Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  Being simple, although VIP, audience members, Maz and I were not obliged to attend the rehearsal. Not being an early riser at the best of times, several late-night beakers of champagne had made me highly allergic to getting up. It wasn’t until 11:20 that I dared go for vertical and face my reflection.

  I stood in the white marble bathroom of our exquisite hotel room, wearing the plush white bathrobe I had found in the cupboard. The other had been packed in the bottom of Maz’s bag within ten minutes of our arrival in the room, along with two velvety monogrammed bath towels. The harsh lights above the mirror reflected off the marble, highlighting the rather unattractive luggage set that had decided to collect underneath my heavily bloodshot eyes. I felt sick and looked even sicker. I made a meagre attempt to comb my hair and sighed. I liked to describe my hairstyle as ‘natural’, ‘slightly unruly’, perhaps even ‘Bohemian’, but I had to admit that after such influences as swimming, sleeping, bathing, showering, wind or light ruffling, my head looked like it was home to a particularly untidy family of large birds. I patted the curls with water and turned to look at Maz.

  She was perched precariously on the edge of the bath with her head poking out of the bathroom window, puffing on a cigarette. Two smoke alarms hovered on the ceiling above her head. Maz called them the nicotine police. The hotel security guard was unimpressed at having been called to our room at 3:00 a.m. to investigate the brain-numbing sound of an activated alarm. Maz had explained it was due to my excessive highly potent gas problem, as she had attempted to swallow a lit cigarette.

  She had then asked the man if he could possibly grab us girls some munchies from the hotel kitchen. A few rounds of toast, pudding and anything chocolate would be fine, she explained. I never realised five-star-hotel staff could swear so much.

  I heard Maz cough into the brisk Newcastle air. She wobbled slightly on the bath edge but regained her balance. I gazed jealously at her long, thin legs and wondered how it felt to have thighs that didn’t meet in the middle. I poked at my own thighs and wondered whether they had miraculously toned up since the last time I had briefly considered exercising. No such luck. Nights of calorific and alcoholic indulgence seem to have repercussions on my body within hours. Let’s face it, I was no supermodel waif even on a good day. I felt huge, enormous, of mammoth proportions. Of course, I was actually no fatter than the previous day, but it was psychological. It was a definite tracksuit bottoms and baggy T-shirt kind of day.

  ‘What you thinkin’ about, pet?’ Maz retrieved her head and sat against the white tiled wall with her feet in the bath.

  ‘Tracksuits,’ I replied.

  ‘Uh oh, feelin’ fat are we?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Totally sloth-like and ugly?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘Completely rejected and unloved?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  She could read me like a book. The sign of a true friend.

  ‘I need a man,’ I groaned, hauling myself up next to the sink.

  ‘Na, you dain’t, woman. You need sex.’

  ‘I need companionship.’

  ‘Get a cat.’

  ‘I hate cats, they’re boring.’

  ‘Get a dog then.’ Maz laughed. ‘Aye man, get yerself a dog. If you feed it enough, it’d love you forever. Just like a man but without all the hassle. Apparently dogs look like their owners, ye kna?’

  ‘I feel sorry for it already.’

  ‘You’d need one with lots of hair. Aye, one o’ them Durex dogs or somethin’.’

  ‘Dulux.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Admittedly, I’d rather have been likened to a cute, petite breed like a Schnauzer or a Chihuahua, but I took it that we were being realistic.

  ‘So what were you thinking about?’ I asked glumly.

  Maz smiled brightly and gazed up at the window.

  ‘Hmm, lights, cameras, an audience, Ricki Lake …’

  ‘The usual then?’

  ‘Aye.’ Her eyes were wide and bright, even after a night of mixed drinks and little sleep. Bitch.

  ‘You kna, Jen, I was just wonderin’ how I’d feel if it were my own show startin’ today.’

  I smiled and nodded, wanting her to continue.

  ‘It’d be lush wouldn’t it? All them people watchin’ us sort out problems. My name on boards, like, all aroond the studio and everyone cheerin’ when I come in with wur massive microphone. Aye, it’d be canny ace man. It could’ve been me, ye kna. The presenter is that heffer of a woman they picked from my audition, the posh one – lucky tramp.’

  Every so often my usually brash and carefree best friend gave me an insight into what really went on in her heart and mind.

  ‘If it were me, I’d have lots of different shows. Like some romantic, some slushy, if I had to, and I’d have geet funny subjects for a laff, and then dead serious ones. Aye. I could help people get together, families and couples like. I could pick people up, help them with their dreams, get them good advice. Imagine it, man.’ She took a deep breath. We sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Maybe one day, hey Maz. I mean, look at me. I didn’t think I’d end up being a barmaid, this time last year. You never know what’ll happen.’

  ‘Na. I’m too flippin’ common.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Too bloody “regional” she said. Aye, that was it. Stupid cow.’

  She jumped out of the bath and stared past me into the mirror, furiously pulling her hair into a ponytail. ‘Howay, man, Jen. Enough of this shite. Get yerself ready, we’ve only got ten minutes.’

  ‘Chop chop ladies!’ yelled Petronella, the audience coordinator. She grabbed Maz firmly by the elbow and marched towards the studio, frantically waving her red clipboard. ‘Terrible, terrible rush. No time to be dawdling now girls.’

  ‘Sorry, we —’

  ‘Never work with children or animals, they say. Huh! Never work with people at all I say to them. Honestly, you people will be the death of me …’

  The high-pitched voice continued to bounce along the corridor as I bent down to tie my flapping shoelace.

  Suddenly a shiny red court shoe appeared next to my foot. It tapped impatiently. I glanced up to see Torica, hands on her minute hips, staring down at me with an irritated look on her heavily made-up face.

  ‘Oh Julia, Julia …’

  ‘Jennifer.’

  ‘Quite.’ She shook her mane of blonde hair and tutted loudly. ‘Honestly dahling, no rehearsal, no make-up. I nearly had you as a no-show.’

  ‘But I’m —’

  ‘Come on now. Busy busy. Let’s get in our places shall we? Marvellous. This is live television you know, hon, not a holiday camp. I mean, raylay.’

  Her skeletal fingers wrapped around my right hand and I was hauled to my feet. Five nails, filed to vicious points, dug into my sweaty palm as we hurried towards the studio door. Torica’s hips wiggled at a violent speed and she glanced nervously at her Gucci timepiece every five or six paces.

  ‘Good, good, almost there,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t let the team down can we, Jemima?’

  ‘It’s Jennifer.’

  ‘Whatever. Excellent, here we are. Action stations, dahling.’

  I was propelled through a set of heavy double doors and emerged into what appeared to be a reject lounge scene from Anne and Nick. A semicircle of chairs in the centre of the room were filled, I noticed, by our motley crew of bus companions. One seat remained empty, presumably for the presenter. I scanned the babbling audience for Maz’s friendly face but the glaring studio lights made recognition impossible. With my arm shielding my eyes, I stumbled across the stage in search of a seat. Tripping on a large black cable that snaked along the floor, I toppled forward, reached out wildly and grabbed the headphones of a small, hassled-looking woman directly ahead.

  ‘Fifteen sec — aah!’ she shrieked, grabbing her ears as we tumbled to the floor. Sheets of paper flew in all directions from her clipboard as we struggled to untangle ourselve
s.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she shouted, ‘these bloody people!’

  I felt a strong arm pull me up by my sweater and throw me into the empty seat on the stage. The man then glared at me nastily, before jumping back into position behind camera two.

  I tried to stand up but the woman with the headphones ran forward, holding out her left hand and a clipboard in a defensive manner.

  ‘Stay where you are, you fool!’ she screamed. ‘On in five … four …’

  I looked around desperately for Maz, trying to ignore the hysterical laughter from the audience.

  ‘Two …’ She held up both thumbs, the lights increased in intensity, music blared out from nowhere and camera two zoomed in on my startled face.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your exquisite host, the answer to all our problems, Miss Julia Juniper.’ The voice boomed from somewhere above my wildly spinning head, then was swallowed up by a medley of painfully loud elevator music. The audience members shuffled on the blue plastic seats to get a better view of the stage and the numerous cameras revolved around the studio floor with choreographed chaos. A colossal cheer from everyone present, except yours truly, heralded the somewhat delayed appearance onto the stage of our really not-so-exquisite host Julia Juniper.

  I glanced dubiously over my right shoulder. This woman had obviously taken make-up lessons from a master plasterer. Her bright orange foundation was shovelled into the grooves of her prematurely wrinkled face, and set with a further four inches of bronzing powder. Her orange lips, circled with a thick brown line, stuck out like an adult at a Boyzone concert. Her eyelids were barely working under the strain of three sets of false eyelashes. The early-80s bouffant hair-do stood to attention with the apparent aid of half a dozen cans of superhold hair spray, making her head look several times too big for her salmon-trouser-suit-clad body. Frightening was not the word. This woman would scare most drag queens in a dark alleyway at night.

  Julia Juniper wafted past my chair and took her position on the yellow cross in the centre of the stage. The audience fell silent as our host lifted the oversized black foam microphone to her enormous lips and set her mouth in a toothy smile.

  ‘Haylay everyone. Welcome to the first ayver live television talk show on this network.’

  The small, headphoned woman raised her arms and the audience cheered.

  ‘Where we solve your problems and change your life.’

  Hands up, another cheer.

  ‘Tayday orn the show, we have a fahbulous variety of guests for you, from the mundane to the bizarre. Wherever you are, whoever you are, we will have a storay to interest you …’

  I glanced along the line of chairs at my stage companions. They wore the anxious looks of a pack of seals facing a Canadian trawler. Evidently the idea of airing their dirty laundry on live TV was now a less appealing prospect.

  ‘Now I want you to meet George,’ Julia continued. ‘George says his wife Magenta is showing herself up by gallivanting around with her twenty-three-year-old toyboy Philip. Magenta is fifty-two.’

  Hisses and laughter rose from the crowd. Camera one moved forward to focus on George, whom I recognised as beige man from the bus the previous day. George, who had opted instead for a combination of olive green and brown, squirmed in his chair and fiddled with the buttons on his chunky-knit cardigan.

  ‘So, George, do tell us what happened.’

  ‘W … we … well, Julia,’ he stammered, ‘Magenta and I have been married for thirty years almost. Everything was fine until that … that young punk, excuse me, came on the scene.’

  ‘Oh puhlease,’ Magenta interrupted, waving her hand in George’s face. ‘Fine? You call a life of pure boredom fine? George is an accountant, Julia. Honestly, we only had sex once every three months to celebrate the end of a financial quarter.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘We went out once in a blue moon with his spectacularly dull friends, and they always ended up discussing debits, credits and capital gains tax over a light ale.’

  ‘They …’

  ‘Life with George was less interesting than watching paint dry, Julia. His calculator has more appeal to him than I have. He’s dull, he wears Y-fronts, and he’s vegetarian. I mean, please, I’m not going to waste my life darning socks and knitting lentils, Julia. Dull, dull, dull!’

  Say what you mean, Magenta, I thought. I mean, don’t hold back or anything. I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for poor, dull George.

  George coughed nervously and touched Magenta’s pink-stockinged knee.

  ‘I can change. I love you, Maggie,’ he pleaded desperately.

  ‘Get yer bleedin’ hands off her,’ yelled Magenta’s young stud, jumping to his feet and grabbing George’s trembling arm.

  ‘She’s my wife!’

  ‘She’s not your chuffin’ anythin’, mate. She’s mine.’

  Philip was obviously blessed with a huge amount of testosterone.

  The crowd yelled, ‘Deck him man!’

  People jumped to their feet and cheered while Julia Juniper looked around nervously.

  ‘Magenta, please,’ George wailed.

  ‘I’m warning you, mate!’ Philip stepped towards the cowering accountant, puffing out his chest like a Wonderbra girl. George’s chances of success were looking slim. Magenta feigned mild distress at the sight of her duelling men.

  Bitch, I thought. I couldn’t understand how Mrs Plum-hair-do, mid-life crisis could have two men, albeit a hopeless pair, fighting over her 52-year-old self on national television while I, a young, vibrant, not bad looking 26-year-old was forced to live a life of almost total chastity. I vowed to discover Magenta’s secret after the show.

  It was only after the second punch was thrown that security stepped in and removed Philip from the stage. Our pusillanimous host cowered on her spot amongst the audience shouting, ‘Stop! Stop! You hooligan! You’re ruining my show!’

  The audience became increasingly raucous, hungry for more action from the stage.

  ‘Shut up you imbeciles!’ Julia yelled. A particularly feeble display of agony aunt potential, I thought. Finally, headphone girl jumped to her feet and signalled to Julia by thrusting ten fingers in the air.

  ‘Join me after the break,’ Ms Juniper whimpered, and the supermarket music filled my ears.

  I saw this as my own signal to evacuate the stage seat. Glancing around quickly, I jumped to my feet and made for the audience. Headphone girl was nowhere to be seen and the stout cameraman was busy trying to calm an incredibly red Julia, who was freaking out in the wings. Just as I slid past the frontier of cameras, I felt something pull sharply on my hair.

  ‘Where the HELL do you think you’re going?’

  I spun round to see my headphoned opponent staring at me with wild eyes.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m … uh.’ I felt like a school kid who has been caught out of bounds.

  ‘Sit down, NOW!’

  ‘But … I’m supposed to be …’

  ‘I don’t care for excuses, get back to your seat!’

  Something about live television made people particularly power happy, I thought.

  I gazed at the audience. So near and yet so far. Out of the corner of my eye I saw our host striding towards me, her salmon suit flapping in her slipstream.

  ‘Oh bum,’ I muttered, and quickly returned to the stage.

  ‘Now I want you to meet Noreen,’ said a newly composed Julia Juniper. ‘Noreen says her daughter, Sarah, has an unhealthy obsession with vampires, death and the occult.’

  I watched on the monitor as the camera moved in on the young girl dressed totally in black lace and satin. As her picture filled the screen, Vampira reached up to straighten her black veil, revealing an intricate tattoo of the devil on her right forearm. I guessed she wasn’t a ‘spring’ on the Colour-Me-Beautiful scale.

  ‘Haylo, Noreen,’ said Julia, smiling insincerely and averting her eyes to the nearest autocue.

  ‘We can all see Sarah’s
… um … “style”, Noreen. It’s awfully strange. Can you tell me when this all started?’

  ‘Yes, Julia.’ The anxious woman touched the silver hair above her ears, pushing it into place. ‘Sarah … or Bathsheba as she now calls herself … was twelve when she started to change.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Julia interrupted.

  ‘She saw some horror films …’

  ‘At twelve? Were you neglecting your child, Noreen?’

  ‘Heavens no.’

  Whispers coursed through the crowd.

  ‘I love my daughter but it’s hard, I’m a single mum and —’

  ‘Oh come on, Noreen, that’s no excuse now is it?’

  ‘No … but … um.’

  I stared at Julia in bewilderment. She was obviously standing for no nonsense after the last scenario.

  ‘Let’s meet Sarah, shall we?’ Julia continued unabashed.

  ‘Bathsheba,’ the little girl muttered.

  ‘How old are you, Sarah?’

  ‘Bathsheba,’ she said forcefully.

  ‘Don’t be silly, now, little girl.’ Julia was beginning to get flustered. ‘Just tell us your age.’

  The girl stared blankly through her veil then sighed. ‘Thir’een,’ she replied.

  ‘Thirteen,’ Julia replied. ‘Thirteen and you dress like this.’ She pointed at the girl on the stage who shuffled her feet and looked shyly at the audience.

  ‘Aye … so?’

  ‘You should be in dresses at your age.’

  ‘Howay, I hate dresses.’

  ‘What do you like … Bathsheba?’

  ‘Me, I like death and stuff.’

  The audience giggled. Several people booed loudly. I wondered how our host would solve this little gem.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Julia continued. ‘You have no idea how silly you look.’

  ‘I like lookin’ different, man.’

  ‘Different! Dysfunctional more like. If you were my daughter I wouldn’t let you out of the house, looking like that.’

  ‘If I wur your daughter, I’d kill mesel’, ya scraggy cow.’

  ‘Why you little —’

  ‘Please!’ Noreen interrupted. ‘I just wanted some advice.’