Kiss My Name (7 page)

FLO – May 2011

              My car is a pig sty. It’s a Nissan Micra but it should be called Nissan Snout or Nissan Trough or something like that. If you came to my house, you wouldn’t find a spot of dust anywhere, not even on top of the cupboards, but my laws of cleanliness don’t stretch as far as the car. I’m not sure why this is, perhaps it’s because it is always raining in Chorley or for several months of the year, it is dark by the time I get home and I just can’t be bothered heading out with a vacuum cleaner, a tin of polish and a bin bag to clean it out. Car related OCD is a boy thing. The inside of my car does tell a story though, it tells me how much chocolate I’ve consumed, how many sugary drinks I’ve glugged and how many packs of cigarettes I’ve smoked my way through. If I’m going through a spell of trying to pack in the fags, there are fewer cigarette packets but a lot of fingernail clippings and a few cups of coffee torn into tiny pieces. About once a month, I’ll take the levels of crap down from shoulder height to knee height and then the process starts all over again.

Zara would not set foot in my car if she wasn’t in need of a lift. Girlie girls don’t like going into work with smudged chocolate on their arse, it looks too much like crap and no-one is ever going to risk smelling it so they can differentiate. Zara is a bit of an airhead but she likes to look immaculate. This is a girl who sets her alarm for five thirty every morning so that she can shower, wash her hair, blow dry it, do her nails and put her make up on before a day working in one of the tackiest shops in Chorley, Penny Pinchers. I had given her a lift to David Lloyd’s
gym the night before and she pulled a few faces as her pink shiny trainers were drowned under four inches of rubbish, so I was not surprised to see Zara walking out to my car the following morning with two beach towels, one to lay over the passenger seat to avoid the aforementioned chocolate arse and the other to lay over the mountain of rubbish so she did not soil her shiny, polished shoes.

“Good morning, Flo! What a lovely morning it is too!”

I grunted my response. It was eight thirty. I had only been awake for ten minutes. Bags of shite were more attractive than me at that time of the day. I am a self-confessed irritable bitch until lunch time, but Zara is always a ray of sunshine, twenty four hours a day, unless she has boyfriend or car catastrophes anyway, which both happen far too regularly. There’s always a drama with Zara, what that girl lacks in intelligence, she more than makes up for in personality. If she had been a Scouser, she would have been a chirpy, ditzy one. She’s so chirpy and ditzy she makes Sonia look like Leonard Cohen. Before she sat down, she began smoothing the creases out of her towel on my passenger seat.

“Stop
making such a bloody fuss, Zara! Get in and sit down! I cleaned this car up last week.”

“I didn’t say a word, Flo. I’m just grateful for the lift.”

“You’re being ever chirpier than usual this morning, you still on a high because of that bloke from the gym?”

“Martin. I had a dream about him last night, Flo. He was in my shower, soaping his six pack down. I didn’t want to wake up! There were seven muscles I wanted to see working out before I awoke.”

“I thought water did funny things to a bloke’s throbbing python of love. I thought it turned it into a wiggly worm.”

“Not in my dreams it doesn’t. Martin’s love thermometer was reaching temperatures that can make a girl go faint!”

“Well, you best hope the real Martin is just as hot as your imaginary one.”

“I have a good feeling this time, Flo. Something tells me that Martin might just be Mr.Right.”

“And you’ve never said that before.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be optimistic, Flo, rather than an old misery guts like you.”

“What am I supposed to be happy about, Zara? I work in Penny Pinchers, I wear clothes that would have been too big for Oprah Winfrey in her ‘Color Purple’ stage and I have as many hairs growing on my chin and chest as Billy Connolly. I turn heads, Zara, but not like you do. Men turn their heads towards you. With me, they turn their heads around to see where the exit is so they can sprint towards it as fast as they can.”

“Aww, don’t be silly Flo, you’re lovely.”

“You don’t have to say nice things to me, Zara, I do own a mirror, you know. I know what I look like.”

“But you’re a lovely person, Flo. You’re loyal, you’re honest, one day someone will appreciate you for who you are rather than how you look.”

“Maybe, I just don’t get to sample every food in the restaurant like you. I have to have the set meal. Anyway, on a brighter note, when’s your courtesy car coming?”

“They’re dropping it off at my Mum’s at half past three.”

Zara didn’t live with her Mum. She had moved out a couple of years earlier and now shared a two bed terraced with a lovely Asian guy called Nadeem. He just did his own thing and thankfully, he turned a blind eye to Zara doing hers. Zara’s road is narrow though and often it’s almost impossible to find a parking place, hence the reason the courtesy car was going to her Mum’s.

“Well, that’s handy. I’ll drop you off there after work. Hope it’s not as busy as it was yesterday.”

“Mum’s road?”

“No, work, you daft cow!”

“Oh right, me too.”

             
We chatted away amiably through to Chorley. Euxton’s only a couple of miles down the road, so it’s not much more than a five minute drive. We should share a lift every morning really, do our bit to save the planet, but the fact that my car is a shithole combined with the fact that I never know which bloke is going to arrive at Penny Pinchers for Zara at the end of a shift, means we tend not to. I was heading to our usual car park, by the Little Theatre and was just about to turn in, when Zara piped up,

“Ooh, Flo, don’t park there. S
ave yourself a couple of quid. Mum told me on Sunday that she always parks along here on the left, it’s free and there’re always places.”

Alarm bells immediately rang in my head. I drove past the car park and along the road,

“Zara, have you started parking down here?”

“Only since yesterday.....shit, my car! That’s where I left it!”

              Sure enough, as we drove along, on the left hand side, was Zara’s red Corsa, with the stupid, ‘I’m a slapper’ stickers, on the back window. Nobody had stolen it. She had just parked it in a different place the previous morning and completely forgotten.

“Oh, I’m a dozy bitch, aren’t I?” Zara commented with a nervous laugh.

“Zara, I keyed in ‘dozy bitch’ on Google images and there was a picture of you!”

             
Zara ignored me. She ran over to the Corsa in her bottom wiggling way and attempted to give it a hug.

“Oh Charlie, I’ve been so worried that you were with some nasty men. Thank God you’re OK!”

              I watched her play out this scene and smiled. It was only just past half past eight in the morning and I actually smiled, surely that must be a first. I wanted to be furious with the girl, but it was impossible. Without even trying, Zara was the funniest person that I had ever met and I wondered how she was going to trump this one. Not surprisingly, she did though. My life wouldn’t be worth living without that girl, it seriously wouldn’t.

FLO – May 2011

              I was in the queue in Greggs, a daily lunchtime routine. When you are a little on the large side, it goes without saying that you will have an unfeasibly large belly. This chubby belly is only amiable when it is cared for. When it is not, you prepare yourself for vicious e-mail complaints being sent from belly to brain. A fat belly abhors loneliness. It is the dance floor of your body. It needs to be full.

             
One day, I hope to have a body that allows me to see my pubic hair whilst I am standing straight, but I have no real desire for that to be any time soon. For now, I answer the e-mail complaints from my stomach with an apology, followed by two cheese and onion pasties and a steak and onion slice. I am not hefty because I am big boned, like some people are, I am fat because I eat a lot. Notice I say ‘a lot’ rather than ‘too much’, because it is not ‘too much’. Right now, eating stodgy, fatty foods makes me happy.

             
Sorry, I was distracted by trying to explain how my stomach works and the demands it puts out to my brain. The point is, I was in the queue at Greggs at ten past one in the afternoon. That day, like many other days, I had rolled out of bed, like a ‘Weebles Wobble’, at twenty past eight and left home by half past. No food passed my lips at breakfast that morning. By ten past one, I was starving. Not really, truly starving, but an over indulged, first world, ‘starving’. I was ready to pig out. I knew the cheese and onion pasties and steak and onion slice were heading my way, but I was deciding between a vanilla slice and a jam doughnut when my phone rang. It was buried so deep inside my coat pocket that my initial reaction was to wonder which prick in the queue was now going to start shouting down their phone like Dom Joly. Once it registered that the offending ring tone was Take That’s ‘Rule The World’, I encouraged Gary and the boys out of their warm, dark hole and the phone’s display revealed to me that Zara was in need of a conversation.

“Hello, Zara.”

“Flo, is that you?”

She had just phoned my phone, it was pretty obvious it was me.

“Zara, what do you want? I’m in the queue in the pie shop.”

“Guess where I am?” Zara bizarrely asked.

“Penny Pinchers.”

I had not suddenly become possessed with the powers of Uri Geller, I was on one o’clock lunch, Zara had been on twelve, I had seen her come back in at ten to one, when I was on the counter.

“Yes, obviously, but where in Penny Pinchers?”

“On the counter? Surely it’s not empty at ten past one.”

“No, not on the counter. Guess again!”

I wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. I was in the mood for food.

“Zara, just tell me! I’m second in the queue now.”

“I’m standing outside Mr.Brazier’s office, Flo.”

“Why? Hang on a minute......can I have two cheese and onion pasties, a steak and onion slice, a jam doughnut and a vanilla slice, please.”

I couldn’t decide between the desserts so I ordered both, I knew I didn’t have to eat them both, but also knew that I would.

“Are you still there, Flo?” Zara whispered down the phone. I realised that she had actually been whispering throughout the conversation.

“Yes, Zara, just getting my lunch...why are you outside Brazier’s office?”

“I’m about to tell Mr.Brazier to stick his job up his arse!”

For a few split seconds, I lost my appetite. I was in panic mode. Zara needed that job as much as I needed mine and she liked it more than I did. What was going on?

“What? Why would you want to do that?”

“I bought a scratch card on my lunch, Flo. It’s come in! I’ve just gone and won us one hundred grand! Where shall we go, Flo? Australia, America, Skegness, anywhere you like, Flo, it’s on me!”

“Skegness then.”

“Seriously, you just want to go to Skegness? Anyway, it looks like Mr.Brazier’s just finishing off his telephone call, I’ll be going in, in a sec. I’m not go
ing to tell him why I’m leaving. I’m just going to tell him to stick it! I’ve never liked him. He’s always shaking his head when my boyfriends come in.”

“Zara,” I shouted down the phone, “don’t go anywhere. Stay right where you are. Do not go into that office!”

“That’s £4.20 please, love!” said the Greggs lady handing me a plastic bag with my hot food in and a separate white box for the cakes.

I handed her fiver.

“Keep the change!”

Eighty pence would have bought me another cake on the way home, but this was an emergency. I ran, well waddled quickly back towards Penny Pinchers. Despite the fact that Zara sounded totally convinced that she was the proud winner of one hundred grand, I was equally convinced that she had not won. I knew her better than she knew herself. I knew she would have inadvertently done something stupid, like scratched out the bit that says, ‘card void if you scratch here’. She was about
to do something else stupid too. Offend the only boss in Chorley desperate enough to employ her. Not that Zara wasn’t a good employee, but times were tough, still are tough, and jobs in retail are scarce.

The more I thought Zara’s situation through, the more I realised I needed to get back to Penny Pinchers before it was too late. My waddle soon became a desperate run. There were breasts and bellies bouncing everywhere. I didn’t move very quickly as this was the first time I had broken into a run since P.E at school but the effort was there. I needed to keep Zara in that job for her sake and for mine, the job was mundane and monotonous as things stood, it would be murder without Zara. I really hoped that I was wrong, that she really had won one hundred thousand pounds, that would just be fantastic, but realistically I knew there was more chance of me riding the Grand National winner. Zara was the type of girl who chased dreams, not the type of girl whose dreams came true.

ZARA – May 2011

             
I had never liked Mr.Brazier. He is one of those men that make women feel uncomfortable. The type you wouldn’t want to be trapped in a lift with. A member of the wandering hands brigade. Mr.Brazier is a letch.

On the day of our Christmas party last year, Mr.Brazier disappeared at lunchtime with a few of his cronies, store managers from other shops around Chorley and his hour’s lunch must have lasted near enough the whole afternoon. He arrived back at about half past four stinking of whiskey. We had all arranged to go straight out after work, but by the time we had closed up, he was already slurring and before we’d even had our starters at Parmesan & Pepper, he was off his face.

Mr.Brazier made sure I was sitting next to him at the table and he kept trying to bring the conversation around to my sex life and whether I was single, whilst I kept trying to talk about his family and what his kids were getting for Christmas. When he knew everyone else was too busy gabbing to notice, he ran his hand between my knee and my thigh, a couple of times, to see how I responded. The first time I thought he may have done it by accident, but when he did it again, I just realised he was just a drunken, dirty pervert.

“You live alone, don’t you, Zara?” he asked me with a disturbingly creepy smile.

I looked over at Flo to see if she would notice I needed help, but she was too busy stuffing her face with tomato garlic bread to notice initially. When she did catch my eye, I discreetly pointed at Mr.Brazier and mouthed ‘Perv’.

She nodded and mouthed back, ‘Wanker’, and did the wanker sign too. Mr.Brazier was too drunk to notice, all he was concentrating on was me.

“Zara?” he asked.

“What?” I answered a little frostily.

“You live alone, don’t you, Zara?” he repeated.

“Why?”

“I’m looking for somewhere to crash tonight and was thinking if I stopped at yours it could be mutually beneficial.”

“It could be what?”

“Mutually beneficial.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Good for us both.”

“Oh, right. I’m staying at my Mum’s tonight,” I lied.

Mr.Brazier had the cheek to run his hand up my leg again. This time he took it high enough to reach the elastic on my new Victoria’s Secret knickers which had cost me a bloody fortune. He didn’t remove it either, just left it there suggestively.

“Maybe you want to ring your Mum and tell her that you’ve had a change of heart. I’ll be looking for a new Assistant Manager in the New Year and this might be the perfect opportunity to talk it through.”

I gave him a look. Not a ‘that would be lovely’ look either. More of a ‘I’m going to slap your ugly, wrinkled face in a minute’ look. I was used to dealing with groping men though. I discreetly whispered into his ear.

“Mr.Brazier, I’d take your hand off my new knickers or your garlic dough balls won’t be the only balls you’ll be eating for your starters.”

“Come off it, Zara, you love it! You don’t wear a dress as short as yours unless you want to attract male attention.”

“Male attention, maybe. Attention from an old fossil like you? No, thank you. I’d rather crap in my own hands and clap.”

“Old fossil! I’m thirty seven!”

“Exactly. Old fossil. Take your hand off my knickers now please, Mr.Brazier. I’m quite happy to cause a scene and I’m also quite happy to ring Head Office first thing on Monday morning. I’m sure they would take a sexual harassment complaint very seriously.”

“Bloody hell, Zara, lighten up! Where’s your sense of humour? I was only winding you up, love. Come on, it’s Christmas!”

“Flo,” I shouted over, “I need to go to the loo. Will you come with me, please?”

Flo and I went to the toilet and when we came back, we swopped seats. He wouldn’t dare make a move on her. Mr.Brazier was not completely deterred though. He just moved his attention to poor Sylvia Gregson. Sylvia had had a tough time, her husband had left her for a younger woman during the summer and with three teenage kids, she didn’t get out much. Sylvia, bless her, was probably a little flattered by the male attention, even if it was only Mr.Brazier. Later, when we were at Applejax’s, she was bouncing up and down on his lap like a cowgirl at a rodeo. God, I hope I’m never that desperate.

Mr.Brazier did not make sexual advances towards me again after that Christmas night out and not surprisingly, I wasn’t shortlisted for the Assistant Manager’s role either. Sylvia Gregson was handed that position. A reward for services rendered
. Mr.Brazier did, however, take great pleasure in making my romantic life difficult. If any of my boyfriends ever came into Penny Pinchers to meet me, either for lunch or after work, he’d always make some sort of snide comment. The most regular one was,

“Oh, yet another new bloke to stir the porridge, eh, Zara?”

I had absolutely no idea what he meant by this. I knew it was some sort of sexual reference so presumed he meant that the boyfriends would be making their breakfast at mine the following morning. Flo explained it though. I was disgusted, what a creep that man is! I just hoped one day I would get the opportunity to tell him exactly what I really thought of him.

My opportunity to reveal my true, negative, feelings to Mr.Brazier arrived sooner that I could ever have imagined. I was on twelve o’clock lunch one day and after zooming through my tuna mayonnaise salad in about two minutes in the staff kitchen, I decided to go and have a wander around town. I nipped into WH Smith’s to buy a Lotto lucky dip and for some strange reason, don’t ask me why, I felt an urge to buy a scratch card too. It was a two quid one and after reading the rules, I scratched off the amounts of the prizes. If you are ever going to win on one of those things, you expect it to be one of the lower prizes, so once the puzzles for the £2, £5 and £10 had not proved to be winners, I scratched the £100 000 off without even the faintest glimmer of hope. I looked at it, then looked again.

“Surely not”, I thought, “surely not!”

I stared at it in disbelief. I’d only gone and bloody won! Not just a small prize either, the top banana, one hundred thousand pounds. OH-MY-GOD!

I ran skipping back to Penny Pinchers. There were two things that I needed to do. Firstly, I needed to tell Mr.Brazier that I hated him and the crappy job and now that I was a rich, young lady, I’d be leaving. Secondly, I needed to tell Flo, if I was one hundred thousand pounds richer, then we had money for the first time in our lives. Flo didn’t need to stay at Penny Pinchers either. In my mind, half the money was hers.

Once I was back at Penny Pinchers, I strode purposefully through the store, pitying Sylvia and Dot on the counter, who would probably be stuck in that dead end job for a lifetime. Flo was there too, I would probably have told her there and then, but she was having a chat to
one of our daily shoppers, Mrs.Stranks, who always came in for her four pints of milk for her cats. The excitement was too much for my bladder too, I had to go to the staff loos before seeing Mr.Brazier, no point embarrassing myself by peeing my pants. Whilst on the loo, I just held the winning ticket in front of my eyes, £100 000, I was trying to work out how long I would have to work at Penny Pinchers to earn that if I earned £8 500 a year. I couldn’t work it out, I never was good at Maths at school, but guessed it was ages.

After my piddle s
top, I put some more make-up on. I wanted to look my best when I went to see Mr.Brazier, as the better I looked, the more confident I would feel. I applied the perfect lipstick, a sultry deep red. Tingling with excitement, I headed over to his office.

When I arrived at Mr.Brazier’s door, it was open but he was stood behind his desk, on the phone, ordering stock from Head Office, so he signalled for me to wait outside. I could tell he was going to be a while, as he was chatting flirtatiously with the lady on the other end of the line. I had time to kill. I looked at my watch and it was now well past one, Flo would have left Penny Pinchers for her lunch, I decided to ring her to tell her our news.

Typically, Flo was in one of the pie shops when she answered the call and with being outside Mr.Brazier’s door, I had to whisper too, so I’m not exactly sure what parts of our conversation she actually heard. I just remember telling her that I’d won one hundred thousand pounds, she could go anywhere on holiday that she liked and I am sure she opted for Skegness. We are so different in many ways, but so alike in others, holiday destinations being one of the similarities. Anyway, after she said Skegness, Mr.Brazier’s phone call finished and he beckoned me in, so I said a hurried goodbye.

The first thing I noticed about Mr.Brazier’s office was that he had loads of family photos up. I had been in there many times before, but I suppose every time previously had been before Christmas, so the photos were saying something different to me now.

‘This is the wife I cheat on whenever possible’ and ‘these are the kids who I am going to see one weekend a fortnight once my wife discovers that I have a wandering eye’, were the two central themes. I reckon married men who sleep around are either very arrogant or very unhappy or both, but the family photos seemed to show Mr.Brazier was just arrogant.

“Miss Phillips, please come in and make yourself comfortable. What can I do for you, young lady?”

Mr.Brazier was always calling me Miss Phillips. At first, I thought he must have just mixed up my surname with someone else’s, but then Flo explained it was because of the showjumping, Royal Zara. I asked Flo if that is why Mr.Brazier said things to me like,

“You like a good jump, don’t you, Zara?” and “You’re always up for a ride, Zara!”

Flo said it probably was because of the Royal Zara which made me laugh, as I’d always presumed he was talking about sex! Easy mistake to make though, as whenever I was around, Mr.Brazier always seemed to be talking about sex.

I took a seat on the opposing side of the desk to Mr.Brazier, who sat down too. I had never felt more ready to deal with him. I cleared my throat.

“Mr.Brazier, do you like me?”

Mr.Brazier sort of closed one eye and twitched a little,
a bit like that bloke who hated Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther films

“What exactly do you mean by ‘like you’, Zara?”

“Fancy me.”

“No, of course I don’t! Why are you asking me such
a ridiculous question? You are just a valued member of my staff. If managing Penny Pinchers is like having a cup of tea, you, Zara, are my two teaspoons of sugar.”

Mr.Brazier was a creepy sod.

“Why do you say things to me that you just don’t say to the other girls?”

“I don’t! I treat everyone the same. What have you
come to see me for, Zara? What the heck is the point of all this? Is it a period thing? Are you pre-menstrual?”

Stupid men tried to blame things they did not understand on female hormones. Not all men, just the stupid ones. I wasn’t Alfie Einstein myself, but Mr.Brazier was stupid.

“No, I am not pre-menstrual, Mr.Brazier. I know you probably think I’m stupid, but I’m not, I notice things, I notice how you treat me. You definitely treat me differently to the other girls.”

“In what way, Zara?”

“You make fun of me in a sexual way, Mr.Brazier.”

“I most certainly do not!”

“Mr.Brazier, you do! Yesterday, when I came into work, you asked me if I was raised on a farm. When I asked why, you said because I’m really good at raising cocks.”

“That’s just a joke, Zara. It’s just me being playful, that’s all.”

“Well, it isn’t funny!”

“If you don’t find it funny, then I apologise, Zara. I j
ust single you out for a bit of extra Brazzer fun, because you’re my favourite.”

“That’s what I said, you like me, Mr.Brazier. You’re old enough to be my Dad!”

“Not quite and anyway, Michael Douglas is old enough to be Catherine Zeta Jones Dad. Age is immaterial once you get beyond a certain age.”

“But you’re married, Mr.Brazier.”

“Zara, I am happily married. I just like you as a person. You’re my favourite member of staff.”

He di
dn’t look happily married when he was groping Sylvia at the Christmas party. I wasn’t exactly his favourite then either.

“Do you think I’m a nice person, Mr.Brazier?”

“Yes, Zara, of course you are.”

“I’m a happy, kind sort of person, aren’t I?”

“I would say so.”

“’Cos you’re not, Mr.Brazier. Now I’m going to apologise for swearing in advance, but you’re fucking horrible, Mr.Brazier !”

“I’m what?”

“You’re horrible. You give me the creeps, Mr.Brazier! You touch me up, you..”

“I most certainly do not ‘touch you up’!”

“
You did do. At Christmas, you did. Then you make me look like a slapper in front of my boyfriends. You make fun of me in front of the other girls too. I mean how was I supposed to know that Andrex wasn’t for wiping dogs bottoms? There’s a picture of a puppy on the packet?”

“Easy mistake to make.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, you told me that’s what it was for. You’re nasty, Mr.Brazier, you are a nasty, horrible man!”

“Zara, will you just shut up for a minute, please!”