Serve Cool (16 page)

My gaze moved down his strong, straight nose to the pair of full, pink lips. As I watched, he parted them slightly and inadvertently moistened them with his tongue. First the top lip, then the soft skin of the bottom lip. The moisture glistened in the light, making me want to drink it in and taste it. In the cold March wind, I felt the warmth of his breath as it brushed across my right cheek. Our faces were so
close, I was afraid that my breathing sounded too loud. I hoped that he wouldn’t feel the burning of my cheeks or notice how my pupils had dilated with wanting. My stomach began to tighten and I could feel a warm, stirring sensation in my groin. Already my body was reacting to the pleasure and our lips hadn’t even met.

Oh God,
I thought, I
hope I haven’t got food between my teeth.

Paranoia was replaced by surprise as he cupped my chin in his hand and pulled my face gently to his. I gazed briefly into his eyes and saw the hint of a smile before he pressed his mouth against my lips. A burning sensation shot through my body. As his lips caressed mine and his tongue pushed into my mouth, I felt myself melt in the firm grasp of his right arm. I breathed deeply, absorbing the warm, musk aroma of his skin. His touch, his smell and the passion in a single kiss all felt so right. I relaxed and slowly ran my tongue along his teeth. As his hand slid round to the nape of my neck and his breathing intensified, I heard a low groan escape from the back of my throat.

Spurred on by my sighs, he pulled me closer and we kissed urgently, feeling and tasting each other for the first time. My tongue explored his mouth, my hands explored his body. He leaned towards me and I slid my hand inside his shirt and across the smooth skin of his stomach. His hand grasped my waist and I clutched his solid, rounded pecs. I could feel his ribcage rising and falling as his breaths became deeper. His touch was gentle but passionate as his slim hands moved over my clothes. His knee pressed into my leg and a bolt of lightening shot up my thigh. I could feel the
blood rushing to my groin like shopaholics to the January sales and my head was in a spin. I hadn’t felt this way for so long. A simple kiss and I was lost in the throws of passion. Wow, he was good.

The booming horn of a passing ship infiltrated our fantasy and dragged us back to reality. The blast made me jump and he pulled back from the kiss. I reminded myself to breathe again before I went into oxygen debt and I slowly opened my eyes. In the midst of my pleasure, I had completely forgotten where we were. The brown water of the Tyne, the tall, dark buildings lining the riverbank and a wintry blanket of grey cloud came gradually into focus. All of a sudden, though, it all seemed much brighter.

I gazed up at him as he caught his breath. His face was visibly glowing and his green eyes flickered over my face. I felt as if I was smiling from the inside out, flushed with pleasure and quietly impressed at having found a man who could kiss so well. He stared at me, as if unsure of my reaction. I smiled at this hint of insecurity and squeezed his hand.

‘That was a really loud homy.
Horn
… horn … I meant horn,’ I stammered.

‘I know what you meant,’ he beamed.

We stood on the platform of the Metro at Central Station, his arms wrapped around my waist. I didn’t want the date to end but I had to do a shift at the pub and Maz would have my guts for garters if I didn’t show up. It was probably just as well. God knows what trouble I’d have got into if he had kissed me like that again. I felt like the sex goddess of the
North-East. Wrapped in the arms of a gorgeous man, fresh from the grasp of passion. I was totally sexy and completely irresistible (despite the Mr Happy plaster and slight limp). I had experienced a rare injection of happy hormone without consuming a single ounce of chocolate and I was determined to make the most of it. I was up there on Planet Janet without a care in the world. It’s amazing what a kiss can do.

‘I’ll call you later then, pet,’ he said in his lilting Geordie accent.

‘Sure, that’d be great.’

I looked around me to check that people had heard him and that they were suitably impressed.
Act cool,
I thought.
Kiss me again,
my body pleaded.

‘Thanks for a great time,’ I said, blushing slightly under his gaze.

He didn’t reply but bent down and kissed me, gently squeezing my waist with both hands. We were still entwined when the train rumbled onto the platform.

‘I better go,’ I whispered.

He nodded and let his hands drop to his sides. I stepped back on to the waiting train.

Suddenly, I was hit by a wave of mild panic. I stopped in my tracks and spun around to face him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, here I was about to leave after an afternoon of total perfection, yet not only did I not have his phone number or his address, I didn’t even know his name. In all the chaos, fun and snogging, this minor fact had somehow slipped my mind.

‘Damn!’ I exclaimed.

I felt like such a slapper. How could I ask him now after
having shared a milkshake, not to mention a fair amount of saliva? He’d think I was a right cheap tart.

‘What’s wrong, pet?’ He rushed forward and took my hand.

His face looked so concerned, I momentarily considered making something up – ‘Damn I’ve got terrible amnesia (family trait) so could you just tell me your name again?’ – but I couldn’t do it. I paused momentarily not sure of my next move. The train was ready to leave but I stood in the doorway to stop it closing. I was getting vicious looks from my fellow passengers but I was stuck for the right words. This was a delicate subject. His eyes searched my face for a clue. It was only when an eight-foot buffalo of a man with tattoos for skin politely requested that I ‘hurry the fuck up’, that I suddenly plucked up the courage.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘It’s … um … it’s just … oh bollocks.’

‘What?’

I took a deep breath. ‘It’s just, I seem to have forgotten, well I don’t know if you actually told me and I would never do this usually but … um … but I …’ (the buffalo huffed impatiently and stamped his hoof) ‘… well, the thing is … I seem to have forgotten your … your … your …’

‘My …?’

‘Your … name.’

His worried expression instantly melted as his face broke into a broad grin. He started to laugh loudly.

‘Oh Jen,’ he beamed.

‘Oh Jesus,’ snarled the buffalo.

He reached in from the platform and gently touched my arm.

‘I can see it’s going to be a mad ride with you, pet,’ he laughed.

I smiled meekly as he kissed my hand.

‘Randall,’ he whispered, ‘my name’s Randall.’

‘Randall,’ I mouthed as the train doors slid shut. ‘Hmm, I like it.’

Chapter Fifteen

17th March, 2:30 p.m.

‘Thur’s nae such thing, pet,’ said Denise emphatically, fiercely rubbing a stain on the front of her lilac velour tracksuit. ‘Aye, it meybe al’ sweetness and light now like, but it won’t be long before he burps, farts, wants ’is socks washed and expects ’is friggin’ tea on the table.’

Derek burped loudly and put a flabby arm round Denise’s shoulders. ‘Howay wor lass, you love it, man.’ He winked cheekily at his wife.

‘Get off us,’ she groaned, shrugging off his arm and reaching for another pickled egg. ‘Give us that Julia Iglesus fella any day. Aye, a bit of Italian stallion would do us.’

‘He’s Spanish, Denise,’ I interjected.

‘Aye well, it’s the same thing. Foreign, and rich. He could bloody well serenade me in his skin-tight shiny trousers any day of the week, I tell’t ya.’

‘Howay,’ Dave interrupted, ‘a Geordie man’ll give ya
better lovin’ than some paella merchant, woman. You want a
real
fella, like. Not some poncey git with a lacy top and maracas.’

Derek nodded vigorously in agreement. Denise ordered a tequila and let her mind wander to distant Latino shores.

‘I didn’t say Randall was perfect,’ I said, taking the conversation off its tangent before we got onto Spanish donkeys and matadors. ‘He’s just really …’

‘Nice,’ said Denise.

‘Boring,’ said Derek.

‘Normal,’ I replied.

‘Aye well, if you get pissed off wi’ “normal”, pet,’ Auld Vinny grinned, ‘I can show you somethin’ better I tell’t you.’ He touched the peak of his ‘Ultimate International Sex Machine’ cap and winked mischievously. ‘Experience, that’s what you want lass, why-aye.’

I laughed nervously and shivered at the thought of pillow talk with the crusty old sailor. Mind you, pillow talk with Randall had so far eluded me. We’d held hands, kissed, fondled, talked all lovey-dovey and cuddled up in front of the TV but there had been no last-ditch attempts to get in my knickers. The first two weeks of our relationship had been proper dating, polite and controlled. Call me pessimistic but I almost found it hard to believe that such a gentleman still existed. Most of the men I had come into contact with would assume I was frigid if I hadn’t agreed to shag, or at the very least give them a blow job, within twenty minutes of being introduced. I was beginning to think that either I had found another Troy, or that Randall found me physically repulsive. My self-esteem was plummeting.

Following our perfect and eventful day in town, our second date had been a movie at the Odeon on Pilgrim Street. Two hours of Mel Gibson, half my bodyweight in popcorn and a vat of Pepsi sucked tantalisingly through the same straw. The third had been a cosy meal in a café on High Bridge Street, where we had consumed enough cake to keep a Weightwatcher in rations for a month. Then followed baltis for two at the curry house and dates over pasta, Chinese and Mongolian barbecue. I had come to the conclusion that relationships are often founded on a wave of gluttony. I wondered what the next stage would be after we had consumed every national dish from around the world.

‘Probably comfort eating,’ Maz said. ‘After he lets you down, like all men do.’

I had a nagging suspicion that Maz would be right; she usually was. But I tried to push it to the back of my love-struck mind. Perhaps the fact that we always met at my flat, never at his, should have set alarm bells ringing. In fact, I didn’t really know if he
had
a flat. He always seemed to avoid the question. The truth was, I didn’t even have his phone number. He preferred to call me, which he always did, on time. I hadn’t even had the nerve to question him about how a chance encounter at a party and an even briefer meeting at a TV studio door had escalated into all this. I mean, how had he found out where I lived? I was sure I hadn’t told him the night we first met although too many bubbles had been consumed for me to be entirely sure.

So, perhaps I was being naive. Perhaps an overweight cherub with a conscience was, as we speak, frantically
flapping his wings and beating me over the head with his bow and arrow, shouting, ‘Look! Open your eyes! Can’t you see what he’s doing, you mad woman? Are you blind or just mentally retarded?’

But I didn’t want to push the issue and rock our little love boat. I didn’t want to sound like a neurotic woman, incapable of trusting an independent man. Anyway, maybe taking things slowly was healthier for a relationship, I assured myself. Naive or not, I was happy. Happy in our little boat, rocking gently on ripples of lust, blissfully unaware that, at any time, a freak wave could appear and send me tumbling to the bottom of a cruel sea.

Any time the nagging doubts resurfaced, I only had to look at Randall to be reassured. I loved the way he pushed his hair back from his face when he was deep in thought and hummed when he was nervous. I melted when I saw him lightly scuff his feet in his heavy black boots and sway his hips as he walked. He seemed comfortable in the simplest surroundings and took pleasure in the most ordinary of things. His eyes sparkled when he spoke and he frowned intensely when he listened. He was neither arrogant nor timid, just quietly self-assured and sincere.

I couldn’t decide what it was from the whole picture that attracted me to him. All I knew was that every day with him felt like a sunny Saturday and every moment apart was like a rainy Monday morning.

Damn. Thirteen days and I was already beginning to sound like a Mills and Boon book.

‘Gis a pint will ya, lover girl?’ Dave said loudly, waving his arm in front of my glazed eyes. ‘Jaysus, I hope this love thing
doesny last long, the service in this joint is canny shockin’, man.’

‘Why-aye, this toon is f’kin’
lush
, man!’

We glanced up from the bar-length game of dominoes to see Maz standing at the entrance to the pub with a look of sheer delight spread across her face.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked, pointing at my watch.

‘Four punters too much for you, lass?’ She strode through the pub whacking each person on the back to greet them, then plonked her backside up on the bar. She was clearly buzzing with excitement.

‘Where have I been?’ she repeated dramatically. ‘I’ll tell you where
I’ve
been. I have been to the tele-bloody-vision studios.’

‘What for?’

‘What for? What
for
? Only to see my very own pro-flippin’-ducer of
the
most abso-bloody-lutely numero uno show in the North-East.’

Maz reached for a pint glass and gestured to me to fill it up.

‘What are you gibbering about, Maz?’

‘What I am sayin’ is, my fine friends, you are now in the presence of Paradise TV’s newest recruit. Talk-show star, presenter extraordinaire, solver of problems, soon to be mega-bloody-famous,
moi
!’

‘What? How the hell did that happen?’

We all looked incredulously at Maz’s glowing face. I feared I was about to witness first hand a spontaneous human combustion.

‘Well, I deen’t kna really I jest got a call this mornin’, like, askin’ us if I could gan to the studios in Newcastle. I thought someone was tekin’ the piss but they said they’d seen us on that live show and they’d recognised us from my audition a while back.’

‘So they wanted to audition you again?’

‘Aye well, I thought so. I didny hang aboot like. Bombed it doon there, straight into a meetin’ with this posh producer fella.’

‘So what did he say?’

‘Well, apparently, the big boss had seen me on TV and decided he’d like a local lass presentin’ their new show, after the last one flopped. He said someone had put a good word in fer us, I deen’t kna who like, and they wanted
me
. Me,
moi,
yours truly.’

‘How did they find you?’

‘Deen’t kna. Dain’t care really. Get this, the fella says, “We were hoping, Marilyn, that you would consider joining our team.”
Consider.
Bloody hell! “I dain’t need to consider it, mate,” I said. “Count us in!” ’

‘Maz, I can’t believe it. This is
fantastic.
It’s, it’s amazing.’ I felt completely shell-shocked. Maz’s dream had just materialised out of nowhere, just when she’d decided to give up on her lifelong ambition.

‘Aye,’ Dave added, raising his pint glass. ‘Yer a f’kin’ legend, sis. Good on ya.’

We all grabbed a drink and toasted Maz while she recounted every detail of her visit to Paradise studios. We were told everything from the colour of the socks the producer was wearing to the price of custard creams in the staff canteen.

‘So, what’s the format?’ I asked, trying to gather my thoughts enough to formulate a sensible question.

‘Well, I deen’t really kna yet, like, but they said it’s gonna be different from all the others. “Relaxed and vibrant,” he said, fer the younger end of the market.’

‘So you won’t need to wear them poxy pink suits like that Julia Juniper woman?’ Denise asked.

‘I don’t think so. If they expect us to look like the power woman part of Kays Catalogue, I’ll jest tell ’em to piss off. Anyhow, it’s gonna be mint I reckon. We’ll have rehearsals and then it’s roll the bleedin’ cameras and away we go. I’ll get you all tickets of course. You’ll all be bleedin’ VIPs.’

‘Well, I like the sound of that, like,’ Auld Vinny added.

‘Abso-bloomin-lutely,’ roared Dave.

‘So what about the pub then?’ I asked, kicking myself for sounding sour.

‘What about it?’ Maz asked.

‘Aye, will you be pissin’ off to fame an’ fortune and for-gettin’ about us?’ Dave added.

‘No chance.’ Maz sounded resolute. ‘I’m not stupid, like. It’s only one show and it’s early days yet. I’ll still be doin’ shifts here an’ all. You never kna, maybe I’ll earn enough cash to buy this place.’

Maz put a firm hand on my shoulder and gave me a heartwarming smile.

‘Deen’t worry, lass, we’ll still be flatmates, and this place’ll need you more than ever.’

I hugged her tightly. ‘Wow, Maz, I’m proud of you, you silly tart. You’ll be a star, I’m sure of it.’

⋆

‘Her own show, just like that,’ I said the following evening as I concentrated on rolling up my chicken fajita. I sealed it with an immense globule of guacamole. It can’t be fattening, I told myself, it’s only fruit. We had now reached Mexico on the relationship scale.

‘Is she pleased?’ Randall asked.

‘Pleased? God, she’s over the moon. I don’t think she’s stopped smiling since yesterday.’

‘That’s great.’ He hummed quietly as he carefully dipped tortilla chips in a tub of salsa.

‘You never know,’ I added, ‘you might end up working together on the show, wouldn’t that be weird?’

He smiled and concentrated on squeezing a slice of lime into another bottle of Sol.

‘So how is your work experience?’ I asked after a brief pause.

‘What? Oh, aye, fine.’

‘You don’t talk about it much.’ A second beer had made me feel uncharacteristically brave.

‘Hmmm? Well, aye, it’s OK. I’m just learning the ropes. It’s not that interesting to talk about.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’ I touched his hand across the table.
Don’t be fobbed off,
my mind warned. ‘I want to hear about what you do, Randall. You hardly tell me anything about yourself … I … I feel like I hardly know you.’

I could sense the beginning of a burning issue between us. I didn’t want to cause our first argument, but I didn’t want to be brushed off again. Either he’d tell me why I wasn’t allowed to get too close or I’d have to turn into Jeremy Paxman to force the answers out of him.

‘You do know me, Jen.’ He was humming again. Nerves. ‘You know the stuff that matters.’

‘Like what? I know you like beer, wine and prawn cocktail crisps, your favourite colour’s green and you hate Jeremy Beadle with a passion. Hardly ground-breaking stuff, is it? That could go for most of the population.’

The beer was rushing to my head faster than I could think and I was beginning to feel strangely agitated.

‘God, I don’t even know your surname.’

‘Pettifer,’ he replied curtly.

Pettifer. Jennifer Pettifer. Ooh, I didn’t like the sound of that, but we’d work something out. Funny, it sounded familiar.

‘I didn’t realise it was important,’ he mumbled.

‘
Important?
For all I know, Randall, you could be a serial killer with a fetish for size twelve barmaids.’ OK, so I was getting a little carried away. It’s a particular talent of mine.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He agreed.

‘Well. For a start, you don’t tell me anything about your job. You’re only on work experience, for God’s sake. I know TV people can be uptight, but it can’t be that top secret.’

I could feel the tension mounting but I was on a roll. Inwardly I vowed not to mix beer and Tequila on our next date, if we had one.

He stared at me across the table, saying nothing. In my tipsy state I found his mellow reaction to my pointless outburst even more infuriating.

‘Oh just clam up, why don’t you!’ I spluttered. All eyes in the small Mexican restaurant were now on Table 8.
Shut up, Jennifer,
I urged myself. ‘Why are men so incapable of talking about things?’ I continued. ‘Give them football, cars or tits as
a subject and the conversation flows doesn’t it? Give them anything remotely personal and it’s, sorry, no can do.’

He took a sip of beer and looked away. A hushed snigger coursed around the room.

‘Tell me something, Randall, please. We’ve been going out for two weeks and I’ve never even seen where you live. What are you hiding? If you’ve got a wife and eight kids, I’d rather know now.’

He stood up suddenly and pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. A slim, exquisite hand. The one I had been holding as we had entered the restaurant. The notes scattered on the table in front of me.

Bollocks,
I thought.
Motor mouth does it again.
We had been having a great night until I’d done the unreasonable woman thing. Now he was going to walk out and leave me sitting alone like Norma No-mates at the cactus-shaped table.

I glanced around the room and saw embarrassed faces turn away hurriedly. Even the waiter had his head buried in a menu, a look of desperate concentration on his face. My heart sank. I wanted to beg ‘Don’t go’ but I was too proud. Drunk and pig-headed – always a dangerous combination.