Serve Cool (8 page)

‘Not me. I love the whole shopping thing,’ he winked. ‘Especially the changing rooms, if you know what I mean.’

I have absolutely no idea but whatever you say.

‘You’re weird,’ I laughed, sitting back to let the waiter
place a huge bowl of pasta in front of me.

‘Thanks,’ he smiled, also sitting back and giving the waiter an obvious wink.

Must be an American thing, I thought, tucking into my dinner. Thank God I’d had the sense not to order spaghetti.

‘English people are so different,’ Troy said dreamily, turning his head slowly from the direction of our retreating waiter. ‘I thought you’d all be really stiff upper lip.’

‘And live in castles?’ I added.

‘Yeah and read Shakespeare.’

‘And have tea with the Queen.’

‘Exactly! Man, you are so funny, Jenny. You’re all so friendly. Everyone’s cool. The guys … and the chicks of course.’

I felt the blood surge to my cheeks.

‘I’ve never been called a chick before,’ I giggled.

In one smooth sentence, Troy had propelled my fantasies from part-time barmaid in the Rover’s Return to red-swimming-cozzie-clad silicone beach babe on
Baywatch.
I was Pamela Anderson and Troy was my David Hasselhoff. Only, Troy was better looking, about twenty years younger and without the dodgy hair-do.

‘Of course you’re a chick. You’re a great chick and I’m glad I met you.’

‘So am I.’ I rested my chin on my left hand and gazed into his blue eyes. Blue and tranquil like unpolluted oceans.

‘And I hope we can be great friends.’

‘Yes, me too.’

Friends? Stuff the friends part, lover boy, I’m going to marry you. Marry you, move to Hawaii and hula till the
coconuts come home. OK, I’ll admit, I was one hundred per cent swayed by his looks. I hardly knew the man and there was something about him that I wasn’t sure about, but my hormones were all aboard the rocket, blasting off for planet pleasure. My mind had gone fluffy and I had to concentrate far too hard on making decent conversation to worry about niggling little doubts. I gazed at his tan. We just don’t make men like that in England.

‘You’ve got a great tan,’ I grinned. ‘Is it real?’

‘Sure it’s real,’ he replied. ‘I’ve built it up slowly and deeply.’

‘Slowly and deeply,’ I repeated. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. ‘I like that.’

‘Me too,’ Troy said dreamily, his blue eyes following our slim Italian waiter as he squeezed past our table. Far too much bum wiggling for my liking. Damn, I was losing his attention.

‘Oh, you haven’t even told me what you do yet, Troy.’

‘Huh?’ he replied distractedly.

Somewhere in the back of my head, an over-enthusiastic bell ringer was sounding the alarm, but I chose to ignore it.

‘Your work, Troy, what is it that you do?’

He suddenly looked animated. OK, we were back at first base.

‘I work in the airlines, Jenny.’

Holy guacamole! Kelly McGillis eat your heart out, Top Gun’s in town. Second base here I come.

‘I fly a lot, usually Hawaii-Japan so I get to see the sun all over the world. It’s just fantastic.’

‘Wow,’ I drooled. ‘Take My Breath Away’ played loudly in my head. ‘Are you a pilot?’ Hello third base.

‘Huh, I wish. No, I’m a flight attendant.’

‘A what?’

My home run faltered slightly.

‘Flight attendant. Oh sorry, man, you guys call it a host.’

‘A host? Ooh, an air hostess.’ (OK so there were negatives.) I laughed loudly, ‘So you’re an air hostess. Ha ha, are you gay?’

He looked at me blankly. Fourth base faded into the distance as I began to wake up to reality. I stopped laughing. Troy stared at me intently then began to roar with laughter.

‘Ha ha man, you English.’ He banged the table with his hand. ‘You’re just so crazy.’

Yes, well I don’t think I’m the only crazy one around here.

‘It’s the sarcasm, I get caught out every time.’

‘Ha ha,’ I tried. Please God, strike me with lightening.

‘I thought you were serious,
Jaynee
,’ he howled.

‘Oh right, ho ho.’ Just one life-ending bolt.

Troy clutched his side and tried to catch his breath. ‘Am I gay?’ he chuckled. ‘Nice one.’

Now God, give it your best shot, just don’t miss.

He sat back in his seat, puffed out his chest and threw his arms wide open. ‘Of course I am, Jenny. Of course I’m gay. Gay, homo, bent as a fiddler’s elbow. G-A-Y and proud, that’s me.’

Somewhere inside my body, the hormonal rocket veered off course, crashed and burned while the bell ringer shouted ‘see I told you so’ in my aching brain.

Troy beamed his glistening white smile and leaned across the table towards me. ‘Now honey,’ he whispered, winking
conspiratorially, ‘are you going to order a dessert because I want another close look at that waiter. Man, he’s all that with sugar on top.’

‘Howay man, he didn’t say that,’ said Maz, her mouth agape.

‘I swear he did.’

‘Piss off. He said, “all that with sugar on top”?’

‘Yep the very same.’

‘Wi’ sugar on top? Howay.’

‘He did. And close your mouth, I can see your bacon sandwich.’

Maz shook her head in disbelief, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and plonked herself on the end of my bed.

‘Shite, Jen man, bit of a nightmare.’

‘That’s an understatement. It was so embarrassing. I was like a dog on heat all through dinner but that little gem certainly doused the flames.’

‘Aye I bet.’ Maz sucked the ketchup out of a third bacon sandwich. ‘I just thought he was canny. He seemed geet cute, ye kna, not that I talked to him much.’

‘He was canny,’ I groaned, ‘and he was certainly cute. The only problem was that he thought our small-bummed waiter was cuter. How could I compete with buns like that?’

‘Bummer.’

‘Most probably.’

I groaned, collapsed back in my bed and covered my face with the pillow. How depressing. Admittedly, there had been signs, not least when he practically foamed at the mouth every time Little Bum walked within wiggling distance, but
I’d been distracted. I thought we were on a date, not a platonic bonding session. That was the last time I let my hormones reach intergalactic proportions (until the next time). We sat in silence mulling over my total humiliation.

‘Bacon sandwich?’ Maz said at last, thrusting the plate of ketchup-soaked burnt offerings under my nose.

‘Might as well,’ I grumbled. ‘I might as well eat a whole pig farm. No one would notice.’

Maz suppressed a laugh and gave me a look of mock sympathy.

‘Three days till Valentine’s Day and I’ve got bugger-all chance of getting a card now,’ I continued, determined to stay miserable.

‘Not necessarily pet,’ chirped Maz. ‘We’ve still got time.’

‘Oh no. Absolutely no way are you setting up another date for me.’

‘It’ll be no problem. The next one will be lush, honest.’

‘Noo, no, no,’ I said, pulling the duvet protectively up to my neck. ‘Thanks to you I’ve just had the shortest love affair in living history. My “boyfriend” wanted a boyfriend, slight problem Maz.’

Maz shrugged her shoulders. That was the closest I was going to get to an apology.

‘Now piss off and let me wallow in self-pity,’ I grouched. ‘I’m not getting up for at least a month.’

‘Oh,’ Maz began, ‘I think you’ll have to, pet.’

‘Why?’

Maz jumped up far too quickly and headed for the door. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Forgot what?’

‘You’ve got visitors. Down in the pub.’

‘Visitors? Who are they?’

‘Your parents, they’re here to see you.’

The bacon sandwich in my stomach did a triple salco. I almost threw up. ‘My parents, you’re kidding.’

‘Na man. Mummy and Daddy Summer in the flesh. Good morning eh?’ She laughed loudly and stomped out of the room.

I must have done something terrible in a past life, I thought morosely. Oh God, give me strength.

Chapter Eight

11th February, 12:30 p.m.

‘Eleven bloody players and not one o’ them was born in Newcastle, eh. Bloody foreigners, the lot o’ them. It’s a load o’ canny shite, man, I tell’t you.’ Auld Vinny’s voice rang out through the midday crowd as I entered the pub feeling only partially human. ‘Aye you gan to see a bloody football match and you end up watchin’ Ravioli, Gino Ginelli, flippin’ Julio what’s ’is face. I mean, what happened to the Geordies, man? I deen’t give a monkeys whether they’re prettier than Peter Beardsley. I tell’t ya if they cannot play a bit of real footie it’s a load of shite. Divin’ and cryin’. Howay, bunch of bleedin’ ponces.’

My father listened open-mouthed, trying desperately to find the appropriate answers to Vinny’s soliloquy.

‘Um … um … but …’ he stammered, ‘what about Alan Shearer and Robert Lee, they’re good players?’ My father looked childishly pleased with himself.

‘Jackie Milburn and bloody Kevin Keegan,’ Auld Vinny continued. ‘Them were the real days. Aye in them days you could walk doon the street withoot a care in the world.’

‘True,’ sighed my father.

‘We worked hard, mind. Bloody worked us till we were fit to drop, man. I tell’t you. Bloody twenty-six hours a day fer a couple o’ poont. Aye these youngsters deen’t kna when they’ve got it easy, man. Used to work on the ships me, you kna. Proper sailor. Aye, I had a lass in every port I did, when I were a nipper.’ He tweaked his ‘Ultimate International Sex Machine’ cap and winked mischievously at my mother. She frowned.

‘Aye, if I were ten years younger, woman, I’d show you.’ He laughed.

My mother turned a shade of green and looked away, making her usual ‘tsk’ noises. I felt obliged to rescue them from Auld Vinny’s onslaught but I was getting far too much enjoyment from the scene.

‘At least in our day we had some decent music, mind. You could neck wi’ a lass to our sort of stuff. Not all this bleedin’ jumpin’ up ’n’ doon, and screamin’ at each other. Load o’ shite man. That bleedin’ Prodi-wotsit fella with the green hair and bloody bolts up ’is nose. Bloody loony man. What’s that all aboot then?’

‘Mmm, I don’t know them really …’ my father stammered.

‘All the rest are jest as bad I tell’t you. F’kin’ Brit pop they call it. More like shit pop. I mean all the swearin’ at photographers and shite. Should be bloody locked up, man, they’re mental I reckon.’

‘Do you like dance music, Vinny?’ my father asked politely.

‘Aye. Give us a good wuman and I’ll show ’er how to dance. Used to call us Vinny the Gyrator. Straits! Just cos o’ the way I gyrated me body. Aye the lasses loved us man. They’d come to chez Vinny to see us move! Can’t really do it now, mind. Meks me bladder weak, all that bloody jigglin’. I’d have to get up ten times a neet fer a piss.’

My mother tutted loudly and stomped away from the table with her nose in the air.

‘Marilyn, tell that awful man to leave us alone.’

‘Ah, he’s harmless Mrs S,’ Maz replied, suppressing her laughter. She signalled to Auld Vinny to keep it down.

‘Why-aye Marilyn,’ he shouted loudly from across the pub, before starting up a rendition of ‘Diamonds are a Lass’s Best Friend’.

‘Hello Mother.’ I leaned across the bar and kissed her on both cheeks. She liked the European greeting style. It made her feel somehow upper class. This was our first meeting of the New Year.

‘Petal,’ she said snootily, ‘I’ve been rather upset with you, but Daddy says all this fighting is silly.’

‘Fighting? Who’s fighting. I’m just staying out of your way.’

She ignored me. ‘Yes, Daddy persuaded me to come, so here I am. Though goodness only knows what possessed you to come and live in a place like this!’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Maz interrupted. ‘Have a go at her, Mrs S …’

‘Gee, thanks pal.’

‘… but leave “this place” and my home out of it, if you don’t mind.’ Maz furiously began to clean some already spotless glasses.

‘Anyway Jennifer. Daddy and I have decided what you should do.’

‘About what?’

‘About this silly mess, of course.’

‘What mess?’

‘If you stop interrupting I may be able to tell you. Honestly dahling, where did you learn your manners? It certainly wasn’t from me, that’s for sure. Really. If only you were more like —’

‘Oh get on with it, Mum.’

‘You see what I mean? No manners at —’

‘MUM! I’ve got work to do, so I don’t mean to be rude but what do you want?’

‘You call this work, do you? A barmaid in a public house. This public house especially.’

She ran her hand along the bar, checking for dirt, and shook her head disapprovingly.

‘No, no, no, Jennifer,’ she tutted loudly, ‘this just won’t do.’

‘Mum, it’s fine, it is great. At least we have fun and it’s not as bad as you think.’ I suddenly felt very protective of my new abode.

As if on cue, Auld Vinny stumbled to the bar and slung a tattooed arm around my mother’s cashmere-clad shoulder. She grimaced as he smiled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a dirty piece of food, held it to my mother’s face, burped loudly and said, ‘Pickled egg, lass?’

‘Get away from me, you disgusting human being. Good gracious, Jennifer, do you see what I mean?’ She was shaking with disgust and frantically rubbing the sleeve of her sweater as if she thought she would catch a nasty disease. ‘I will not have any daughter of mine come to this.’

‘Come to this? Bloody hell, Mum, I’m not a prostitute.’

‘Oh, swearing as well, now. Aren’t we clever?’

‘Jesus Mum …’

‘And blaspheming. What would my friends say? That’s it, dahling, you’re coming home with us.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all arranged. Susie’s husband has kindly offered to find work for you at the bank, an offer he may live to regret.’

‘But —’

‘You will have your old room at the house, work with Sebastian and try to bring some respectability back to this family.’

‘Mother, I —’

‘Now get your things, stop all this nonsense and let’s leave. In time we may be able to put all this silliness behind us.’

‘Wait just a minute, Mother.’ I felt as if I had been whisked back to my childhood. Mother and I had never really seen eye to eye. I seemed to get the blame for everything, ranging from the washing machine breaking down to mother burning the roast. She was an awful cook. Until I was ten, I thought most animals descended from the charcoal family. I think I was the only kid at school to beg for seconds of school dinners.

‘I am almost twenty-seven years old. You can’t order me around like this any more, Mother,’ I said forcefully.

‘Dahling, don’t be silly now.’

‘Aagh! You’re driving me crazy. I live here, I work here, I earn money and, personally, I couldn’t give a toss what your poncey twin-set friends think. As for working for Sebastian, I’d rather impale myself on a sharp implement than work for a stuck-up, materialistic, arsewipe like him. This isn’t the Victorian era, you know. I may not be keeping up with the Joneses, Mother, but I’m happy and if you don’t like it you can just … well … it’ll give you something to discuss at your ludicrously overpriced therapy sessions, won’t it?’

We glared at each other, both seething with rage. The pub fell silent. It was handbags at dawn. In the far corner, I noticed my father cowering behind a pint of shandy. I supposed it would be too much to hope for him to stand up to my mother. The once strong, funny man had learned only too well over the years who was to wear the proverbial trousers in their relationship.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anythin’, you guys.’ An American accent broke the silence. Troy. I smiled nervously at the perfect tanned face. What a waste.

‘Oh not at all,’ replied my mother huffily. ‘We were just leaving.’

My dad looked up at the sound of the royal ‘we’.

‘Come on, Daddy, I need you to drive me home.’

There was an uneasy moment as my father looked anxiously from my mother to me and then to Troy. I realised he was blushing.

‘Daddy,’ my mother ordered, ‘finish that shandy and take me home now.’

‘Shandy! Howay man woman man,’ Auld Vinny retorted,
‘this man isny drinkin’ bleedin’ shandy in my pub. He’s drinkin’ beer an’ nothing else. Jen, gis a bottle o’ broon for wur new mate and you better get ’im a whisky to wash it doon with.’

I obliged. Daddy reddened further. Mother stared at Vinny, dumbfounded.

‘Daddy, come now.’ She repeated the order.

‘Howay woman, leave the man be. It’s a bloody sad old world when a man cannot drink his ale withoot his wifey shoutin’ in his bleedin’ ear.’

‘Served cool, as you like it.’ I grinned at Vinny, handing him the two bottles of Brown Ale and the whisky chasers.

‘Aye, that’s right pet,’ Vinny replied, and turning to my father added, ‘She’s a reet good barmaid your lass.’

I beamed at the old sailor’s compliment. Praise from Vinny was praise indeed.

‘WILLIAM SUMMER!’ my mother yelled, ignoring Vinny’s comment. ‘I’m waiting.’

Vinny was undoubtedly of the old school of masculinity but at this precise moment I liked his methods.

‘William. Canny lush name man. That’s me middle name, reet solid. Now, drink yer pint.’

My father lifted the glass to his lips and began to drink. Slowly at first, but without pausing for breath. Mother huffed. He drank faster. She stamped her foot. He threw it back. She yelled. He sculled the whisky.

‘Aye man,’ Auld Vinny smiled. ‘That’s what you needed. A man’s gotta have some pleasures in life eh? Dain’t be lettin’ people stamp you doon, man.’

‘William …’ Mother had reached the door.

My father looked at me and winked. He smiled broadly for the first time in years. ‘Well Jenny,’ he said. I sensed a new strength in his voice. ‘Let’s see how good a barmaid you are. A pint for me, and one for my new friend Vinny.’ He paused. ‘Hey, make that two each, I’d like to stay for a while.’

‘Why do men have nipples anyway?’ I pondered aloud while reclining on the sofa in the lounge. Well, I think in a past life it had been a sofa. Now it was simply a hideous mass of brown velour threadbare cushions.

‘I deen’t kna,’ Maz replied, ‘but they’d look pretty daft without them.’ She slugged her half-full plastic bottle of very cheap red wine.

‘Not if they all didn’t have any. They don’t really have a purpose do they? Our nipples nourish and nurture an entire population. What do theirs do? Sweet FA if you ask me. Make their bodies look symmetrical, big wow.’

‘Aye. Do nothin’ except get hairy and get hard sometimes.’

‘Is that just nipples you’re talking about, or men in general?’

‘Ha ha.’ We laughed loudly, slugged more wine and threw popcorn at Troy in a show of girl power. He just giggled and said, ‘Oh you guys,’ playfully, as he had been doing all night. Americans are just so … American, aren’t they?

‘I’ve got one,’ he said suddenly from his cross-legged position on the floor. ‘How come you always get loads of unpopped corn in the bottom of a bucket of popcorn?’

‘Well, it’s heavier. Dur.’ Maz giggled.

‘Yeah, sure, but I mean you can cook the stuff till you’re
blue in the face, burn the pan to buggery and you’ll still have half of it unpopped to break your teeth on. It really does my head in, man!’

‘A dentist’s dream,’ I added. ‘Good question, Troy. Maz, you’re next.’

She frowned, deep in thought.

‘You kna that Boy George song?’

‘Which one?’

‘That karma, karma, karma, karma one.’

‘Yeah,’ we said together.

‘Did anyone have a clue what the bleedin’ hell that man was singin’ about?’

I pondered the question. ‘Reptiles wasn’t it?’

‘No, sex,’ Troy said firmly. ‘He was great, man.’

‘Sex? How come?’ Maz asked.

‘That’s what all songs are about, little lady.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘“Jingle Bells” isn’t,’ I piped up.

‘Well, obviously not, but —’

‘Or
The Sound of Music
– “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” ’

‘OK, true, but —’

‘Or “Somewhere over the Rainbow”.’

‘No …’

‘Or “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” … although, come to think of it, it could be.’

‘OK, OK! There are exceptions.’ He looked flustered.

‘Anyway, Maz,’ I continued, ‘that was the eighties so nothing made sense. That’s what the eighties were all about. Nonsense. Karma, karma whatsit, Frankie goes to Hollywood,
Howard Jones’ electric shock hair-dos, pink plastic bangles … um …’

‘Spotty leggings,’ Maz added excitedly.

‘Definitely. I mean exactly who do they flatter on this planet? Big huge belts, ankle socks, neon, snogging boys wearing tie-dye Relax T-shirts at roller discos. See, none of it made sense.’

‘What’s wrong with Relax T-shirts?’ Troy asked.

We stared at him blankly for a brief moment.

‘Aye man,’ Maz giggled, gathering her thoughts, ‘I was hideous. Why I ever chose Madonna as a role model I deen’t kna. Rara skirts and black lace fingerless gloves. Bloody hell, I’m surprised I wasn’t locked up, like.’

Troy stopped flossing his teeth with a chocolate bar wrapper and joined in. ‘Just think, you guys, we’ll look back on these days in ten years’ time and realise how horrible we look now.’

‘Na man, this is it, we’re cool now.’

‘Yeah, but Maz we thought that in 1982. Troy’s right. Our kids will look at us and die laughing.’

‘How do you think we’ll be when we’re old?’ Troy was becoming more philosophical with every swig of beer.

‘I reckon I’ll wake up one day and suddenly find fluffy hats, hand-knitted cardigans and Pac-a-macs totally irresistible. All old people seem to hit that purple rinse and beige phase at some point.’

‘Eugh, howay, Jen.’ Maz choked on her wine while trying to shove a third Mars bar in her mouth. She laughed loudly. ‘D’you reckon we’ll still dance to things like Cypress Hill and The Chemical Brothers? Ravin’ grannies on E?’

‘No, probably Neil Sedaka or Lionel Richie. They’ll come at the headscarf and tartan shopping trolley on wheels stage.’

‘Never!’ Troy shouted.

‘Kill me now!’ Maz yelled.

‘OK, maybe just Cliff Richard and Billy Ocean then.’

We all giggled then paused to choose more munchies from the pile in front of us. I started on the ice cream.