Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  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.

  Mother was still droning on, slowly drilling a painful hole in my eardrum.

  ‘Are we not good enough for you now, dahling, or are you taking drugs?’

  Bloody hell, here goes. I quickly resolved not to try and explain how I had lost my job. Any attempt at a reasonable discussion would be futile.

  At that point Mrs Diasio burst through the front door. She glared at me with a look of disdain. Her gaze moved slowly over my choice of day-wear, down to my furry cat slippers, and back up to my luminous orange hair. She raised her Roman nose and scurried past, muttering in Italian. I figured it wasn’t an attempt at friendly conversation.

  ‘Stupid old hag,’ I said, perhaps a little too loudly as she disappeared into the lift.

  As my ear began to turn numb, I gave up on politeness and patience and yelled, ‘Mother, will you shut up!’

  Mother Summer came up for air. Suddenly I had the silence I had wanted but I didn’t know what I was going to say. I tended to beat around the bush at the best of times, but now my mouth was beginning to dry up. How could I tell my parents that I had thr
own away the only thing that had ever caused my mother to be slightly proud of me? However, I could feel my mum winding up for a second assault so I had no choice but to go for it. ‘I … um … I lost my job,’ I said quickly. A never-before-heard silence boomed from the other end of the line.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Mum, did you hear me?’ I asked. ‘I lost my job.’

  Again no response. I awaited the explosion and was surprised when I heard, ‘Oh petal, you poor, poor thing. How terrible.’

  I decided that she must have misheard. My mother never gave me sympathy.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘Please, dahling, come and see Daddy and me. We’ll make it better.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this.’ I smiled and relaxed a little. ‘I thought you’d go mental when I told you.’

  ‘Of course not, Jennifer. It’s simply a disaster for you.’

  Perhaps I had underestimated her. ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘It’s comforting to know you’re there for me, even though I got fired.’

  ‘What?’ The yell resounded through my ears. ‘Fired!’ she screamed. ‘What the hell for?’

  Mother never said ‘hell’. This was bad.

  ‘Jennifer?’ she enquired loudly. ‘Speak to me you stupid girl.’

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ In the background I could hear my father trying to take control of the situation. Fat chance of that.

  ‘I thought you were made redundant, you silly idiot.’

  Oh.

  ‘The Summer family does not get fired! What happened?’

  Shopping in my pyjamas was becoming a more attractive option by the minute. My mother’s voice, sounding strangely high-pitched and strangled, was ringing in my ears.

  ‘I despair of you, Jennifer. When will you ever grow up? Why can’t you be like your sister?’

  ‘STUFF bloody Susie,’ I yelled, ignoring the sounds of shock from my mother. ‘I’m not her, OK? I’m me, Jennifer, and I’m not that bad, you know’ My brain was picking up speed. ‘Yes, I’m single, yes, I’ve been fired, but I’m not a bad person, Mother. There’s only one person on this line who needs to wake up, and it’s not me.’

  I slammed the phone down and felt my body shake with fury and shock. Bloody woman. My father was great but his support was always in the background, overshadowed by the strange ways of my mother. I suddenly felt a wave of hopelessness sweep over me. Even my own family thought I was a failure. Through the haze of self-pity I heard a cough and turned to see the lift doors closing, with Mrs Diasio inside. I was puzzled as I thought she had already gone. It seemed Mrs Diasio had added eavesdropping to her list of neighbourly traits. Tired and depressed, I began to trudge my fluffy cats up the stairs.

  I was woken at about 8:00 p.m. by a sharp rap on the door. The day had already felt like an eternity and it still wasn’t over. I groaned from the effort of getting up from the sofa and tramped to the door. I was surprised to see my landlord, a lanky, greasy excuse for a man, marching up and down the corridor impatiently. Mr Brown (an apt name for a man whose wardrobe consisted only of brown jumpers, brown slacks and the odd tank-top) only ever appeared on the scene to moan, collect money or ‘romance’ my neighbour. I presumed the former was today’s mission.

  ‘Mr Brown,’ I said as politely as possible, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘Miss Summer.’ I shivered at the sound of his gruff voice. This man perspired sleaze. ‘I dinny wanna pry, like’ (a likely story) ‘but I been hearing stuff about ya.’

  ‘Stuff? Any stuff in particular?’

  ‘Aye, like I heard you’re wurkin’ for the DSS now, lass.’

  ‘Um, I’m not sure I …’

  ‘Worra said was, yur signin’ on like.’

  My brain clocked in for its evening shift and I began to understand his bush-beating drivel.

  ‘Well, news travels fast in this block, doesn’t it?’ My thoughts instinctively turned to Demon Diasio.

  ‘So I’m reet then am I?’ he continued.

  ‘Yes, Mr Brown, you’re right. I lost my job.’

  ‘Well lass, I’m sorry.’

  I was momentarily taken aback. My brown-jumpered rent collector was one of the last people I expected sympathy from but I figured that my choice of shoulders to cry on was rapidly dwindling, so I’d take anything I could get.

  I smiled. ‘Well thanks, Mr Brown, I really appreciate it. I was feeling a bit down, actually, so it really helps to —’

  ‘Na lass,’ he interrupted, ‘that isny what I meant. I mean I’m sorry but I’ve come to tell’t you that ye’ve gorra gan.’

  ‘Gan, I mean go, where?’

  ‘Gan, like leave. These flats are for professional business people like and I cannat risk you not payin’ yer rent.’

  ‘But I’ll pay. I’ve only been out of work one day. I’ve got rights.’

  ‘Na pet. I mek yer rights and I can tek them away. That’s how it works, see. I can dae what I bleedin’ well like and I couldny give a monkeys what the bloody law says.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. First Jack, then my job. Surely I wasn’t going to lose my flat as well. I considered that it could be a practical joke but realised that Mr Brown wouldn’t know humour if it jumped up and bit him on the tank-top. I tried for the pathetic, helpless look.

  ‘Please Mr Brown,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m going to get another job. Just give me a few days. I’ll even give you an advance on my rent.’ It would mean a painful trip to the bank manager or, failing that, my dad, but anything was preferable to being homeless.

  He stared at me then smiled, revealing a set of rotten yellow chipped teeth. My stomach churned but I held his eye. He moved closer, enveloping me in eau de BO.

  ‘Well maybe there is a way like,’ he said strangely.

  ‘Please, anything,’ I replied, holding my breath.

  ‘Well that nice Italian woman …’

  ‘Nice …? Oh, Mrs Diasio?’

  ‘Aye. She tell’t us that you havny got any men around much. Jest mentioned it like.’

  Oh I bet she did, the nosy old bint. I was beginning to lose track of the conversation.

  ‘And well ye kna if yer desperate and alone like …’ He winked and exposed his teeth again. He obviously thought they were one of his strong points, well actually, no others sprang to mind. ‘… I was thinkin’ maybe we could come to some … uh … some arrangement, pet.’

  Arrangement? Surely he didn’t mean …? My stomach threatened to empty its contents over Mr Brown’s slacks as he moved even closer and clasped his hands on my waist.

  ‘Get off me, you freak,’ I yelled, pushing his hands away and taking a step back.

  ‘Howay now,’ he shouted, ‘dain’t be gettin’ like that, pet.’

  ‘I’m not your pet and I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing! Wouldn’t a weasel be more your type, you perverted little rat?’

  ‘Tek it easy, woman. You better watch what you’re sayin’ like.’

  ‘Just because that oversexed Italian tart is desperate enough to touch you, that definitely does not mean you’re irresistible.’

  Any form of diplomacy escaped me as I continued to hurl abuse at my landlord. Of course, he did deserve it but subtlety would probably have been a more appropriate way of keeping a roof, this roof in particular, over my head. Nevertheless, I ploughed on, driven by an urge to put the male species in their place. (‘I’d rather snog Roy Hattersley than get within a mile of you … You’re about as attractive as a lizard with herpes … The day you and I get together will be the day Satan goes snowboarding …’ That sort of thing.) I stopped only when a brown-jumpered arm was raised in the air, revealing a tightly clenched fist. I thought back to third year self-defence class but all I could remember was to spray your attacker with an aerosol or stab them with a nail file, neither of which I kept in my pyjamas. I closed my eyes and waited for the punch.

  ‘Ach yer not worth it, ya sad auld tramp,’ I heard him say. ‘I can see why you’
re not gettin’ any.’

  Bastard.

  ‘GET OUT OF MY FLAT,’ I yelled. ‘I’ve had it with men like you.’

  He started to laugh. ‘Na lass, you can get oot o’ my flat, reet now. Yer lease has expired.’

  No, no, no. That wasn’t meant to happen. Great negotiation skills, Jennifer. I wanted to plead, I wanted to beg, but I was too enraged. The events of the previous days had culminated in unadulterated female fury.

  ‘With pleasure,’ I yelled. ‘I’d rather live in a cell in Alcatraz than pay rent to you.’

  ‘Aye, well, ask if they’ve got a padded one. Give me yer key before you leave.’ He turned on his slip-on leather-look heels and left me standing at the door dumbfounded.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I stamped my foot and hit my head on the door frame. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’

  Across the corridor a door opened. I looked up to see a bemused Mrs Diasio looking my way. She waved, then laughed. ‘Arrivaderci,’ she chuckled and slammed the door.

  Chapter Five

  8th January, 12:30 p.m.

  ‘Gis a packet o’ tabs an’ two pickle’t eggs,’ he shouted. He threw his empty chicken pie wrapper at me, I gathered as a sign of affection.