he said quickly.

‘Look, Jenny,’ Dad said firmly, ‘we’re almost there, so let’s just go and see what it’s like. We can always leave.’

‘I can’t,’ I groaned.

‘You can,’ he said.

‘Since when did you get all masterful?’ I asked grimly.

‘Since I decided you should get off your backside and stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ he replied.

I gasped. How dare he? I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, I was just, just … indulging in self-hate.

‘But the
car,
’ I whined.

‘Wha’ madder wi’ car?’ Pedro asked angrily. ‘She supa-doopa. Pedro passion wagon.’

‘See!’ I screeched, turning to my dad.

‘OK, we’ll walk,’ Dad said strongly.

He almost threw me out of the door before paying the obviously offended Pedro.

‘Bloody weemeen,’ said the cabbie, raising his eyebrows at my father in a ‘you’re a man, you know what I’m talking about’ kind of way.

Dad shut the door, sending the left wing mirror crashing to the ground. The cab wheel-span into the distance.

‘Come on,’ said Dad, ‘time to party.’

‘Blimey,’ I groaned. ‘I think I preferred you when you were boring.’

My heart fluttered when I saw the pub again. From the outside, it looked pretty much the same only cleaner, as if it had had a good wash and the paintwork had been re-done. The most obvious difference was the new wooden sign across the front of the building. ‘The Talk Inn’ it read, in bold green letters. A crowd was gathered outside, admiring the enormous balloons and banners that proclaimed the launch of the new show
The Maz Way.
A red carpet covered the pavement, leading the guests to the bustling party inside. I held my dad’s hand, took a deep breath and stepped up to the door.

‘Ticket please,’ bellowed one of the two enormous doormen. Both were dressed in sharply cut black suits and wore Blues Brothers style shades. I nervously handed over my invitation. Bouncers invariably had the effect of making me feel hideously insignificant. I was forever dreading the day when one would say, ‘Sorry, you can’t come in, you’re too ugly,’ or, ‘Sorry, no fat people allowed’.

‘Na miss,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘This is fake.’

‘What?’ I exclaimed. ‘What do you mean,
fake
?’

A murmur coursed through the waiting crowd behind me.

‘Fake, like, not real,’ the bouncer answered sarcastically.

‘Rubbish,’ I fumed.

‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘that’s aboot the size of it.’

‘Well … well, what are you going to do about it?’ I cringed.

‘Nowt lass,’ he laughed. ‘Yer name’s not down, yer not comin’ in.’

‘Oh God, you don’t actually
say
that do you? Next you’ll be telling me to move aside or you’ll knee-cap my granny.’

‘Aye,’ he choked, ‘maybe.’

Something in the voice suddenly sounded startlingly familiar. I stared up at the doorman, who removed his dark glasses with a gigantic hand.

‘Dave!’ I beamed. ‘What are you doing here?’

He laughed so loud it almost caused a landslide.

‘New job,’ he said proudly. ‘Security. Me an’ Chip.’

He pointed to his team-mate. Chip removed his glasses and nodded politely. I forced a smile.

‘Howay get in there,’ Dave continued, ushering Dad and I through the door. ‘Yer missin’ a lush party.’

The atmosphere inside the pub was electric. Music, laughter, chatting, it was a far cry from the media party Maz and I had been to previously. I noticed instantly that the pub had been redecorated. It was light and airy, the walls had been painted a rich green and the floor and ceiling were a highly polished wood. The bar had been moved to the far wall and replaced by tables, green leather seats and a small stage. A sparkling new juke box stood in the centre of one wall and the bars had been removed from the windows which were now stained glass. I had to admit it did look fantastic.

‘Wow,’ I gasped.

‘It’s great,’ my dad agreed.

‘I need a drink,’ I added.

My dad fought his way to the bar, while I scanned the crowd for a familiar face. I was desperate to see Maz again after our time apart, to apologise for having offended her, but the star of the show was nowhere to be seen – oh, the price of fame and fortune. Four weeks out of the social scene had already had a dire effect on my ability to make small talk. I ‘hello-ed’, ‘how do you do-ed’ and ‘I’m Jennifer Summer-ed’ in apologetic tones to various strangers in an effort to feel like less of a social leper. Their puzzled glances only made me feel more isolated. A fleeting desire to have Randall on my arm then sent me into a blind panic. This was his pub, he was
bound
to be here, what the
hell
would I do if I saw him? The swiftly downed vodka and Cokes eased my alarm, temporarily of course.

While my reborn social butterfly of a father chatted to anyone and everyone in the room, I did a great job of merging with the paintwork. I felt so unworthy, so unsure of myself, that I almost struck up a conversation with the cigarette machine. At least, I would have if I could have thought of anything to say. I kept my head down, fiddled with my pearls, and consoled myself with the free alcohol. It was only the sound of a familiar voice that saved me from total self-destruction.

‘Jen, honey,’ Matt hollered from the other side of the room.

My incredibly camp friend wiggled through the crowd, knocking drinks over and sending canapés flying in all directions as he rushed to greet me with outstretched arms.

‘Matt,’ I smiled as he grabbed my face and kissed both
cheeks, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Ooh, I snapped up the firm’s VIP ticket. I wouldn’t miss it for the
world
,’ he giggled, ‘free alcopops, lots of lovely media men. It’s
fantastic
babe.’

I nodded a little too enthusiastically. ‘Hmm, it’s great,’ I mumbled.

‘So, what’s new?’ he asked loudly.

‘Not much,’ I whispered, not wanting the whole party to hear of my demotion to the stamp-licking department. ‘This and that, you know.’

Luckily Matt was too hyper to be even remotely interested in my tale of woe. That meant only one thing … love.

‘Wow, Jen,’ he said excitedly. ‘I think I’m in love.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘But honestly, hon, he is
such
a dish.’

He wiggled his bum inadvertently and pursed his lips like he was sucking a lime.

‘American …
gorgeous
bod, I mean, de-lish, pearly white teeth. So important, you know, I hate men who could mine their molars for food. Lovely hair … oh he’s just perfect,’ he purred.

‘What’s his name?’ I asked, forgetting my own problems for a moment.

‘Get this,’ he replied. ‘Troy. I mean, wowza, how American!’

‘Oh.’ I felt sick. The photo of Troy and Randall that I had seen in Randall’s flat was catapulted to the forefront of my mind. So Troy was here. That simple fact confirmed it for me. Troy and Randall were lovers. I realised Matt was still jabbering excitedly in my face.

‘…
and,
get this, his cousin owns half of Paradise TV. His uncle owns the other half. Glam, eh?’

‘Look Matt,’ I said seriously, ‘I think you should steer clear of …’

‘But of course, you know the big boss, don’t you, hon?’ he continued, oblivious to my advice. ‘You caused all the hoo-ha in his big meeting with your orange hair and drug-taking. That was hilarious!’

I smiled insincerely as Matt exploded into fits of laughter.

‘There he is over there,’ he chuckled.

I followed his pointed finger to the tall, attractive, middle-aged man who hovered by the stage. I instantly recognised the shock of white hair, the tanned, friendly face and the large, extremely well-dressed frame which positively glowed with wealth and success. Glisset & Jacksop’s number one client, the owner of Paradise TV. So that was Troy’s
uncle.
I stared at the confident, auspicious-looking man whose meeting I had destroyed a few months before, and tried to think of his name. It was on the tip of my tongue when a cheer from the crowd interrupted my chain of thought. I whipped my head round to the door to see what all the fuss was about.

Maz looked gorgeous. Her red hair was pulled neatly up onto her head, accentuating her delicate face and long neck. Her clothes were obviously chosen to compliment her surroundings. She wore a dark green chiffon, spaghetti-strap dress which clung to her tall, slim frame and made her seem elegant and classy. Her feet peeped out from beneath the soft folds of the skirt, revealing a pair of emerald velvet mules. Even her toenails were perfectly painted, I noticed, a
task which Maz herself had described as ‘more of a pain in the bum than washin’ lettuce’. I hardly recognised this beautiful, feminine woman as my best friend. I felt a sudden surge of pride which turned to nausea when my brain registered the identity of the man by her side.