‘I swear, Randall,’ I said, shrugging off his hand, ‘if you touch me again I’ll break both your arms.’
He took a sharp step backwards, his eyes flickering over my face.
‘I don’t want to hear your explanations. What are you going to do? Tell me even more lies?’
‘No,’ he shook his head vigorously. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘No, I don’t. I can’t.’
There was an uncomfortable silence as we stood apart, staring into each other’s eyes. I wanted to punch him yet, at the same time, I wanted to kiss him. I just felt so disappointed. Why me? I thought sadly. Why do these things always happen to me?
‘Jenny,’ he said softly. His eyes filled up with water.
Oh God, don’t cry, I begged inwardly. I’ll end up sleeping with you if you cry.
‘Jenny darling,’ he said again. One heavy tear rolled down his cheek.
‘No don’t please!’ I could feel my resistance crumbling like a digestive biscuit.
‘I can explain,’ he insisted. ‘You’ve just reacted a bit … well, unreasonably to it all.’
‘What?’ I shouted. Cry all you like, you bastard. ‘Unreasonably! Un-bloody-reasonably! You stupid, insensitive, brainless wanker! How the hell do you think I’m going to react, hmm?’
He stared at me blankly.
‘You’re pathetic,’ I continued. ‘You and your stupid games. Was it a conspiracy, hmm? You, Jack and your boyfriend Troy. Or did you think it up all by yourself? God, you’re such a bastard, Randall. To think I could ever have thought that I … I loved you. Shit, it makes me feel sick.’
His eyes opened wide and he gasped loudly. He lifted both hands to his head and pulled his fingers through his hair. ‘But Jenny,’ he whispered, ‘I love you too.’
My heart leapt into my mouth and my stomach tensed. He’d said it, the ‘L’ word. The word that sends most men into violent convulsions and usually causes them to have a severe attack of the unfaithfuls. Yet Randall had said it, plainly and simply. No visible sweating or trouble getting the words out, he’d just come right out and said it. I should have been leaping around the room screaming ‘he loves me!’ for the whole street to hear. We should have been popping champagne corks and having wild, passionate sex all over the flat in celebration of his honesty. Yet that was just it. How could I believe that anything he said was the truth any more? He had lied about everything just to get what he wanted, so why would he stop now? For all I knew, he had been sleeping with … with Troy. Tears welled up in my eyes and cascaded down my face. I turned away from him and dragged myself towards the door. I could hardly breathe, I had to get out of the flat.
‘Please, pet,’ he called after me.
I whipped my head round to look at him.
‘I’m not your pet,’ I hissed. ‘Why don’t you go and find some other poor cow whose life you can ruin?’
He didn’t retaliate. I threw the door open and stepped out into the hallway. My face was burning from a combination of rage and fresh, hot tears. I couldn’t turn to look at him, it hurt too much.
‘Goodbye Randall,’ I choked, and ran down the stairs to the safety of the pouring rain.
Chapter Twenty
20th April, 9:00 p.m.
It wasn’t just the Holly Hobby wallpaper that pissed me off. It was a combination of the wallpaper, the matching Holly Hobby bedspread, lampshade and bean bag set and the bunk beds. They were a constant reminder of all the years I had been forced to share the room with Susie, under the pretence of being sisters thus wanting to spend every minute together in a room the size of a bedside cabinet. I had wanted the Wombles. Nothing would have made me happier than having Uncle Bulgaria and his furry family on my bedroom walls, but, even at 15, Susie had wanted Holly Hobby. A miniature, flouncy dress-wearing cutie pie with an enormous head. Very much like Susie actually. Holly Hobby she wanted, so Holly Hobby we got. It had been a daily source of tension between us while we were growing up and the subject of many an argument with my mother.
‘But I hate Holly Hobby.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘What sort of role model is she for today’s woman?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Furry animals who live in holes and pick up litter are much cooler.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘It can be damaging for a child to live in surroundings which she finds offensive, you know.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I could be scarred for life.’
‘I don’t care.’
And so on, etc.
My mother had never been one for explaining herself, despite my inventive arguments. In fact, my continuous demands for a referendum over the decor only made her more determined. As a result, I had lived in a Holly Hobby world until the age of eighteen, when I had finally left home for university. How I managed to avoid developing a liking for frilly dresses and large bonnets, I’ll never know. A lucky escape, I believe.
I say ‘finally left home’ because I had thought at the time it was final. All those years ago, I had escaped from the clutches of Holly Hobby and my mother to embark on my own, independent adult life. I had so many hopes and ambitions. Get a good job, earn lots of money, buy my own place and decorate it however I wanted. It had all gone to plan at first, yet here I was back in Holly Hobby hell living with my parents. I couldn’t believe how it had all gone so wrong in just four months. I felt as if my life had gone full circle and I was right back where I had started eight years before with only a broken heart to show for it.
I had now been back at home for almost a month and was plunging deeper into depression every day. I hadn’t seen Maz since moving out of her flat above the pub and I couldn’t bring myself to go and see her. She had moved into a luxurious apartment provided by Paradise TV, with Dave in tow, and had embarked on rehearsals for her new show. She had offered me one of her five bedrooms to stay in. She even said that her new employers had encouraged her to bring her friend along. Of course, I didn’t believe her. She was just being kind, as Maz always was. Perhaps telling her that she was a stuck-up media cow who liked to treat people like charity cases wasn’t such a good idea. I couldn’t help myself. I was seething with jealousy. I was so jealous, my skin had turned a permanent shade of green and I was unable to perfect any facial expressions beyond a scowl. I was supposed to be the successful one, not Maz. All through school, it had been the same, but now, just when it mattered, God had turned the tables and put me on a helter-skelter to insignificance. I didn’t like his sense of humour.
Over the weeks, the jealousy had subsided, and I had kicked myself for having offended my best, most loyal friend. I missed our nights in together, discussing sex over a few bottles of cheap white wine. I missed our nights out together, discussing sex over cheap white wine. I had no one to have a laugh with, no one to cry with and no one to moan to when I felt like the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s uglier sister. My social life was a barren landscape, the only movement being the odd tumbleweed blowing across the foreground. The highlight of my evenings was trying to decide which bunk bed to sleep in. Do I go for the top bunk and risk plunging to my death in the middle of the night, or do I choose the claustrophobia of the bottom bunk and suffer from the sensation that the roof is caving in on top of me every time I open my eyes? I never realised life could be so dull. Even I found myself intensely boring, so how could I possibly expect my friends to like me? I was desperate to make it better, but pride stopped me from making that single life-saving telephone call to civilisation. I chose, instead, to wallow in my own despair. I had always been a very capable wallower. At least I was still good at something.
Pride, of course, was irrelevant when it came to earning a living. My father would have happily loaned me some money until I was back on my feet but my mother held the purse strings so tightly that even the pennies were gasping for air. She would rather have scooped her own eyes out with a spoon than give me anything for free. I was sure she had supe
rsonic hearing. If I opened the fridge, Mum would be by my side in a flash relaying the cost of a slice of wafer-thin ham. The slightest rustle from the biscuit tin and up she would pop to ensure that I hadn’t dared to take more than one Rich Tea. Jammie Dodgers were out of the question and, as for chocolate Hobnobs, they were gold dust, reserved for ‘paying members of the household only’. She would rub my nose in my failings at every opportunity, even going so far as to inform me in front of the neighbours that I was squandering loo roll.
‘Four sheets are enough for anybody,’ she had shouted across the front garden, ‘even for someone with a bottom the size of yours, Jennifer!’
After three days of endless ridicule, I could take it no longer. Fearing that she would start counting the cornflakes in my cereal bowl, and the grains of sugar in my coffee, I caved in. I swallowed the rest of my dwindling pride and accepted a job with Sebastian. My life was over.
Now I’m not saying I was too good for the job, after all I was unemployed, penniless and living at home, but compared to my colleagues, I was a veritable genius. The Carol Vorderman of our department, the only one with an IQ above single figures. Mensa had nothing to worry about, Densa reigned supreme in our office.
I had been naive to think that Sebastian would give me a proper job. His offer of a position at the bank, I realised, had been another attempt by my mother and Susie to put me in my place at the bottom of the pile. No chance of keeping any self-esteem down here, noo siree, it was impossible to be self-assured when such tasks as operating the photocopier were considered to be well beyond my capabilities. Training to be a hotshot lawyer was a relic of my distant past, working as a barmaid at the Scrap Inn was a fading memory of a previous happy existence. My responsibilities now included stamp-licking, envelope-sealing, pencil-sharpening, and coffee-making. If I showed potential, I was told, I would be promoted to answering the telephone, but only a hallowed few had ever reached such dizzy heights. At this rate, it could take years. I would be having a weekly blue rinse and going to bingo on a Tuesday night before I could even think of applying.
The stamp-licking department occupied the basement floor of the bank building. So unworthy were we, my ‘colleagues’ and I were ordered to use the back entrance, for fear of being seen by any members of the public. I shared a small, dingy room with Simon, the sixteen-year-old nephew of one of the directors, whose brain had obviously been removed at birth, and Kim, who had the intelligence of a flat-packed coffee table. I hoped Kim was joking when she boasted on my first day of having slept with Simon’s uncle to get such a ‘great job’. I prayed she was pulling my leg when she asked which side of the stamp to lick. I gave up all hope when she mistook the coffee grinder for a pencil sharpener and served the powers-that-be a special blend of wood shavings and lead at coffee time. Kim’s only asset to the company was a pair of sleek forty-inch legs which were open for business longer than a twenty-four-hour service station. I was surprised she didn’t suffer from bed sores, the amount of time she spent flat on her back. Sleeping her way to the top would be an understatement, she practically ran the bank. If Kim was off sick, the men moped around the building unable to function. Business slumped if they didn’t get their daily fix of Kim’s legs and long blonde hair. She oozed sexuality but was too thick to realise. Talking sense into her would be like trying to teach a brick to recite poetry. For the first few days, I had made it my mission to teach Kim about self-respect. If I have to do this awful job, I thought, I can at least save a soul while I’m here. I gave up when I stumbled across Kim giving the stationery boy a blow job next to the water dispenser.
‘But he said he’d get wur al’ the highlighters in the wurld,’ she had whined. ‘Imagine that, Jen, eh, wouldn’t that be ace? Al’ them pretty colours!’
God help us.
Simon, on the other hand, lived his life in a strange vacuum. Every so often, an inkling of common sense would penetrate his haze of stupidity, but such instances were very rare and only lasted a matter of seconds. Somehow, he managed to turn up for work at least two days a week but his presence was rarely noticed. Conversation was a definite no-no, sometimes I even had to prod him to make sure he was still breathing. The only time he showed any visible signs of life was when Kim walked within a foot of his desk. He would instantly blush, often drool, and shift uncomfortably in his chair. Then the moment would pass and he would return to his inanimate self. As far as I could tell, Simon existed only for Playstation and consuming inordinate amounts of illegal substances with his friends. Anything else was a total waste of time.
I never realised I would miss my job at the Scrap Inn so much. I longed to hear Auld Vinny’s endless exaggerated stories about life at sea. I dreamed of listening to one of Derek and Denise’s many vocal arguments across the pub. I imagined standing behind the bar with Maz, pulling the odd pint, eating scampi fries and fantasising about our futures. I even missed listening to Dave’s latest madcap schemes to get rich in less than twenty-four hours. I hadn’t really understood how special the pub had become in my life. I had been happy there and the people had become my friends. At least they were capable of entertaining conversation, which is more than could be said for Kim and Simon.
When I had realised what Randall had done, I had left the pub almost immediately. I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to everyone, knowing I’d broken my promise to them that I would help to save the pub. Since then, I hadn’t even gone back to Byker to find out what had become of them all. I couldn’t face seeing the Scrap Inn razed to the ground and I didn’t want to risk meeting any of our customers. I had let them down, the pub was lost for ever and it was all my fault. The trouble was, I missed it all so much. I had a gaping hole in my life where the Scrap Inn had been and my new job at the bank only made it bigger. It was so humiliating.
After a particularly awful day at work – Simon had taken an E in his lunch break and metamorphosed into a hyperactive loving machine, and Kim had spent hours filling in her application form for Supermarket Sweep (spelling ‘Kim Carroll’ had taken long enough) – I begged my dad to go for a drink with me to the nearest pub. One more night sitting in front of the QVC shopping channel – Mum’s favourite – and I would have had to commit suicide. I hoped Dad would agree to come as there were only five paracetamol left in the bathroom cabinet and I couldn’t really be bothered to track down the late-night chemist. Luckily, Dad jumped at the chance and we legged it to the pub before Mum found us something better to occupy our time, like dusting the ‘good room’ or cutting out money-off coupons from her Woman’s Realm.
We skipped down the road like children let out of lessons for a fire drill, so happy were we to have escaped for a couple of hours. It was pitiful.
‘Dad,’ I said curiously over my second pint of Caffreys, ‘why do you stay with Mum?’
He looked shocked by the question and paused to consider it before trying to answer.
‘I don’t know really, Jenny.’ He shook his head and frowned in a peculiar way, as if he’d never thought of the question before. ‘I guess it’s just habit,’ he answered.
‘Habit?’ I repeated. ‘But Dad, some habits are good and some kill you, like smoking fifty cigarettes a day. Some habits you should give up.’
He smiled. ‘It’s not that bad, Jenny, we get by OK.’
‘But are you happy, Dad?’
‘Happy, hmm, sometimes. I’m happy when I see you.’
He reached across the small, round table and patted my hand tenderly. I felt a tear roll down my nose.
‘But you deserve to be happy all the time, Dad. She’s such a … such a cow.’
‘Now don’t talk like that, Jenny, she is your mother and she does love you … in her own special way.’
‘Huh! If that’s love, I’d hate to be in her bad books.’
We both laughed uneasily. We had always had a special connection but we had never spoken this openly before. My dad was a quiet man and tended to keep his problems to himself. I felt sorry for him but tha
t made me feel insecure. I wanted him to be strong, to make me proud, I wanted him to be a man.
‘Why don’t you leave her?’ I asked gingerly.
‘I couldn’t leave her,’ he said sadly, ‘it wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why? She doesn’t respect you, she doesn’t love you …’
‘But what would she do? She doesn’t work, Jenny, and I wouldn’t want to abandon her.’
I stared at him pitifully. He was such a genuine, reliable person. He had supported my mother since the day they met and had got nothing in return, but he would never break his vows.
‘You’re too soft,’ I said gently.
‘I know,’ he agreed, ‘but so are you. That’s why I love you so much. Just make sure you don’t get taken advantage of … like I have been.’
His words hit me sharply and bounced around inside my head. ‘Don’t get taken advantage of.’ Huh! In the previous few months I had done nothing but be taken advantage of: Jack, Troy, Randall – they had all had a shot. I was beginning to think they were collecting points. ‘Take advantage of Jennifer five times and use your advantage card to claim your free canteen of cutlery!’ Memories of recent events came flooding back. It was still so confusing. I knew I had been used but I still couldn’t work out the connection between the three. How had Jack known Randall? How had Randall known Troy? (I dread to think.) Why had they picked me as their victim? Had Randall really liked me at all? Why are men such bastards? It could have been the alcohol, it could simply have been the emotional situation between myself and my father, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of deep despair. I was such a failure, such a loser, so alone. It was never going to get any better. This was it, this was my life. The pressure in my head built up until I could hold it no longer. It had to escape somewhere and it did, through my eyes. Floods of tears burst for freedom and every sob shook the foundations of the pub, rattling the glasses and turning the beer sour. A space appeared around me as the punters stepped away from the blubbering wreck, afraid they might catch something if they happened to get too close.
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