‘Aye, I’m sweating like a pig,’ said Maz, flapping her hands under her armpits and pulling dramatically at her top.
As usual, Maz had opted for the simple-yet-sexy look. Blue men’s Levis that hung off her slim hips and showed off her ridiculously long legs, Nike trainers and a crop top T-shirt with ‘Babe’ scrawled across the chest. I had wanted one myself but decided the writing would have to be minute to fit ‘Fat Miserable Heffer’ across the front. I had opted, instead, for a black velour catsuit which was up there with pleated culottes and pop socks in the chart of desperately unflattering women’s fashions. The jumpsuit demons had also encouraged me to apply eight layers of red lipstick and to diffuse my hair to within an inch of its orange life. All I needed was a pair of Christmas-tree decoration earrings and a cigarette holder and I would have been in the running for landlady at the Rover’s Return. For some reason, the disasters in my life had made me lose any iota of style and decorum that I may have previously possessed. In an attempt to ‘wash that man right out of my hair’ I had achieved an alteration of image which left me looking and feeling ridiculous and which made me sink even deeper into depression. As I’d learned while staying with Maz, the talk shows always blamed it on ‘low self-esteem’. I preferred to blame everything on Jack.
Maz and I had spent the whole morning in Newcastle undergoing an intensive session of retail therapy. My aim had been to find a young, dynamic, foxy, with-a-hint-of-sporty wardrobe to get myself back on track. Maz’s goal had simply been to spend until she had more carrier bags than Tescos and to inflict grievous bodily harm on her bank balance.
Personally, I hate trying on clothes in shops. If I am already feeling hassled by the crowds, communal changing rooms only serve to heighten my anxiety levels. They must have been invented by a man with a fetish for groups of semi-naked women, sweating together in a horribly confined space. Of course, that would cover about two-thirds of the male population (the remaining third prefer open spaces). Not only must we endure the wall-to-wall mirrors, the smell of sweaty feet and the dangerously low oxygen levels, but we are also forced to bare every lump, bump, stretchmark and orange peel plantation in the name of recreational shopping. More often than not, it’s always the day that I choose to wear the slightly faded, holey granny pants that pull up to just below my boobs (which are, of course, covered with the grey, ill-fitting ten-year-old bra).
At the fifth communal hell-hole of the day, I had finally put my foot down and refused to ‘submit to this hideous torture any longer’. I had sat gloomily in one corner while Maz tried on (and suited) all two-dozen of her ‘three items only please’. I had watched with amusement and disgust as endless Kate Moss and All Saints wannabees strutted their stuff in front of the mirrors while the latest boy-band love song CD (on repeat) ate into my brain.
‘Be honest, Stacey, does this make me look fat?’ asked one beanpole loudly of her equally emaciated friend. I’d seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. Such words as ‘stick insect’, ‘toothpick’ and ‘bitch’ had instantly sprung to mind.
‘Na Tracey, it looks cool lass. Like really sexy.’
Eugh, even their names rhymed. I half expected them to break into song and start doing backflips across the room, although there would have been a real danger of structural damage to the trowelled-on make-up. Anything more stressful than pouting was a definite no-no. Stacey and Tracey had eventually opted for matching pink and white PVC hot pant and jacket ensembles. Their next port of call had probably been to pick up their fake IDs and acid tabs. They had soon been replaced by what seemed like a hundred more Spicy clones. Leopard skin, combat trousers and Lycra tops that would hardly clothe a small bee had flashed before my eyes from all angles. It seemed bodies were being stopped from developing beyond the age of 15, while eyelashes, shoe heels and attitudes were on the increase. Finally I could take it no longer and had plucked Maz from the madness. I had grabbed the first item of clothing, thrown the rest into the manicured hands of a completely uninterested shop assistant, and had headed for the nearest bakery to drown my sorrows in two extra large cream doughnuts (commonly referred to by Maz and I as cellulitees, for obvious reasons). Hence, my extremely unflattering and inappropriate choice of outfit for the evening’s pub bash.
‘Hiya gorgeous,’ growled a balding fat man through his wispy ginger goatee. I could hear the static from his black and orange shell suit as he leaned over the bar, bringing his chubby red face to within punching distance. ‘Ten pints for the lads in the corner and mek sure ya give us good head.’
Oh yes, that’s a good one, ha ha, mmm, very good. I forced a smile as his tribe of equally gross friends erupted in what could only be described as ‘guffaws’.
I concentrated on pulling the pints and prepared myself for the next line. Sure enough …
‘Ooh pet, you pull that long wooden handle like a true professional. Fancy getting yer hands round somethin’ even bigger?’ (More guffaws.)
Ho, ho, ho, oh stop, you’re splitting my sides. It was like watching Jimmy Tarbuck without the aid of canned laughter. The ten pints were poured and delivered amid a barrage of similarly hilarious puns. Just when I thought I’d escaped, my cue-ball-headed admirer, armed with a pint of Dutch courage, returned for the second act.
‘So darlin’, what’s a southerner like you doin’ in a place like this eh?’ He’d obviously got to number one of 101 chat-up lines for sad people. Perhaps by the fourth pint we’d be on, ‘Aren’t you tired cos you’ve been running around in my dreams all night.’
My plastic smile returned and I forced myself to answer. ‘Just working to earn some pennies. Maz is my best friend so we help each other out.’
‘Well me and the lads think yer canny. Fancy a date?’
I struggled to find a suitably negative answer, while steering around the truth that I found him completely repulsive.
‘Er, sorry … I’m really busy at the moment.’ (Fantastic. Nothing like a witty put-down to put him off the scent.)
‘Howay. Not reet now. After yer shift like.’ (He was persistent anyway, worse luck.)
‘Hmm, well sorry but I … I’ve actually g … got a … a boyfriend. Big man, very active. Yes … six foot four actually, and wide. Very wide. Gets possessive.’
‘Where is he then?’
‘Karate. He teaches self-defence … um … extremely intelligent though. Hmm … speaks ooh at least four languages. Watches Countdown. Does the number puzzle in half the time. You know … the clever type … Not a Himbo.’ (Not that I’m one to overdo my answers.)
For some reason, I find it physically impossible to say, ‘No, piss off, in your dreams mate,’ even to someone whom I find completely loathsome. Even if there is a zero per cent chance of me ever crossing paths with that person again, I still can’t bring myself to be cutting. I suppose I just don’t want to hurt their feelings when they’ve gone to the trouble of chatting me up. Pathetic really.
‘Sorry … I’m really flattered, thanks.’ I waffled on, hoping he’d get the message.
‘Howay, I only wanted a good shag love.’ Ginger burped loudly and headed back to his cave. ‘I just like lasses with big bums,’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘Ya need something ta hold on to, ye kna. A whole lotta woman.’
OK, so he’d definitely got the message. The Neanderthals guffawed loudly. Bastard. Pig-ugly lard bucket.
‘Give me a match and I’ll light your shell suit,’ I muttered under my breath.
Even Gazza’s fatter, ginger brother didn’t fancy me. What chance did I possibly have of finding everlasting love? Zero, nada, zilch, rien. I clenched my bum cheeks and growled ‘Whaddywant?’ at the next customer.
Maz was stoked to see the pub so full for a change. She breezed around the bar with a constant smile on her face, laughing and joking with everyone she met. They all loved her. I felt like the shorter, fatter, miserable friend who would be overlooked by all the boys and picked last for games. With so many different characters within the four walls of the Sc
rap Inn, though, I did notice a buzz in the air. In the rare moments when I forgot to feel sorry for myself, I found the atmosphere strangely intoxicating, not to mention intoxicated.
Auld Vinny arrived half an hour before last orders and proudly introduced us to his dozen new-found female friends, the local lesbian darts team. Bold, buxom and boisterous, they were twelve good men and true. Maz immediately signed them up for her newly invented fortnightly league. Auld Vinny quizzed them incessantly about how they ‘did it’. I rapidly concluded that, judging by this lot, if I ever developed lesbian tendencies, I’d have to shave my head, spoon myself into black drainpipe jeans and maroon DM boots, and change my name to Conny Lingers. If my love life didn’t improve rapidly, it wouldn’t be long before I got the clippers out.
After a few too many offers of ‘and one for yerself, pet’, I began to feel a bit worse for wear. Too little blood in my alcohol stream, I concluded. At such moments I find there is a very fine line between giggling hysteria and manic depression. I inadvertently settled for the latter.
‘Why is my love life so continuously crap?’ I moaned, as Maz and I ducked to avoid the pickled eggs and beer mats that had been selected as ammunition for an impromptu pub war.
‘It’s not that bad,’ she replied as an egg whizzed past and exploded all over a framed photograph of ‘Gordon, your Manager’. A definite improvement. ‘You’re just at a low point, Jen, it’ll pick up.’
‘Low point. Any lower and I’ll be scouting for a date with an Australian bush pig. We’re talking nun-status here.’
‘Ah bollocks,’ Maz laughed, narrowly avoiding an eggy missile, ‘I’ve seen people flirtin’ with you all neet. You’ve got loads of blowks lookin’ at you.’
‘Yeah great. Three lesbians, a ginger slaphead who gets his fashion inspiration from Jimmy Saville, and a 60-year-old whose chat-up line was, “If I tek oot me falseys I can suck the fillin’ oot a meat pie in four seconds, straits!” Meanwhile you leave a trail of drooling men in your wake who at least all pass the subhuman standard. It’s not fair.’
I considered stamping my feet and throwing a tantrum, but at that moment a jet-propelled egg flew overhead and came into contact with Maz’s shrine to Ricki Lake. Sacrilege!
‘A’reet, ya bunch of wankers!’ Maz roared. ‘Fun’s over.’
She jumped up and aimed a blow at the egg bomber’s face. He stumbled backwards, holding his nose. Maz turned on the crowd. ‘Howay that’s enough. Sit doon or I’ll twat the lotta yas.’
No fear, that was my friend.
‘Why-aye Maz,’ they cheered. ‘We love it when ya get mad!’
Maz quickly brought them under control and I proceeded to pick up the debris, wishing I could be as brave.
‘Jen,’ Maz whispered over her shoulder, ‘how aboot the fella over there? He’s been watchin’ you fer ages.’
I glanced over towards the far end of the bar and saw a blond-haired athletic-looking man staring at me through the chaos with piercing, almost black eyes.
‘Leave that shite,’ Maz ordered, ‘and get yerself over there.’
I stood up slowly, wiping the egg off my velour catsuit as best I could. He was still staring intensely in my direction with a stern yet appealing expression on his rugged face. He had the demeanour of the star of a trendy beer advert but with the hands of a mechanic. Perhaps this is what I need, I wondered. To be ravaged by a real man, one who can fix a leaky pipe, service my car, drink six pints and get active in the sack all in an afternoon. I tingled at the thought and walked seductively towards him.
‘Your boyfriend is a lucky man,’ he growled sexily. ‘I bet he wakes up every day with a smile on his face.’
I leaned on the bar and tried to smile, but with the effort of holding my stomach in, sticking my boobs out and tucking my bum under, it was more of a teeth-baring grimace.
‘Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I purred. ‘I’m single and available.’ (Tattooing ‘desperate and gagging’ on my forehead would perhaps have been a little less obvious.)
‘Really?’ he replied. ‘I heard he was some sort of karate expert, as well as being the intelligent type, of course.’
‘Oh him.’ Damn, I’d been exposed as a liar already and we’d only been acquainted for 20 seconds. ‘Well, he’s a … um … he’s …’
‘Hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.’ He laughed and took a sip of Guinness, then slowly licked the milky froth from his lips.
‘Let me do that.’ (Oops, didn’t mean to say that out loud.)
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So … um, do you come here … much?’ On a one-to-ten scale of unimaginative I was pushing 18.
He laughed again. ‘Chip,’ he said and held out a rugged hand.
‘Salt and vinegar?’
‘No, Chip, that’s —’
‘Just chips? I’ll see what I can do.’
‘My name. Chip is my name.’
I blushed. ‘Oops, sorry, of course it is. Chip.’ I could feel myself getting flustered. We were building up to a conversation and already I could think of absolutely nothing to say. ‘Chip,’ I repeated. ‘That’s very American. Like Chuck, Charlie, Frankie, Hank, and Lance, only … not.’ (Lunatic.)
He looked at me blankly then smiled again but made no response. Hardly surprising really.
‘I’m Jennifer,’ I quickly continued. ‘Jennifer Summer. I work here.’
‘No kidding. I wondered why you were standing behind that bar. Well, hello Jennifer Summer. I’m delighted to meet you.’
I was even more delighted. Since Jack, Chip was the first man, worthy of that description, who had taken an interest in me. Somewhere in a rarely visited region below my waist, I could hear champagne corks popping.
We carried on chatting about nothing in particular. Chip was witty, flirtatious, sexy and fascinating. There was something about him that made me inquisitive. I felt as if he was holding something back but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking too deeply. I was simply enjoying a much-needed dose of flirting.
‘Have you always worked here?’ Chip asked after a while.
‘No, not at all. I used to have a job on the quayside.’ I wanted to impress him.
‘The bars there are really posh, aren’t they? Quite a few have appeared since I was here last. Bit poncey for me, though. Were you a waitress or a barmaid?’
‘Neither’ – my stupid pride was now doing the talking – ‘I was a lawyer actually.’
Expecting gasps of impressed amazement, I was surprised to see his face change from a happy healthy Chip to a withered McDonald’s French fry. The smile faded and his eyes narrowed to a look that sent a shiver down my catsuit. I instantly sensed that the chemistry between us had become more of a fourth-year science experiment than a Chernobyl-style explosion.
‘So … um … What about you?’ I asked shiftily, after a heavily pregnant pause.
‘I just got back from Durham.’ His voice was monotone.
‘Oh, it’s a lovely place, Durham. Was it nice?’
‘Yeah, bloody great. Especially when you’re doin’ ten years for GBH because your bleedin’ lawyer cocked up.’
Oops. I guess an ex-lawyer/ex-con romance was out of the question then? If there was ever a conversation-stopper, that was it.
Suddenly, and fortunately for my health, my attention was diverted by a figure standing at the door directly behind Chip. The figure was dressed in a dark blue blazer, a crisp, expensive-looking shirt and beige moleskin trousers. His dark hair was slicked back perfectly, not a single one out of place. In the commotion of the Scrap Inn, he stuck out like an Eskimo in a sauna. I was speechless and unable to move as the figure walked towards me. I thought I was dreaming as I realised it was Jack.
A vision flashed through my mind of this slick, gorgeous man lifting me gently over the bar, kissing me passionately on my trembling lips and whisking me out into the night. Not dissimilar to the final scene in An Officer and a Gentleman, except he
wasn’t wearing a white uniform and I wasn’t working in a factory. Had he realised his mistake and come back to say he was sorry? My eyes searched his person for chocolates and flowers. I’d expect a good few bunches after all this palaver.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked, trembling as he reached the bar. He was as irresistible to me as ever.
‘A little bird told me,’ he replied, looking around the pub in bewilderment. He seemed to be taking in every detail. I decided that he felt guilty about getting me in this predicament (totally his fault, of course) and couldn’t look me in the eye.
‘So how are you?’ I asked softly. (Please just kiss me now and get it over with.)
‘Fine, fine.’ Still he looked away.
‘I miss you Jack.’ The words were out before I knew it but this was no time for playing games. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Oh, so am I.’ At last he looked at me. ‘So am I.’ There was a twinkle in his eye which I couldn’t quite understand. Then he started to laugh. He laughed loudly, not pausing for breath, clutching his sides and throwing his head back. The pub fell silent as Jack roared louder, banging the bar with his fist and wiping tears from his eyes.
I felt Maz close behind me. ‘What’s that tosser doin’ here?’ she whispered.
‘This is great!’ Jack chortled. ‘What a dump!’
I heard Maz’s teeth grind.
‘Look at it,’ he carried on, ‘and look at you, Jenny. What do you look like! Lawyer come barmaid, oh fantastic. Haven’t you done well?’
I could feel my eyes filling up with tears but I couldn’t speak. My heart was breaking into tiny pieces … again.
He calmed down a little, until he could breathe at least. ‘We, the firm, are acting for the people who might be selling this place. When Matt said you were living here, of course I offered to do a recce. I couldn’t wait to see what you were up to but I never expected this. Ha, it’s the best laugh I’ve had in ages.’
‘Apart from when you last looked at your todger, you prick,’ Maz seethed.
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