Serve Cool (4 page)

‘Hey, chill out, Perry. You’ll give yourself a bloody heart attack, man!’

I couldn’t believe what had just happened. The world had seemed to move in slow motion as every eye in the room had turned towards me in disbelief. I had run from the room and headed straight for the ladies’ loo. I splashed cold water on my face and took a few deep breaths of stale toilet air.

‘You are out of control, missy,’ I said to my reflection.

The room was swaying gently and stars twinkled in front of my eyes.

‘I must be sick,’ I said aloud. ‘This is a total nightmare and now I’m talking to myself.’

After my display of lunacy, Peregrine had been rushed to the safety of his office by his ever-capable secretary, who had, no doubt, been ordered to locate my P45. Fortunately for me, he had been unable to deal with the matter immediately as our clients had arrived for the scheduled meeting. I knew I was in trouble. In my profession, Partners are revered by all those who scurry beneath them. They had put in their years of hard slog and expected to be treated with the utmost respect. Some took it too far, of course, refusing to even acknowledge the existence of a mere trainee in their presence. Compliments, polite ‘hellos’ and severe butt-licking were all well received. I thought it was safe to assume that my recent actions had overstepped the mark on the trainee/Partner relationship scale. All I could do now was try to be inconspicuous and hope that my morning’s work had attained an unprecedented level of perfection.

⋆

‘Let us commence, ladies and gentlemen,’ growled the female Partner who was chairing the meeting.

The atmosphere in the conference room turned decidedly wealthy as one of the firm’s major clients, the owner and President of Paradise TV, was led through the door by none other than my beloved Jack.

This was a very important day for all those working on the Paradise TV account. Many hours of work had gone into the subject of today’s meeting, the takeover by Paradise of a leading competitor. The takeover, when finalised, would make Paradise the largest and most influential television network in the North-East. Jack, as the leading Assistant Solicitor on the matter, would benefit greatly from the smooth running of the deal as far as his reputation within the firm was concerned. The name of the firm would also become even more widely known and the Partners’ holiday-homes-in-Barbados fund would be bumped up quite nicely. Because of the obvious benefits, these meetings always involved a large amount of sucking up, which was lapped up by the clients, and a certain amount of rushing around and showing off.

I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible in a dark corner of the large room. I was happy to notice that Mr Jacksop had chosen not to join us, probably for fear of being subjected to another table dance experience. As silence descended on the gathered crowd, I noticed an irate-looking Peregrine glaring at me across the table. I sank into my seat and began to furiously take notes about absolutely nothing. As all the eyes in the room turned towards yours truly, I could feel my cheeks begin to glow. The more I thought
about not blushing, the redder I seemed to become, until my face felt like a chaffed orang-utan’s bum. The silence felt more painful than being forced to watch end-to-end episodes of
Noel’s House Party
with no means of escape. Finally, I looked up and smiled pitifully at the room full of suits.

‘Miss Summer,’ Peregrine growled, ‘you are not in the farmyard now. Please remove that ridiculous headscarf.’

Despite not wanting to reveal my Toyah-esque hair-do with its overdose of ‘Copper Charm’, I knew better than to argue with my boss in this frame of mind. Slowly, I untied the knot beneath my chin and watched the faces around me change as the bright orange curls revealed their true glory. The whole room gasped loudly and I sat there, feeling like the ginger Thompson Twin after a radioactive fallout incident.

‘GOOD LORD!’ Peregrine screeched. ‘Whatever next?’

‘Nice one, babe,’ Matt whispered.

‘Sod off,’ I muttered, catching the look of sheer disgust in Jack’s wide eyes.

At that point, the girl from catering reached my corner of the room with the coffeepot.

‘Nice hair, lass,’ she chirped loudly. ‘That rocks!’

‘Black with five sugars,’ I hissed, and hurriedly began to pass the documents around the room.

The meeting got under way and my obscure hair colouring was momentarily forgotten. The conference room was warm and, as I sipped my sweet coffee, I began to feel sleepy. My eyes were starting to feel heavy and I could feel myself slipping into my own hazy little world. I began to dream of the last time that Jack and I had been together.

He lay next to me on the sofa, transfixed by a fascinating article on financial markets in
The Times.
We had just finished watching
A Question of Sport
and were waiting for a documentary Jack wanted to watch on the Stock Market and international trade. OK, I’ll admit it doesn’t sound like the most riveting of evenings but I convinced myself I just enjoyed his company. Anyway, I knew there would be more to look forward to later. We did actually wait until the end of
Stock Market Focus
to get it on, but that had given me a full forty-five minutes to warm up mentally. Jack was not a great one for foreplay so I usually took it upon myself to think about the act far enough in advance to ensure I got the most out of it.

His clothes were folded neatly on the chair with his Burlington socks rolled carefully inside his loafers. I stared at his body. Wow, it was fit. For a man who spent the majority of his life in an office, he was extremely toned and chocolate brown. The tan was from a bottle, of course, but it was amazingly effective. He went to a salon to have it done because, he said, it was more professional that way. Everything had to be so perfect with Jack. Lying back on the bed, with my skin against his, I looked as if I had spent my last few holidays in the Arctic Circle. After having spent the winter in the North-East, and too lazy to bother with fake tan, I looked almost transparent. Golden brown met albumen white, with a hint of pink.

He smiled down at me, emphasising the square shape of his jaw. Matt had said, ‘Never trust a man who looks like he swallowed a table mat.’ I didn’t care. His jaw line made him look strong, serious and wonderfully masculine. I looked
into his dark, almost black eyes and melted in his arms. Jack always liked Missionary best. I guessed it was because, from that position, he could see his own reflection in my dressing-table mirror, but I didn’t like to pry. Anyway, who wouldn’t want to look at a body like his? He was perfect.

I started to tremble as I felt his hips moving above me. I could feel the pleasure and sense the anticipation between us. Usually, Jack liked us to be the silent type, but this time I couldn’t contain myself.

‘Mmmmm Jack,’ I groaned, licking my lips. ‘Jack, oh yes Jack.’

He moved faster and I caught the glint in his eye. I wanted to explode.

‘Jack,’ I murmured. ‘Oh yes Jack, JACK!’

‘For God’s sake, SHUT UP YOU IDIOT!’

A familiar voice bellowed very close to my eardrum. Reality came zooming back and I opened my eyes to see a conference room full of people staring at me incredulously. All I could see were wide open mouths and pair upon pair of huge, staring eyes.

‘You stupid, mad fool,’ said Jack in a loud whisper beside me. ‘What has got into you? Have you forgotten what an important meeting this is? You sounded like you were having an orgasm.’

‘First time for everything,’ I beamed, tossing my hair dramatically.

Sniggers and splutters flew around the room but were soon silenced when an equally irritable Peregrine piped up, ‘I don’t know what has got into you, Miss Summer.’

‘Jack, from the sounds of it,’ added one brave voice.

‘You are acting like a lunatic,’ my boss continued, ‘and as for these so-called documents you prepared, they are complete and utter gobbledegook.’

I reached for the papers and skim-read the first few paragraphs. He was right, it was total nonsense.

‘Oops!’ was all I could muster as a response.

‘GET OUT!’ yelled Peregrine. ‘Get out of my sight!’

His temperature was rising quicker than a middle-aged woman’s at a Cliff Richard concert. I guessed it was time to make a hasty retreat.

‘Shish kebab!’ I exclaimed as I ran for my ringing telephone. ‘This is not a good day. I think I’ve totally lost it … Hello, Jennifer Summer here.’

‘Jen, man, it’s me lass,’ rambled a very excited Maz at the other end of the line. ‘Are you OK, pet?’

‘OK?’ I repeated. ‘I am far from OK, Maz. I think I’ve gone completely mental. I’m rambling, hallucinating, making terrible mistakes …’

‘I’ve tried to call four times.’

‘… laughing at my boss, seeing talking fish on my computer screen …’

‘Ah shite, it’s all my fault.’

‘… messing up the most important meeting of the year …’

‘Damn, the bloody muffins.’

‘… orgasming in public.’

I stopped for a breath and slowly rewound the conversation. Something Maz had said was resounding in my brain.

‘Maz, what did you mean by “damn the bloody muffins”?’

I could hear my friend coughing nervously. It was very unlike Maz to be stuck for words.

‘Maz?’

‘The … um … the muffins,’ she stuttered. ‘They’re from the pub. This woman brought them in for us and I thought they looked nice, like. I didny kna.’

‘Kna, I mean
know
what exactly?’

‘I … um … I didny kna they were hash muffins. Well, not really.’

‘WHAT?’ I shouted. ‘What did you say?’

‘You kna, lass, hash muffins. You weren’t supposed to tek them all, Jen.’

‘HASH,’ I shouted. ‘HASH. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, HASH?’

‘Hash. Like marijuana, dope, pot, tack, hash!’ Maz shouted back. ‘Jesus, you can be reet dim sometimes.’

I cleared my throat. I didn’t know what to say. My mouth felt dry and my head was spinning.

‘I’ve had six,’ I groaned. ‘Six hash muffins in one morning. No wonder I feel completely wacko. Lovely girl, wrong planet. Bloody hell, Maz, I’m a lawyer for goodness sake.’

I sat on the edge of my desk and shook my head.

‘I’m on drugs at work, during one of the most important meetings of my career so far. I’m totally stoned!’

I waited for some earth-shattering advice but Maz didn’t have time to answer before I heard a loud cough behind me. I turned slowly to see an army of Partners, staff and clients, fronted by Peregrine, gathered directly behind me and well within hearing distance. A stunned silence hung in the air. The silence felt louder and more profound than the usual
noise that filled the office. All I could hear was the hum of my computer and the loud tick of the clock that hung on the wall next to my desk. The clock counted down to the final explosion.

‘Get out of this firm NOW!’ Peregrine yelled. ‘Get OUT.’

I tried to offer an explanation but it fell on deaf ears.

‘GET OUT, YOU HOOLIGAN! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!’

I stared at my colleagues. I begged my brain to think of a clever, lawyer-style answer but nothing happened. My mind felt fried.

‘I should have you arrested for this,’ Peregrine continued.

I could see he meant business. I slowly replaced the receiver and shakily reached for my bag at the side of the desk.

‘Get out NOW,’ he boomed, ‘and don’t you dare ask me for a reference. You’re finished in this business.’

I stared at him as reality dawned. This was bad, very bad. Over Peregrine’s shoulder, I saw Jack’s face. He was the only member of the crowd who was smiling broadly. I realised that he was enjoying this immensely. I couldn’t quite believe what was happening to me. My eyes began to fill up with tears of sadness and embarrassment as I sidled past the onlookers and walked unsteadily towards the door.

‘Leave NOW, Miss Summer,’ Peregrine hissed. ‘You’re fired!’

Chapter Four

3rd January, 9:00 a.m.

‘Well, yer best bet looks like an easy mornin’ with Richard and Judy. Says here they’re makin’ over some bride-to-be, poor cow, and discussin’ signs of an early menopause. Bloody hell, that Richard knows more about fannies than I do! Then you’ve got three cookery programmes,
Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook,
can’t be arsed to cook, and get the f’kin lass ta cook, probably. Then a cookery chat show, cookery question time and a quiz hosted by a celebrity cook. That’ll make you hungry fer lunch, which’ll be followed by a two-hour run of Australian soaps with mix-’n’-match wardrobes and actors. Then, pet, the highlight of the day, four problem talk shows end to end. Jerry Springer, Sally Jessy Raphael, Jenny Jones and Ricki “Go Ricki” Lake. Now lass, if
that
isny a day to envy, I deen’t kna what is.’

Maz put the TV guide to one side and gazed curiously at the mound of crumpled duvet that I had moulded into my
den of wretchedness. Enough room only for myself, five dozen man-sized tissues, enough calorie-laden food to not only feed the five thousand but give them a weight problem too, and a huge helping of self-pity.

‘Jen,’ Maz sighed, ‘you should come to the pub with me, pet. You can sit there an’ chat to us while I pull pints.’

I grunted and reached for the chocolate Hobnobs. Maz had been great, I realised, staying another night, absorbing my tales of woe and plying me with pizza to slowly ease my post-sacking depression.

‘I’m
useless
.’

‘No you’re
not,
Jen.’

‘I’m no use to anyone.’

‘Aye you are, Jen.’

‘I may as well die right now.’

‘Have another slice of Hawaiian first.’

‘OK then.’

Still, I was in pure, unadulterated self-pitying mode so I had no other choice but to make her feel guilty for leaving me in my hour of need to go off and earn a crust. Rub salt in my fresh, gaping wounds why don’t you? I sighed. ‘Yesterday an up-and-coming city solicitor, today a full-time member of the daytime TV club. A life of gardening tips, recipes and women’s problems. Wow. What a difference a day makes.’

‘Howay, at least it’s not Saturday,’ Maz replied. ‘Then you’d only have Des Lynam, a few pocket-sized jockeys, and a bunch of up-their-own-backsides cricketers for entertainment. That’d be enough to make anyone slit their wrists!’

‘At least if Des was on there would be someone in this room with worse hair than mine.’

‘Ooh I deen’t kna like, I quite like his white flick.’

‘Cheers. So now not only am I single, unemployable and suspected of heading a Colombian drugs cartel, I’m also less sexy than a sixty-year-old TV presenter. Thanks very much.’

Maz shifted the remains of the previous night’s Super Supreme and perched on the arm of the sofa.

‘Come on now, lass,’ she said softly, ‘there’s no way you’re unemployable. You’re clever in that intellectual/qualification way, you’re above average lookin’ and you’ve got a great personality. So your hair’s a bit dodgy but, bollocks, if you’re unemployable then I’m about as welcome on the job market as a dyslexic amoeba.’

Ignoring the ‘dodgy hair’ comment, I felt a sudden pang of guilt. In truth, Maz’s life had been a constant struggle against misfortune yet she had always fought to bring out the positive side of any situation. She was one of those people who would say, ‘Well, the plants needed watering,’ on a bleak, rainy day. I, on the other hand, was an ‘Oh shite, it’s pissing down again’ kind of girl. My world would almost come to an end if Pizza Hut ran out of deep pan dough or if the scales showed nine stone four
and a half
pounds instead of nine stone four
exactly.
I could always be relied on to turn one of life’s little blips into a full-blown crisis which Kate Adie would be drafted in to cover. Not altogether ideal qualities for such a highly stressful profession as corporate law. Mind you, at least I was consistent.

‘I’m sorry, Maz,’ I whimpered. ‘Forgive me?’

She jumped up, her left foot landing on a cold garlic bread. ‘Sorry for what? Don’t get all soppy on me now, woman. Forgive ya. Howay, it’s
my
fault you got the red card over them bloody muffins. It’s me who should be apologising. We’ll get through it though, Jen. Treat it as a holiday till you decide what to do, like. I mean, you could always pull pints at the pub with me.’

I started to laugh as I envisaged myself behind the bar of the Scrap Inn, dishing out endless ‘broon ales’ to Maz’s crazy regulars.

Not a chance,
my brain said firmly. ‘All right, bugger off to work and leave me alone,’ I grinned.

Maz gave me a wave and retrieved a clammy slice of pizza from the soggy box on the floor. She left the room, loudly as always, sucking the congealed cheese out of the crust. Seconds later I heard the front door to my flat slam shut. It sounded remarkably like the cell door on the opening titles of
Prisoner Cell Block H.
Shite, she’d gone. She had actually gone. I felt suddenly alone, and tearful. Time to take a one-way ticket to self-pity city.

It’s funny the things you can learn when you spend a weekday at home. From the TV alone, I discovered how to
feng shui
my flat, apply party make-up while preparing a gourmet meal, upholster a
chaise longue
with recycled bin-liners and lose four pounds by living in a state of prolonged happiness. Of course, Richard said that would be easy for Judy to do, they were so happy together.
Tosser.
I also became well versed in Australian after watching the
lunchtime run of soaps, so I walked around the flat saying ‘you dag’, ‘g’day’, and ‘fair dinkum’ to various pieces of furniture.

I stared out of the window at the street below and watched the world go by its business. The postman came and went twice, not even pausing to consider my mailbox. Delivery men plied the neighbours’ flats with furniture, carpets and catalogues, and the milkman delivered to the two couples in the block who were still adamant about maintaining a crumbling British tradition. I couldn’t help but notice that the latter spent an inordinate amount of time at number 20, without doubt the home of another dissatisfied housewife. Cars whizzed by invariably, I noticed, with one person in each. Totally out of character, I found myself cursing the human race’s lack of environmental awareness. Through the gap in the blocks of flats across the street I could see a constant stream of ships moving up and down the River Tyne. Presumably taking our non-beef produce out to sea. I thought about packing up a red-and-white-dotted hankie with sandwiches, fruit cake and a spare pair of knickers and stowing away, but I couldn’t decide where I’d like to go. Thoughts that had never previously crossed my mind began to fill my aching head. I thought of anything just to suppress the feelings I knew were lurking inside me. I wanted to shout out of the window, to stop all the activity that was carrying on outside my four walls. I was alone, single and unemployed. Yet, from my solitary prison (I was back on the
Cell Block H
metaphor) I could see that the world carried on regardless. Nothing changes in the big picture just because one
person feels bad. I was pissed off at being so insignificant that my problems didn’t bring the whole planet to a sudden halt.

I moved from the window and slumped back in front of the TV to play couch commando with the remote control. A studio of incredibly vocal Californians were discussing the topic ‘Teenage moms pregnant at 13’. I listened to the sob stories for a while then changed channel. ‘She’s too fat to wear Lycra’ was the theme on this show. ‘Hey girlfriend,’ screamed one voluptuous guest at a member of the audience, ‘I love my body and I ain’t gonna have no jumped-up stick like you tellin’ me I ain’t no good, ya hear! I am the
bomb
!’

‘Girlfriend’ screamed back and the audience erupted. An army of 20-stone ‘ladies’ (to use the term very lightly) decked out in neon cycling shorts, crop tops and knee-high boots stormed around the stage, shouting obscenities at the audience. I was surprised there wasn’t an earthquake warning with the amount of weight shifting around in a concentrated area.

Momentarily I forgot about my own worries as I watched the run of chat shows. ‘I am an alien from outer space’ followed ‘Make this slob a real man’ and ‘My boyfriend slept with my sister’. I couldn’t quite believe the things people were willing to admit on national television. The guests screamed at each other, the crowds went wild and the presenters totally lost control.

By the end of the afternoon I could almost understand Maz’s obsession with these programmes. Before I knew it, I had been glued to the screen for three hours in sheer amazement.
I almost felt cheered up until
Ricki Lake
ended and I realised all that lay ahead of me was a meal for one and yet more television.

‘Right, Summer,’ I shouted at myself, ‘get off your fat backside and do something.’ I looked at my watch. Four forty-five p.m. Probably an appropriate time to get out of my thermal pyjamas and get dressed.

Just as I was about to embark on my makeover, the buzzer sounded for the main front door to the block.

‘Afternoon missus. British Telecom. I gotta check yer phone line, a’ reet?’ I buzzed him up and opened the door to a six-foot, black-haired, rough-and-ready-looking phone engineer. ‘Sorry to bother you like, but we’re checkin’ the lines. I hope ya dinny mind the intrusion, pet.’

You can intrude as much as you like, pet,
my mind gushed, as all thoughts of Jack faded in the twinkle of a BT identification card.

‘Ooh no, come in please do,’ I drooled sexily. One day at home on a weekday and I had already metamorphosed into the bored, sex-starved housewife from number 20.

I showed ‘Kyle’ to the phone. I briefly considered leading him to the bedroom extension but stopped myself in time. Play hard to get, I told myself. I ruffled my hair and reclined against the wall as Kyle bent down and took out his toolbox. He looked up at me and smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth.

‘Cup of tea?’ I purred.

‘Na, I don’t wanna put ya to any trouble in yer condition, pet.’ He smiled and turned back to the phone socket.

‘Excuse me?’

‘When yer ill, pet, I dinny wanna tire you oot.’

I stared at Kyle, puzzled. My sex kitten image was slowly beginning to fade.

‘Flu, is it?’ he continued. ‘It must be a bad one, you look canny
awful
.’

Sex kitten became fat, stray tabby. ‘I’m not … I don’t ha … Oh, piss off!’ I yelled. I turned on my heel and stomped dramatically out of the flat, still in my teddy bear thermals, muttering as many obscenities about men as I could muster.

I passed the payphone in the main hallway and realised I hadn’t called my mother to apologise for missing dinner the previous night. Although I didn’t relish the thought, when compared with a trip to the shops in my PJs or an awkward conversation with my phone engineer, mother’s undoubted lecture seemed strangely appealing.

‘Oh Jennifer, you
finally
decided to call. To what do we owe the honour?’

Damn. She was in. I would actually have to talk to her now.

‘Reversed charges, too. How sweet of you.’

As I’d thought, this idea had been a momentary lapse of sanity. Without waiting for me to speak, mother launched into a description of her heartbreak when I had failed to show up for her lamb casserole.

‘I made your
favourite
dinner, Jennifer.’

‘I hate lamb, Mother.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous child. Of course you don’t.’

‘Lamb is Susie’s favourite, Mum.’ I immediately kicked myself for having mentioned the dreaded ‘S’ word.

‘Yes, well,
Susie
would have called. She is
so
reliable, Jennifer. Always calls, always here on time.’

(Here we go again.) ‘Yes Mum.’

‘Her children are immaculate, her husband is a
darling.
She is
so
busy yet she is
so
dependable.’

‘Yes Mum, but …’

‘I don’t know where I went wrong with you, Jennifer. Honestly …’

I allowed the lecture to continue in my ear as I concentrated on a fly that was sitting on the top of the phone. Infinitely more interesting than listening to my mother. It’s funny how, in a time of need, I still think calling my parents will make things better. Invariably I wind up totally depressed with blood pressure that could raise the
Titanic.
My mother drones on so relentlessly (usually about my perfect sister) that I’ve often considered harnessing her hot air as a new form of energy.

‘Susie says you think you are above us all, with that job and this new independent lifestyle,’ she continued.

Susie, Susie, Susie. How could my only sister, whom I hardly ever saw, cause me so much aggravation? Susie was the eldest – 29 going on 40. Her ambition in life had been to have a mortgage and a rich husband before any of her precocious friends. All she needed to be happy was enough money to have her manicures, pedicures and whatever-cures at least four times a week, and to never have to work a full day in her life. I suspected that that had been my mother’s goal before she had somehow married my father. In her eyes
he had never been good enough for her. Susie, at 21, had married Sebastian, a banker (no prizes for guessing my title for him), and had two boys – Edmund and Nathaniel. Brats, the pair of them. With amazing ease she had settled into a life of nannies, shopping and dinner parties. I had no real qualms about Susie’s choice of lifestyle (although I would have taken the hubbie and kids back for a full refund) but she had since become completely incapable of relating to anyone outside her social circle. Anyone like yours truly, who was not
au fait
with the latest Montessori teaching practice, Dior’s newest iridescent eye shades or Prada’s most recent handbag design, was not worth the effort. As children, I had been the tomboy, always scruffy, covered in mud and hanging out with the boys. (If only that was true now.) Susie had been Barbie’s best friend and the apple of Mum’s eye. I was a definite Daddy’s girl. Over the years we had gone from being like chalk and cheese, to fire and ice, to Margate and Monte Carlo. It was when Susie finally ‘found herself’ in pearls, twin-sets and a dyed blonde bob that I realised our sisterly ties would always be hanging by a thread.