Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

“Come through, Pete.” James shook his hand and kissed Roni on the cheek. She smelled of the perfume Poison which he had once bought Kath before she marched him back to the shop, its wrapping still intact.

  ‘Please don’t buy me anything that’s called Poison. Feng Shui is about creating harmony and I’m not sure I’ll feel particularly harmonious by wearing something with a name like Poison,’ she told him bluntly. Kath was a stickler for positivity. She ate, slept and breathed it but she wasn’t prepared to breathe in that stuff.

  “So, what’s your poison?” James chirped in the living room, looking at Roni to see if she understood his comical gag. He had well and truly dusted the cobwebs off with his long walk earlier and his bedroom antics had cheered him up no end. He was surprised at how much better he felt.

  “White wine, please, James. Do you have Sauvignon Blanc?”

  James grinned as he took the bottle of Dom Perignon from Peter. He only drank beer so the exorbitantly expensive bottle was wasted on him but something told him his ever-knowledgable wife might know what it was he had just been handed.

  “Roni, my love, the only thing I know about wine is that it comes in a bottle . . . let me ask my better half.”

  Roni smiled kindly. She adored James, always had. What was there not to adore about his easygoing nature and the constant smile his eyes carried, even through the tough times.

  Roni was conscious that this was a delicate day for all the family – him particularly – and she didn’t want to appear too fussy. She was tired of creating those demands and she felt lightened and happier by being just that little bit nicer to people.

  “Don’t worry. Just give me what you have,” she offered kindly and Pete squeezed her hand as he watched her lovingly.

  “That was sweet of you, Ron,” he whispered when James left for the kitchen. He was surprised that she hadn’t turned her nose up at his ignorance, made some condescending retort to his honesty. “I’m so proud of you, Roni my love. You’ve been so different lately . . . much less, well, angry with the world I suppose I should say, even though it doesn’t sound too complimentary . . . although it is a compliment, I assure you. I’m not sure how else to put it really, princess.”

  Roni looked away. The guilt was killing her but she was desperate for more of Darren. He had whetted her appetite and left her feeling ravenous 24/7. Perhaps that was why she was being nicer to all who came into contact with her, it lightened the load a little – washed away some of the tarnish which made her feel dirty yet rejuvenated.

  “What’s changed you then? Is it Darren?”

  “Pardon?”

  Pete noticed her flinch and he pulled her to him.

  “Look, I know I’ve really pushed you this time but it was for your own good . . . that guy has been an absolute lifesaver, Ron, don’t you think? I’ve never seen you so confident since you started doing something for yourself. I had to be cruel to be kind, don’t you see?”

  Roni nodded, snatching the drink from James’ hand as he whistled his way back into the living room. She took long gulps, relaxing as Pete turned his back on her as the first of many football conversations kicked off. She knocked it back in full when she was sure no eyes were on her. The other day would have to be a one-off. Lying was no way to live her life. She was trying to make life more simple, more enjoyable. Not add to its complications.

  “How do you get a man to stop biting his nails?” Kath read from the handwritten slip she had pulled out a minute earlier. The paper was folded so tightly that it had taken her the guts of a minute to unravel it. The alcohol wasn’t helping her usually spot-on coordination.

  “Chop his fingers off?” Sophie suggested.

  Karl prodded her waist, whispering in her ear.

  “You’re such a cow.”

  “No, that’s not right, Sophie . . . although James nearly chopped his fingers off today trying to cut onions with a bread knife! Dope.”

  “Typical man!” Pete teased camply.

  Sophie shifted upon hearing the effeminate tones. Some things were too close to home. She hadn’t told them yet but she would, as soon as the game was finished.

  “Excuse me, Pete. You barely know where the kitchen is,” Roni laughed. “I’m not sure you’ve ever chopped an onion in our entire married life!”

  Pete pulled a comical face as he thought back over the years. “Actually, love, I think you’re right . . . but I thought onions came chopped-up, you know, in those little clear bags?”

  Now it was Roni’s turn to blush.

  “Or from some outside catering company!” he teased.

  Helena snorted, grabbing a napkin to cover her mouth before the red wine dribbled down her chin onto her new white broderie anglaise smock. She had expected Roni to retort but she did nothing but break into a grin.

  “I’m not a natural cook, Pete, so if you want to eat anything decent I have to outsource it.” “Now, now, children,” Kath chided. “Back to the joke . . . You stop a man from biting his nails by making him wear shoes!”

  The room roared with the laughter of friends who had come together to create a distraction for their grieving friend. The Curry Club had become The Comedy Club for one night only and it had gone down like a storm. It was Helena’s idea. She was the brainstorm behind the psychology of laughter mending broken hearts and it seemed to be working. The constitutional formalities of the event had been cast aside to make room for lighthearted entertainment to be enjoyed by all.

  “My turn now.”

  Clive took the bowl as it was passed around the round six-seater table. It was a squash with nine of them packed like sardines around its circumference but at the same time it was cosy and intimate.

  Clive unfolded the paper swiftly, already laughing before he read the joke out loud. He was loving throwing harmless digs at the women who didn’t seem to be finding them as funny as his male friends. There was a categorical gender separation going on tonight.

  “You’re going to love this, Jim . . . although I bet it was you who put it in! Here goes, fellas . . . ‘Why is the space between a woman’s breasts and hips called a waist?’”

  Clive scanned the table to see if there were any takers.

  “Because you could easily fit another pair of tits in there.”

  Jude gasped as the boys fell about with wild laughter, snorting childishly.

  “You know me and my boob fetish,” James piped up. “I can see how you’d think I put that in there.”

  “You said the T-word, Clive.” Jude’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  Normally, Clive was so gentlemanly and swearing was something he never did. Jude had never seen him behave like this, not when he was entertaining his clients, nor when he was socialising at work. She suddenly got an insight as to what her husband would be like on a night out with the boys, letting his guard down and being himself. Clive rarely allowed his council-house roots to shine through, he was polished and contrived in his behaviour – in everything he did – and Jude could only surmise that it was a testimony to their friends that he was allowing himself to be stripped back to the Clive she had married who was penniless, naive and untouched by the hold of the Cheshire Set.

  “Sorry, darling. I was only reading what was on the slip.” He winked at James the moment Jude looked away.

  “Pink bowl, please,” Sophie ordered. “This is brilliant, Hel. I haven’t laughed so much in ages . . . and it’s all at the expense of men!”

  Karl stiffened and she felt his posture harden beside her.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered into his ear. His chair was pressed up against hers and Kath could see that he was enjoying the close proximity.

  Karl smiled at her lovingly. Sophie had been a different woman, a far cry from the anti-male slanderous bitch she had been for most of her adult life. Certainly since he had known her anyway. She was healing inside, Karl could see that, and more importantly he loved what was unfolding before his eyes. He was still nervous of what she would come out wit
h but it would take time for her to fully get over what she had experienced at such a young age. He was a patient man and time was something that Karl could give her. She had everything else.

  “Girls, girls, you’re gonna love this,” Sophie continued. ‘Why does it take one hundred million sperm to fertilise one egg?’

  Roni shrugged her shoulders to distract herself from the clear link between the joke and Darren’s penis which had penetrated her repeatedly.

  “I don’t know, why does it take one hundred million sperm to fertilise one egg?” Helena and Jude sang, giggling away at their perfect timing.

  “Because not one will stop and ask for directions!”

  Kath clapped her hands loudly while Jude snorted at Clive who was mimicking the loser position as he placed his finger and thumb in an L shape on his forehead.

  “Ha ha, very funny.”

  “Pass the white bowl please, mate.”

  The male jokes were in the white bowl and the female jokes in the pink bowl. Helena had decided this earlier. Actually, it was suposed to be a blue bowl for the men and a pink bowl for the women, only Kath didn’t posses a blue bowl so the white had to do instead. That way, Helena suggested, each gender got to ridicule the opposite sex by ensuring they only pulled out their own set of jokes which for some reason lacked tact, political correctness and any sense of decency – that was not a part of the brief – but they had split their sides as all hell broke loose and Kath felt sorry for her neighbours listening to nine pairs of lungs at their loudest.

  “Last one now,” Kath instructed. “We need to clear the table for dessert.”

  Pete rummaged in the ceramic bowl. He raised his eyebrows to increase the tension.

  “Gentlemen. ‘How many men does it take to open a bottle of beer?”

  “Oh! Sorry. That’s in the wrong bowl, Pete. Take another,” Helena apologised. “I must have got muddled up somewhere along the line.”

  Peter grinned at Helena. She didn’t know what was about to come.

  “No, it’s not, Helena, listen. ‘How many men does it take to open a bottle of beer?’” he repeated, grinning slyly, bursting to declare the punchline. “None! It should have been opened by the time she brings it to the couch!”

  “Bloody brilliant!”

  Karl and Pete high-fived each other with a manly pound.

  “Are you listening, wench? That man’s got the right idea!” Karl teased Sophie who simply laughed.

  For once, she didn’t feel the need to come back with feminist revenge. Earlier, she had meant for her comment to be nothing more than a tongue-in-cheek quip. There was no premeditation nor malice behind the words and that was rare indeed. Sophie felt lighter than she had done for as long as she could remember. Certainly, in her adult life anyway.

  “Erm, hang on a minute? How come I get a dig for my earlier innocent comment and you get to call me a wench? Where’s the justice in that?”

  Karl wrapped his arm around her toned bronzed shoulder, pulling her closer to him until the physical distance between them had disappeared and their bodies became one. Sophie let her head flop against his chest. She felt safe there and Karl felt her relax against his body as it took the full weight of her.

  “Because, Ms Kane, I have worked for you since the salon opened so I guess that means I’ve got, erm, seven years before we’re even!”

  Sophie punched his stomach lightly without moving from the warmth of his body. She saw Jude smile at her from across the table. It was a warm, endorsing smile which needed no words. Even Roni seemed taken aback at the ease with which they were folded into each other.

  “You two look really nice together,” Roni spoke out frankly. “A handsome couple indeed. You could be the new Posh and Becks.”

  Sophie bolted upright regaining her composure.

  “What? We work together. He’s my right-hand man, Roni, not my boyfriend . . . besides, Karl’s got black hair, Becks has got blonde hair.”

  “For the moment,” Jude quipped. “He changes it as often as he changes his Calvin Kleins!”

  Sophie thought about Rafi for a moment. She had called it a day with him which didn’t go down particularly well. She was still angry at Roni for firing him. She’d no need to take her anger out on him, it was a pointless and futile attack which was meant for her.

  “That Rafi’s a great cocktail-maker, Pete . . . what a pity you had to let him go,” she said slyly.

  Peter looked at his wife and then back to Roni who avoided his gaze.

  “Did we let him go, Ron? I hope not because he’s the best we’ve had to date.”

  Roni shook her head. She knew her disingenuous actions had been found out.

  “No, no. He’s been away but he’ll be back with us soon,” she lied.

  Sophie smiled at her. She would be forced to give him his job back now, what with Peter’s expectations of seeing him behind his bar at some point. She’d achieved what she set out to do – getting him his job back – and she felt better for it. She didn’t want to leave him dateless and jobless.

  “Oh, Roni,” Kath jumped in, trying to rescue the situation, “I can’t believe you brought a bottle of Dom Perignon, that’s way too expensive. You’ll have to take it home.”

  Roni looked at Pete who shrugged, pointing at Helena.

  “I should have said it wasn’t from me, Jim, sorry. I didn’t think. I was holding it for Helena while she went to the loo . . . distracted by the football I was! It’s from you, Helena, isn’t it, pet?”

  Helena blushed with embarrasment as all eyes feasted upon her warm glow.

  “It’s just a little offering for all you’ve been going through.” Helena looked down shyly, ignoring the raised eyebrows across the table. Helena shoved the one-hundred-pound bill to the back of her mind. It was a 2002 vintage. That stuff didn’t come cheap. But they’d been through so much with Jason and the burial that Helena wanted to treat them. Kath and Jim’s budget would never cover that stuff. Then again, neither did hers.

  A dog barked incessantly as Sophie stood at the back door to Kath’s immaculate yard chatting to Clive. She wafted away the smoke from his cigar as it danced towards her like a Chinese dragon, sinuous and threatening.

  “Sorry, Sophie.” Clive switched the fat cigar into his other hand, holding it as far from her as possible. Clive hoped Jude wouldn’t smell it on him although that was highly unlikely. The next street could probably smell it, it was that potent.

  “So what do you think then, Clive?”

  Clive used his free hand to push his hair back from his face. Sophie noticed he did this continually and she was desperate to pull out her scissors and fix his fringe once and for all. The style was all wrong for his shape face anyway but it didn’t detract from his handsomeness.

  Clive cogitated about what Sophie had just said to him – in the strictest of confidence. It made sense, he had to give her that much, but he wasn’t used to conceding. He carried his father’s stubborness.

  “Okay, Sophie. I’ll give it some thought. That much I can promise you. But I can’t promise anything else.”

  Sophie stuck out her hand, waiting for Clive to extend his.

  “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” she told him, squeezing his hand a fraction too tightly.

  Clive released himself from her firm grip. He liked Sophie, she was a resilient woman, a contender, just like himself but it wouldn’t suit him to be married to a girl like her. He preferred Jude with her laid-back nature and her uncomplicated way of living. He loved that she was the core of their family, the keeper of his home and the trophy on his arm. But Clive knew that Jude had changed over the past months and, much as he was hoping she would change back, something told him that her change was as permanent at the lines on his forehead. He had a lot to think about.

  “Sophie, I was considering buying Jude a piece of Cartier jewellery for her 40th birthday. What do you think?”

  Sophie stared at the man she had been talking to so candidly for the la
st ten minutes. His arrogance infuriated her.

  “Clive, have you not listened to a word I’ve said!”

  Jude stood impatiently as she waited for the colour to take on the smooth plastered walls. It would take a base coat plus two further coats to finish the walls to the high standard they needed to be and, although the plastering had dried out, there was likely to be a little remaining dampness which would suck some colour out of the walls – which is why she had opted for a deeper purple than had been her original choice.

  The REM reception had recently been delivered. It sat on the left downstairs, still wrapped in its thick plastic, and Jude couldn’t wait for the painting to be complete – which according to her schedule should be ticked off before the end of the week – so that the floor could be tiled in high-shine black granite tiles and so that Jude could dress the place with contemporary accessories and cutting-edge gadgets.

  Jude touched the paint lightly, it had dried in – all two coats of it – and in her mind’s eye she saw the backdrop of the deep purple walls finished with the sprayed silver skirting boards reflecting off the high-gloss floor tiles. The curved reception desk made with its laminated Alu Brosse front panel would be lit by an LED illuminated strip and textured glass shelves would create the workspace available for their computerised booking system – a touch-screen facility which would be available for self-arranged bookings.

  Jude pulled the phone from her pocket in haste.

  “Hi, Sophie, it’s only me. I was wondering if you had given any more thought to the beauty salon yet? I’ve done as much as I can do down here . . . for now at least. Can I make a start on the upstairs yet?”

  Sophie sat in her pillar-box-red TT which was parked outside the cash-and-carry wholesalers.

  “You know what, Jude, I’m not sure if that girl is definitely going ahead with upstairs but I am going to rent it out . . . I want the income from it, to be honest . . . so go ahead and do it exactly as you would for yourself – that way I could let it to anyone without too much alteration.”

  Jude punched the air. “Cheers, Soph. Will do.”