by Mandy Baggot
‘Why don’t you join me and have some tea, you were right, it’s very good,’ Jimmy suggested, amused by the conversation.
‘I can’t really, I’ve got all this tidying up to do,’ Samantha answered and she waved the tea towel she was holding behind her.
This only emphasised the sparklingly clean mirror and brass work, the freshly cleaned glasses, all arranged in size order and the neat rows of snacks all stacked identically.
‘I insist, let me buy you a tea,’ Jimmy spoke, getting a note out of his wallet.
‘No, no, that’s OK, I’ll just have a glass of water. It’s quite warm in here, must get the heating looked at,’ Samantha remarked, still perspiring due to embarrassment.
She picked up a glass and filled it with water from the mixer tap. She took a large gulp and then brushed away some imaginary dust from the bar top.
‘So is there anywhere else you work in this building? I’m beginning to think you run this place single-handed,’ Jimmy said, looking at Samantha as she drank some more water, tipped the rest away and began to wash up the glass.
‘I sell ice creams,’ she blurted out.
Goodness! The ice cream, she really did need to do something more permanent with those boxes.
‘Really.’
‘And programmes - you know, I’m one of those women who walks up and down the aisles holding a programme above her head. And in the interval I hold the programme over my head and have an ice cream tray round my neck, until it gets really busy and then I have to lose the programme because you can’t really serve ice cream one handed, not when you have to take lids off of tubs and dispense the little wooden spoons,’ Samantha babbled on.
‘I can imagine,’ Jimmy answered, looking at her with interest.
‘I couldn’t run this place, that’s Dave’s job. He has years of experience in managing,’ Samantha told him.
‘D’you want to know something about Dave?’ Jimmy asked her in a hushed voice, leaning over the bar slightly to bring himself nearer to her.
‘Oh I don’t like to listen to gossip, and it isn’t really ethical to talk about people behind their back, particularly your boss. I don’t think you should tell me,’ Samantha said immediately.
‘Personally, I think Dave comes across as being a good manager because he’s got a strong team around him. Obviously I can’t comment on your colleagues, but from what I’ve seen today, I think you might just be holding him up,’ Jimmy told her.
‘Well that’s very nice of you to say Mr Lloyd, but that really isn’t the case. I just do my job and that’s that. Would you like any snacks?’ Samantha offered, grabbing hold of one of the newly arranged trays and placing it on the bar in front of him.
‘Call me Jimmy won’t you? And what about you? Are you a Samantha or a Sam?’ Jimmy wanted to know.
‘Erm, I don’t know, I…’ Samantha began, having never been asked the question before by anyone at the hall.
Her pondering on the answer to his question was interrupted by Jimmy’s mobile ringing. He excused himself, got down from his stool and went across to the corner of the bar area to take the call.
Samantha was glad he’d gone, she felt terrible. Her heart was hammering, her face felt like it had been under a sun bed for twenty four hours and she had an awful headache. She was obviously going down with a bug. She hated being ill, unlike Cleo, who positively embraced sickness because it meant she could lie in bed all day and have Samantha bring home comfort food and Lemsip.
Was she a Samantha or a Sam? What sort of question was that? She had a name badge didn’t she? Why couldn’t he just use it like everyone else did? And what was with all the small talk? Worst of all he knew she ate her lunch in the sound booth. Or should that be he knew she used to eat her lunch there, she couldn’t eat it there ever again, not now someone knew. Her privacy had been violated.
She was still polishing the glass she’d just washed up when Jimmy returned to the bar and gulped back the remainder of his herbal tea.
‘Thanks for the tea and the chat, see you tomorrow. Save me an ice cream for the interval,’ he said with a smile.
‘I can’t guarantee it. I mean they go quite quickly and I couldn’t reserve one, it wouldn’t be fair,’ Samantha informed him.
Four thousand Berry Fruits could theoretically go in one night if everyone in the hall bought two point five each.
‘That’s OK, I’ll send someone out to queue for me,’ Jimmy responded, preparing to leave the bar area.
‘Well, I suppose…’ Samantha replied.
She watched him walk towards the exit. He was very tall, and lean with it. He reminded her of Patrick Swayze. A young Patrick Swayze. Patrick Swayze in his prime, with shorter, more fashionable hair. Samantha was just reminding herself to share this comparison with Cleo when she got home when Jimmy stopped walking and turned back round to face her. He looked at her and smiled, as if something was crossing his mind and Samantha froze, afraid that her thoughts were suddenly transparent. She knew she was grimacing but she couldn’t change her expression now he was looking at her. It felt like she was gurning.
‘By the way, in my opinion - I think there’s a Sam lurking under that Samantha,’ Jimmy told her.
‘Thank you,’ Samantha blurted out and then she felt herself blush violently.
Thank you?! Thank you?! What on Earth was she saying thank you for?! It wasn’t a compliment, it was a statement, his opinion. She was a complete idiot.
‘By the way, apparently there’s a new wine bar opening tonight - might be where your customers have gone.’
‘Thank you,’ Samantha repeated, unable to say anything else.
Goodness she really needed him to leave.
‘See you,’ he replied, still smiling at her. Then he left the building.
She felt completely faint now, like she was going to collapse at any moment. She took the freshly polished glass and refilled it with water, guzzling it down greedily in the hope of stabilising herself. What was the matter with her? If Cleo had brought home an infection from the estate agents she would not be happy, she had a lot to prepare for tomorrow night’s show and as good as Dave was at talking the management talk, she had to admit he didn’t have a clue when it came to detail. Detail was Samantha’s forte. Small talk with ice skaters was not.
It was close to midnight when Samantha arrived home. The second she opened the front door she knew Cleo had company. She could smell a mixture of incense and essential oils and she could hear Luther Vandross. The ultimate giveaway was the pair of size ten brogues sitting by the front door. Brogues! Samantha thought the only person who wore brogues any more was her father and the odd accountant or estate agent. As her mind offered the last occupation it all clicked into place and she assumed Cleo, having been turned down in favour of the Pigeon Association, was now entertaining one of her colleagues. She was certainly a fast worker!
Samantha smiled to herself and headed upstairs. She paused outside Cleo’s bedroom door and listened. She could hear hushed talking so she knocked.
‘Go away! Can’t you read?’ Cleo shrilled back immediately.
Samantha looked down at the door handle, on which was hanging a black coloured crystal. After Samantha had once burst into the room unannounced to be greeted by the sight of Cleo and a man old enough to be their father engaged in removing each others clothes, Cleo had designed a traffic light system in the form of coloured crystals. The green crystal meant you could come in without knocking, the amber coloured crystal meant knock once and proceed with caution, the red crystal meant knock, stop and wait for instructions and the black crystal meant do not enter, knock or even breathe too heavily on walking past the door or your life wouldn’t be worth living. Samantha had named that particular crystal The Bonk.
‘Sorry, it’s just I‘m going to bed and you said it would be a crime if I didn’t keep you informed about things,’ Samantha called through the door.
‘I’m not interested in anything any of those pigeon fancie
rs had to say - now piss off!’ Cleo called back and Samantha heard the music being turned up.
‘He’s got dark brown eyes and a small scar under his lip!’ Samantha shouted above the music.
It was barely seconds before the door was hurriedly open and Cleo, loosely dressed in her robe, her hair all over the place appeared. She stepped out onto the landing, pulling the door to behind her.
‘You spoke to Jimmy Lloyd again? My God he wasn’t with the Pigeon Association was he?’ Cleo exclaimed.
‘No, he was just having a drink at the bar,’ Samantha informed matter of factly.
She liked having something happening in her life that her older sister was interested in. It was unusual for Samantha to feel that she was in possession of something Cleo was envious of. It didn’t happen often, the last time had been when Samantha unknowingly got a Prada handbag for ten pounds in the January sales. Cleo couldn’t have been more jealous then. She had practically looked green for a week.
‘What did he have and how many? Jack Daniels? Vodka? Beer? I thought he hadn’t long come out of one of those expensive rehab clinics in America. Did he look cool? I bet he looked cool, what was he wearing?’ Cleo enquired her eyes wide.
‘Rehab?’ Samantha spoke, shocked by her sister’s statement.
‘Of course he’s been to rehab, I told you what he’s like, women, sex, booze, recreational drugs, it’s part and parcel of the celebrity lifestyle. So how did he look? Was he with anyone?’ Cleo continued.
‘He’s been in rehab,’ Samantha stated again.
‘Sam! Are you going to tell me what he said or are you just going to repeat “rehab” over and over again like a poor Amy Winehouse? What’s the matter with you? Almost everyone in Star Life magazine has been to rehab at some time during their career, most of them have been twice,’ Cleo spoke.
‘But he didn’t look like someone who would do that. He had herbal tea and he liked it,’ Samantha informed her, still mulling over in her mind the information Cleo had given her.
‘Herbal tea! God, perhaps the deep breathing and exploration of his inner self worked this time. So what else did he say?’ Cleo asked her.
‘Oh, you know, nothing much,’ Samantha responded with a shrug.
Suddenly she didn’t feel like talking anymore.
‘Are you OK? You look a bit pale. Are you coming down with something?’ Cleo asked, staring into Samantha’s eyes and scrutinising her pallor.
‘I think I’m going to go to bed now. Sorry I interrupted humping the brogue wearer. Which one is it? The hot one? Jeremy wasn’t it?’ Samantha said hurriedly and she turned away from Cleo and headed towards her bedroom.
‘Hey, wait a minute, Sam! You didn’t say what he was wearing! Sam! Was it something cool from GAP?’ Cleo called as Samantha retreated.
Samantha went into her room and shut the door behind her. She leaned heavily against it, her head throbbing. Jimmy Lloyd had been to rehab and she felt disappointed. Someone who skated so beautifully and had such perfect white teeth took drugs. That just wasn’t right.
Four
They were white and a size five. Some of the laces were fraying and the blades had seen better days. Samantha picked up the ice skates that were lying on the front desk and was just about to study them in more detail when Dave arrived through the front door, half a Cornish pasty in his hand and the remainder close to spilling out of his mouth.
‘Ah, good, you’re here Duck. Like the footwear?’ Dave enquired, leaning on the desk and breathing out meat and potato fumes in Samantha’s direction.
‘Are these for lost property? Or do they belong to one of the skaters from the show?’ Samantha enquired, holding the skates up by their laces and letting them dangle dangerously close to Dave’s face.
‘Non, ma cherie, those are yours - well, for the duration of the ice show anyway,’ Dave responded, poking the remaining pasty into his mouth and grinning widely.
‘I don’t understand,’ Samantha answered, looking again at the boots as if she expected them to contain a hidden message she had overlooked.
‘Well, I thought as sales for Skating on Broadway have proved so popular, the least we could do for our audience is provide them with the full, unadulterated skating experience - from the grass roots up so to speak,’ Dave replied.
‘What are the boots for Dave?’ Samantha asked him bluntly.
‘They’re for you, size five. And there’s a pair for Felicity, Jane and Karen too, you are going to be my Ice Maidens. Just picture the scene - the interval arrives and there you are, an armful of programmes, gliding round the edge of the ice to some well chosen intermission music, exchanging pleasantries and selling brochures,’ Dave spoke, his eyes glazing over as he imagined.
‘Oh my goodness, you’re not serious!’ Samantha exclaimed, immediately filled with horror at Dave’s suggestion.
‘Tres bon, of course I’m serious. What could be better than coming to watch an ice dancing show and having the programme and refreshment sellers coordinating with the theme of the evening? Is Jane really a size ten shoe? I found it quite hard to get ladies skates that big,’ Dave spoke, putting his greasy hands onto some paperwork on the desk and picking it up to read.
‘Dave, it’s a great idea and I’m sure it would enhance the ambiance of the evening, but I haven’t skated for ages and I can’t skate well enough to be able to hold programmes and ice creams and not break my neck. And what about Felicity’s ankle? She was off work for three weeks last year. Ice skating won’t be conducive to a joint injury,’ Samantha said, looking at the skates and then pleadingly at Dave.
‘Ah, now that’s where I’ve done my homework. Felicity’s been given the all clear by the doc, Jane used to do roller-skating, Karen’s brother used to work at an ice rink and as for you Duck, you put ice skating as one of your hobbies on your CV,’ Dave spoke triumphantly.
‘Dave I did that CV when I was fifteen and it was a vague hobby then at best,’ Samantha exclaimed.
‘I’m sure it’s like riding a bike - once learnt, never forgotten. Anyway, you and the girls have some ice time around eleven to get accustomed to it,’ Dave announced, looking at his watch.
‘Dave, this isn’t going to work. Perhaps if we’d had more time then…’ Samantha started, as the telephone began to ring.
‘Don’t be defeatist Samantha, remember Dave’s motto? “Negativity will always cost ya…’ Dave began, a smug grin appearing on his face.
Samantha just looked at him, cringing as she recalled the slogan. She knew he wouldn’t need any encouragement from her to finish his own sentence.
‘“Persevere and you will prosper!”’ he announced and then let out a loud belly laugh which reverberated around the foyer.
She had learnt there was no point trying to have a discussion with Dave when he was in this sort of mood. Once his mind was made up there was nothing you could say to change it. It wasn’t that he was stubborn, just blinkered, with complete tunnel vision. Once he was set on an idea, any other suggestion or challenge to it just flew over his head.
Samantha looked at the skates again. The blades were very blunt, they were probably one of the actual pairs she had hired at the ice discos. She wasn’t relishing putting them on and getting on the rink. She hadn’t skated since she was a teenager and she had serious concerns about her colleagues’ abilities to skate and sell merchandise at the same time. It was all shaping up to be an unmitigated disaster. But Dave was the manager, and it was his call. Although Samantha noted he hadn’t mentioned any skating intentions for himself.
Her attention was drawn away from the boots by the arrival of dozens of people through the main doors.
‘Oh here they are, our skating stars. I’ll show them to their dressing rooms. Don’t forget to distribute the skates Duck and all on the ice at eleven. You have a twenty minute slot while I man the desk - hello one and all! Dave Gordon, manager, let me lead the way. Allez!’ Dave boomed, bounding across to the group as they entered the foyer area.<
br />
As she watched Dave sharing his greasy hand with as many of the skaters as he could, Samantha dropped the skates to the floor, hurriedly put on her headset and answered the ringing telephone.
‘Good morning, Woolston Civic Hall, Samantha speaking.’
It was another person wanting tickets for the performance that evening. She’d had one after another the previous day even though there were now ‘sold out’ stickers across the date on all the posters in town and she knew it had been announced on local radio.
As she attempted to sell the caller tickets for an alternative night, she saw Jimmy and a woman with long red hair appear in the foyer. Jimmy was carrying two boot bags and something in a plastic cover over his shoulder. She recognised the woman immediately as being Dana Williams, the principal female skater in the show. In the flyers for Skating on Broadway she was dressed in a black cat suit that showed off her amazing figure to perfection. Samantha was sure some of the city’s male population had bought tickets for the show on that visual recommendation alone. It was like using Cheryl Cole in a leotard as advertisement. Now she was wearing tight jeans, an emerald green, sleeveless crop top and very high shoes. There was no denying her beauty. In fact she looked like she had just stepped off the pages of Star Life magazine. At nine in the morning it was almost criminal to look that perfect.
‘Yes, we have tickets for next week but there’s definitely more choice on week days. Weekends are almost sold out,’ Samantha spoke to her caller, as she watched the skaters’ entrance.
Jimmy and Dana were talking together. He with the perfect teeth and well styled hair, her with the cat walk model body and tight clothes. It was like watching a scene from an American drama full of attractive people with beautiful accessories.
But then the mood suddenly changed and Samantha watched as Dana snatched one of the boot bags from Jimmy’s hands and began to raise the volume of her voice. It was a loud voice, a voice that didn’t fit the beautiful face or the petite frame. In fact she sounded a lot like Ruby Wax at full throttle. Samantha strained to hear what Jimmy was saying in reply, but he was quieter and more controlled. Despite her best efforts all that was audible was Mrs George’s voice in her headset trying to work out which row she and her husband would be best suited to, given his arthritic hip.