Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Name!’ he shrieked again, before I had time to speak.

  ‘Oh, OK then. It’s … it’s’ – even his name made me breathless – ‘it’s Randall.’

  ‘Randall?’ Matt repeated. ‘Lovely name.’

  ‘Thanks.’ As if it were my doing.

  ‘Funny though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos that’s the same as the name you’re after.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man who bought your pub.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Randall. His name was Randall. We didn’t represent him cos we were for the sellers but it was definitely Randall because …’

  I heard the sound of cracking glass somewhere inside my head. My mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘R … Rand … all. Randall what?’ I cleared my throat.

  ‘Pettifer,’ Matt said triumphantly. ‘Randall Pettifer.’

  The bottom fell out of my world. The glass shattered into a million pieces. I heard the sound of falling, the bottomless sound in a cartoon when Wile E Coyote plummets at top speed into a vast chasm. Only, this wasn’t funny. This wasn’t the figment of an animator’s imagination. This was real, horribly, horribly real. My body shook with fear and rage. Matt was still waffling in my ear.

  ‘You know him, he’s …’

  A bastard.

  ‘His dad …’

  Has a lot to answer for.

  ‘… always on the lookout …’

  For a gullible sap. I was in despair. I couldn’t bring myself to listen, until something he said caught my attention.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What, what?’

  ‘What did you say then?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just then.’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘About a flat or something.’

  ‘Flat … oh yeah. I was just saying we did a flat for him a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Did? What do you mean, did?’

  ‘Arranged it, hon. Fully furnished from taps to tapestries. He didn’t care which flat it was, just that he wanted one and fast. We got one, rushed it through and hey presto! He didn’t even have to buy the loo roll, honestly. Funny these people aren’t they, darling?’

  He laughed. Wile E Coyote hit the floor. Dead.

  ‘Jen, I was saying they’re funny, aren’t they? Rich folk.’

  No answer.

  ‘Jen?’

  A quiet sob.

  ‘Are you OK, Jen?’

  Tears. Lots of them. The Aswan Dam had burst.

  ‘B … b … bye … M … M … Matt.’

  ‘Jenny babe, are you …’

  ‘M … mus … must go.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘G … g … go n … now.’

  ‘Jenny …’

  ‘Bye.’

  I slammed the phone down and ran up to my bedroom. Throwing myself on the bed, I buried my face in the duvet and sobbed uncontrollably. My shoulders shook, my eyes exploded, my nose ran and my mouth contorted in agonised expressions. All I could think was Randall. Pub. Flat. Don’t. Understand. I was so confused and shocked, I could think of nothing better to do than wallow in the pain. Then I thought of something.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Randall cannot come to the phone right now …’

  Stupid posh tart.

  ‘… a message after the tone …’

  Oh hurry up. Hurry up with your Queen’s English!

  ‘… as soon as possible.’

  Snotty bitch.

  ‘… the tone.’

  Gulp.

  ‘Beep.’

  ‘Bastard. You no-good, worthless piece of scum! How could you? How dare you? I hate you. Hate you as much as I hate people with Walkmans on trains! Hate you as much as you hate Jeremy Beadle. Ha! I hope you’re happy now you … you man.’ I was running out of insults. ‘I never want to see you again you … bastard! Go to hell … By the way, it’s Jenny.’

  Well, he might not have known it was me. We hadn’t had a proper row before, he might not have recognised me in my new role as the She-Devil. I slammed the phone down, picking it up and slamming it down again several times for effect. I was so outraged, so angry, so furious, so … miserable. I slumped in a heap on the floor and continued to cry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  20th March, 11:00 a.m.

  ‘I’ll break his legs!’ Dave roared.

  ‘No you won’t,’ Maz yelled. ‘I will!’

  ‘And ’is arms.’ Dave mimed a snapping motion with his monstrous hands.

  I shivered.

  ‘His neck!’ Maz shouted. ‘I’ll break his bleedin’ neck, man.’

  She punched the air with staggering force. I heard the molecules of oxygen whizz past my ears and career into the wall behind me.

  ‘Maybe I got it wrong,’ I pleaded meekly. ‘Maybe it wasn’t him after all.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Maz repeated. ‘Yeah, you got it wrong. The minute you started seein’ him, that’s when you got it wrong.’

  I frowned and fiddled with my fingernails. Dave punched the wall.

  ‘I never liked him.’ Maz growled.

  ‘Yes you did!’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did. You said he was nice and canny and an enigma.’

  ‘Didn’t!’

  ‘Did.’

  We scowled at each other and looked away huffily. Dave kicked the table.

  Things had been escalating since Maz and Dave had come out to the hall to investigate what all the slamming and unslamming of the telephone was about. Of course, I hadn’t had the good sense to keep my big mouth shut. Instead, through the tears, sobs and heaving of shoulders, I had relayed every detail of my phone conversation with Matt. I should have known. Maz was already feeling fragile and Dave needed very little excuse to throw his weight around – there was so much of it, it had to be put to some use. My story had only served to exacerbate the situation and we now stood precariously on the edge of World War III. A gang of hooded Geordies could soon be on their way round to Randall’s flat to give him a good lynching and it was all my fault.

  ‘Listen,’ I said loudly above the wailing, shouting and gnashing of teeth, ‘there’s no point getting carried away until I find out exactly what happened.’

  ‘Aye there is,’ Dave protested, headbutting the door frame.

  ‘No. Let me go round there and find out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there might be a perfectly logical explanation.’

  ‘Aye right, ha!’

  ‘It could all be a big misunderstanding.’ I forced a smile.

  ‘Misunderstanding,’ Maz tisked.

  ‘Misum … gin … don.’ Too many syllables for Dave at this time in the morning.

  ‘But you’ll go all ga-ga,’ Maz groaned.

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘Yes you will. He’ll tell you what he thinks you want to hear and you’ll believe him.’

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘Yes you will.’

  And so on.

  Somehow I managed to convince Maz and Dave that it would be best if I visited Randall alone. The problem was I had been so caught up in arguing my point and averting a murder that I hadn’t even thought about what I would say to him. So it was that I found myself standing in the street outside his flat, too afraid to ring the bell, but too outraged to run away, without an iota of a plan.

  It was then that it began to rain. I don’t just mean light, slightly dampening, refreshing rain. I mean gallons and gallons of the stuff. Multitudes of torrential, drenching, hair-frizzing, sock-soaking rain. One minute it was dry and the next, totally without warning, the heavens opened, the clouds burst, God emptied the contents of his Olympic-sized swimming pool and it pissed down. Of course, with rain, there always comes commotion. People ran in all directions, squealing and cursing, as if hydrochloric acid was being poured over their heads. The organised few produced brollies, and Pac-a-macs from the depths of their bags, the brave pulled out oversized pla
stic ponchos. People scurried for shelter holding carrier bags, newspapers, small hankies, wallets, chairs and tables above their heads in a vain attempt to keep two square inches of their hair dry. All down the street, windows and doors slammed shut as people dived into the nearest house or car. A skinny blonde girl, with long brown legs up to just below her eyebrows, and a skirt the size of a stamp, ran down the street towards me, shrieking as if the rain would melt her tan.

  I often think I’m invisible to beautiful people. Either they ignore me completely or they walk into me, step on my toes, or push me out of the way if I dare to take up more than the airspace of a small moth. Sure enough, she careered into me, sending me flying into a puddle which filled my shoes with water, and soaked the bottom of my jeans.

  ‘S … s … sorry,’ I stammered in response to her icy glare, and immediately kicked myself for having apologised when it was totally her fault. It’s a self-esteem thing – she had some and I didn’t.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I pleaded.

  ‘No thanks to you!’ she huffed.

  Tell her to piss off, my mind hissed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I begged.

  She strutted away and folded her endless legs into a sleek red sports car. Screeching away, she made sure not to miss the puddle in the gutter which tidal-waved over the kerb and almost washed me away.

  ‘Bitch!’ I yelled, as she disappeared from view. I was all for venting my anger after the event. Less trouble that way. ‘Stupid slag! I hope you crash. I hope your engine floods on a level crossing and an Intercity 125 flattens your stupid poncey car. I hope you break both your scrawny legs, you rich, bulimic little COW! And … and I hope all your hair falls out and you get spots and cellulite and club feet and …’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and whipped round, expecting to see Little Miss Rich Bitch ready to scratch my eyes out. But it wasn’t her, it was Randall. Gorgeous, irresistible, lightly soaked Randall, and he was smiling at me. I gasped visibly at the sight of him. Shit. What was I going to say?

  ‘Jenny, you’re soaked,’ he frowned. ‘What are you doing standing in the rain, pet?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘And who were you talking to?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Why didn’t you come in?’

  ‘Oh …’

  I shuffled my feet and tried to wipe my dripping hair from my face. He stared at me curiously.

  ‘Let’s get out of the rain,’ he said, wrapping his arm round my shoulders and leading me across the road to his flat. I was powerless to refuse.

  Once inside, he took my coat, wrapped me in a warm, soft towel and made me hot chocolate. I had wanted to say no but it was made with milk and it had whipped cream on the top, and it came with four chocolate digestives for dipping. Any girl would have done the same. Of course, it was perfect. Not too sweet, just enough cream, not too burny on the tongue. Perfect. Just like the rest of his faultless flat. In fact, he probably kept a small Chilean woman in the kitchen cupboard, specially trained in the art of hot chocolate making, next to the one who cleaned, the one who cooked and the one who specialised in how to deceive your girlfriend. The flat had all been created by someone else, why not the hot chocolate? I felt the resurgence of my rage and glared at him across the room. It served to break the silence.

  ‘Jenny,’ he said, ‘I’ve been so worried, I didn’t know what was wrong.’

  ‘Huh!’ I sneered at him, slamming down the empty cup.

  ‘I got your messages and I didn’t understand what was going on.’

  ‘Hmm!’

  ‘I … I was about to come round and see you, pet.’

  ‘Yeah right.’

  ‘Aye, but then I saw you standing outside in the rain and …’

  His voice trailed off uncomfortably. I looked at my fingernails. He hummed nervously.

  Don’t let him get away with it. Maz’s words reverberated in my head. Don’t be a bleedin’ walkover.

  ‘What is it, Jenny?’ he asked.

  I pursed my lips.

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Huh.’ I lifted my nose in the air.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes y …’ Fearing we could get stuck in an endless rally of dos and don’ts, I decided to be a tad more direct.

  ‘You do know. You deceived me.’ Just a tad.

  ‘Deceived you. How?’

  I paused and looked him in the eye. My heart leapt at the sight of his beautiful face. Beautiful in my eyes, anyway. But I had to find out. I couldn’t be a ‘bleedin’ walkover’. Anyway, maybe all the worry would be for nothing. Maybe it was all a mistake.

  ‘Everything, Randall,’ I replied. ‘Your flat, your life, the pub. Everything.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘The pub. What do you mean by that?’ His voice was weak.

  ‘I know,’ I said firmly, ‘I found out. The pub has been sold, I’m out of a job, Maz and I are going to be thrown out on the streets to live in cardboard boxes and eat chicken Pot Noodles and it’s all your doing. You, my boyfriend. Why would you do that?’

  His eyes widened. My breathing was short and sharp. Deny it, I pleaded, tell me it’s not true.

  ‘H … how …?’ he stammered.

  My heart missed a beat.

  ‘Wh … who …?’ he croaked.

  I almost threw up. Tell me I’m wrong.

  ‘Who told you?’ he said.

  Wanker.

  ‘Who told me!’ I screamed. ‘Who told me! What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to know about it yet.’

  ‘Not supposed to know …!’ I sucked the air through my teeth. ‘And when exactly was I supposed to know, hmm? When they came to take my bed away or maybe when they came to drag me out of the door by my hair. Or maybe just when the demolition truck pulled up outside the door, hmm, would that be a better time? Would it?’

  ‘No!’ he wailed, reaching for my flailing arms.

  ‘Piss off!’

  ‘Jenny,’ his eyes looked pained, ‘I was going to tell you.’

  ‘Oh well thank you very much but I’ve saved you the trouble … or the pleasure perhaps.’

  ‘It was supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘A surprise. A sur-fucking-prise. Oh it was a surprise all right. “Jenny, you’re losing your job,” oh cool, “and you’ll be penniless and homeless too,” ooh goody, what a surprise. Are you completely mad? Are you certifiably insane?’

  I sprang up from the futon. He lunged towards me and tried to pull me to him.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  He looked hurt. ‘Who told you?’ he asked again.

  ‘Jack told me, that’s who. He wrote a lovely letter. The person who despises me more than anyone in the world, even more than my mother.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him to write it.’

  ‘Oh, so you know each other then?’ I growled. ‘Ooh, let me guess, he’s your half brother.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, nothing could surprise me now.’ I glared at him.

  ‘But Jenny, you don’t have to move out.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m not, I —’

  ‘What am I supposed to do, live in the rubble when you demolish the place?’

  ‘But I’m not —’

  ‘You make me sick.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘How could you, Randall?’

  ‘But I —’

  ‘I trusted you.’

  ‘Let me —’

  ‘I liked you.’

  ‘Please let —’

  ‘I even let you see me naked.’

  ‘Jenny please —’

  ‘I had sex with you.’

  ‘Jenny —’

  ‘I let you lick chocolate spread out of my belly button!’
/>
  ‘But —’

  ‘God, I’m so stupid. You were probably laughing at me all the time.’

  ‘No! I —’

  ‘Fun was it, your little game?’

  ‘Jenny!’

  ‘Enjoy yourself did you?’

  ‘Jenny, PLEASE!’ he yelled.

  ‘Don’t shout at me!’ I screamed back.

  ‘But I can’t get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Please, just let me explain.’

  Randall insisted on launching into a lengthy explanation, but I wasn’t listening. Something behind him had caught my attention. His words faded into oblivion. My eyes opened wide with horror and my jaw almost hit the floor.

  ‘… and so I decided to … what, what is it? What are you looking at me like that for?’

  ‘So you got some photos then?’ I said nastily.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Photos, Randall. You decided to put some photos around the place like I suggested.’

  ‘Oh, oh yes.’

  He followed my gaze to the silver photo frame over his shoulder. Cautiously he lifted the frame and held it out towards me. ‘They … they do brighten the place up,’ he said gently, trying to smile.

  ‘Who is that in the photo with you, Randall?’ I asked firmly, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Wh … who?’

  ‘Yes, Randall, who? Who is that person you have your arm round?’ I could almost feel smoke coming out of my ears. Thick, black, choking smoke and flames.

  ‘Who. Oh um … that’s Troy,’ he smiled.

  Smile once more and you’ll be having your teeth for lunch, I thought.

  ‘Oh, Troy,’ I snorted. ‘Now would that be the all-American, physically perfect, white-toothed, very tanned, extremely homosexual Troy?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Oh …’

  ‘Oh. Would that also be the Troy I thought was going to be my boyfriend until I discovered that’s exactly what he was looking for.’

  ‘Oh, of course, you —’

  ‘Don’t say anything!’ I said hotly.

  ‘But …’

  He looked uneasily at my outraged expression and edged closer towards me. He was so close I could smell him, the warm, musky smell of my man. I wanted to cry.

  ‘Please, Jenny,’ he pleaded, reaching out a shaking hand to touch my shoulder. ‘I can explain everything.’