Breaking the Ice

by Mandy Baggot

  She was outside the back door of the hall, behind the kitchens, hiding from Jane. Jane had accosted her that morning asking for annual leave. Apparently the infirm, chain-smoking mother had won an all inclusive holiday to Bulgaria in one of her women’s magazines, but the prize had to be taken within four weeks. She’d asked for two weeks off starting the week after next. Samantha had coughed and gasped at the thought of being shorthanded when the hall was in crisis and Jane, fearing she was going to perform another theatrical collapse, had suggested Samantha think on it for the rest of the day and let her know that evening. She’d been grateful for the breathing space but she still didn’t know what to say. OK, Jane was no linchpin, but she was good on the phones and it relieved Samantha from that role and allowed her to focus on managerial matters.

  ‘What shall I do Gobby? Be one of those heartless bosses and say no, you can’t have the time off, tell your mother she’ll have to share her holiday with someone else or forfeit the prize? No, she would probably just resign. But if I say yes I’ll be putting the hall under strain and we need all the help we can get right now.’

  Gobby raised his head and looked at her, as if thinking about her question.

  ‘I’m going to have to say yes. She is due the holiday and maybe I could ask Aaron to do some more hours. He’s OK on the phone, well apart from when he kept ending up ringing the Australian government whenever he leaned on the keyboard. Perhaps I could lower his chair and keep his elbows under the desk,’ Samantha said, sitting down on the step with a sigh.

  Gobby mewed and went back to eating.

  ‘And then there’s tonight. What am I going to do about that? It’s going out at night - with Jimmy Lloyd,’ Samantha spoke.

  It had been on her mind all day, despite being busy. She’d hidden in the freezer for ten minutes at one point, in the hope that the cool air would somehow expunge the panic. It hadn’t worked. All it had done was remind her she still had thousands of tubs of sodding ice cream to shift.

  ‘The thing is Gobby, I like him and I know I shouldn’t. He’s different to me. He’s confident and brilliant and totally gorgeous and I’m just - not any of those things. I’m just me, boring and routine driven. I don’t like clubbing or crowds, or clothes shopping. I’m not slim, or blonde or interested in fashion. I don’t get goosebumps when I buy a new pair of shoes. I’m not like other people, I’m different. But I’m not sure it’s different good, I think it might be different weird. Goodness is it different weird? Am I weird?’

  Gobby raised his face and licked his lips.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be different weird,’ Samantha said, a frown filling her features.

  Gobby munched noisily, chomping on a chip.

  ‘What am I going to wear tonight? I can’t get out of it and I do need to see what the Presbook Centre is doing that we aren’t. And do I tell Cleo? If I tell her she’ll try to help and then she’ll suggest wearing something very, very small and very, very short.’

  Gobby suddenly looked up from his bowl of food and stared at the door to the kitchen. He arched his back and hissed.

  ‘What is it Gobby?’

  He just continued to look unsettled and backed away from the door.

  The door opened and Jimmy appeared, almost hitting Samantha on the back with the door as he came through.

  ‘Whoa! Sorry!’ Jimmy said quickly as he grabbed the door and Samantha hurriedly stood up from her seat on the step to avoid getting bashed.

  She could feel her cheeks turning crimson. Had he heard her talking to Gobby? Asking a feline what she should wear for the date that wasn’t really a date? She’d been talking to a cat! He would need no further evidence of her weirdness.

  ‘Hey, a cat! Aww, hello boy. Is it a boy?’ Jimmy asked, coming out into the alleyway and crouching down.

  ‘I think so, I mean I haven’t looked. He looks like a boy - well his face I mean,’ she replied.

  ‘Hey boy, come here. You’re not scared of me are you? Come on,’ Jimmy encouraged, stretching out his hand and rubbing his thumb and forefinger towards Gobby who had taken refuge under an empty catering sized box of peas.

  Samantha watched as Jimmy whistled quietly at Gobby, coaxing him out of hiding and towards his hand.

  He knelt down on the concrete ground, getting the knees of his designer jeans dirty, and called for the cat. Gobby looked first to Samantha and then at Jimmy, or the other way round maybe, because of his eye. Then sensing there was nothing to be afraid of, he crept out from under the box and slunk up to the ice skater.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Jimmy asked as Gobby rubbed his face against his hands as he stroked him.

  ‘Gobby,’ Samantha answered, watching Jimmy’s affection with the cat.

  She swallowed and tried to get some saliva into her dry mouth as she wondered what it felt like to have your body stroked by his hands.

  ‘What?’ Jimmy queried, turning to look at her.

  ‘Um, it’s Gobolino. Well that’s what I call him. He doesn’t belong to anyone, I checked, no collar and no electronic chip so the vet said. I think he’s got fleas again but he doesn’t like the powder and he won’t take worm tablets either. I tried crushing them up in his food but he just sniffs them out. And he won’t eat normal cat food, I tried, even the expensive stuff. He only eats leftovers, which I know isn’t good for him but I just thought it was probably better than Andre’s kebab meat - especially when it’s covered in chilli sauce,’ Samantha rambled, watching Jimmy continue to rub Gobby up and down.

  ‘Gobolino, the witch’s cat,’ Jimmy remarked, picking the cat up and sitting him on his lap.

  ‘Have you read the book?’ Samantha enquired wide-eyed.

  ‘Of course! It’s one of the greatest books ever. Although I haven’t actually read it - it was serialised in a storytelling magazine with an audio cassette I used to get when I was about eight,’ Jimmy replied with a smile.

  Samantha smiled back at him.

  ‘He’s an affectionate little fella isn’t he?’ Jimmy remarked as he stood up, holding Gobby in his arms.

  ‘He didn’t like Dave,’ Samantha commented.

  ‘A good judge of character too then.’

  There was silence apart from Gobby’s energetic purring and Samantha began to perspire as she desperately thought of something to say.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot why I was looking for you. There’s been a slight collapse in one of the dressing rooms,’ Jimmy informed her, putting Gobby on the floor.

  ‘A collapse! Who’s collapsed? Have you called an ambulance? Is it Mrs Nelmes? I’ve told her countless times not to go into restricted areas but her mind wanders and…’ Samantha began, opening the door and preparing to rush off.

  ‘No Sam, wait, not a collapse like that. One of the make-up stations has come away from the wall. No blood spilt just a bit of foundation and eye liner,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh goodness, that’s awful. Well, not as awful as if Mrs Nelmes had collapsed obviously, but awful enough. I’ll see to it, I’ll ring the repair man,’ Samantha said, slipping through the door and heading back into the kitchen at full pace.

  ‘Thanks, that would be great. I’ll tell Andrei and Mark you’ve - got it under control,’ Jimmy spoke as he watched Samantha hurry away from him.

  Mind focussed on the task in hand she rushed off through the kitchen, out into the restaurant and back towards her office. It was a relief to have an excuse to evade him, particularly now she knew he liked animals.

  It was almost 6.00pm when she got home and she still didn’t have a clue what she was going to wear. Gobby had been no help at all. When she had gone back to check on him after calling the carpenter, he had finished the portion of food she’d given him and fallen asleep under the pea box.

  The rest of the day, in between rushing about the hall multitasking to the max, she had tried to envisage the clothes in her wardrobe. It wasn’t all that hard given she had so few outfits and an excellent memory. Having said that, her wardrobe was actual
ly fit to burst because it was jam packed of Cleo’s clothes. High fashion items and contemporary classics Cleo couldn’t live without one minute and hated the next. So, although Samantha always protested, Cleo used her wardrobe as a dumping ground. Think every item from the Next sale from 2003-2009.

  Should she wear jeans? Or was that too casual? It was business after all. Perhaps she should wear a suit. She only had one that she wore for interviews and funerals and little else in between. She’d last worn it to a ridiculous time share appointment full of aggressive, hard-nosed sales people trying to sell her two weeks in Florida on the proviso that the American family would like to stay on a barge in the Norfolk Broads. That was one of Cleo’s worst jobs ever and supporting her by attending one of the ‘information days’ had been awful. By the time the so-called silver service lunch had been served up Samantha’s mind was befuddled with pyramid schemes and week sharing.

  Cleo hadn’t been cut out for the hard sell and Samantha had heard her glossing over the holiday properties and discussing the merits of Rimmel make-up with the female invitees. Unlike Wayne, who had spoken to Samantha, and done everything but screw her thumbs to the table in order to get her to sign up.

  Perhaps she should be really casual and wear a tracksuit. She only had one of those, the pastel pink one she had met Nipple Ring Boy in, and now that was faded from another of Cleo’s washing accidents.

  Cleo’s room was displaying the amber crystal when Samantha reached it. She knocked cautiously and waited for a response.

  ‘Sam is that you? If Jeremy’s here already I’m going to be at least half an hour. I’m in the middle of waxing,’ Cleo called out.

  Samantha opened the door and put her head round it. Cleo was sat on her bed, wearing nothing but some rather tiny red underwear, applying warm wax to one of her legs.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Samantha asked in a rather subdued voice.

  ‘God yes, you can help me with this. I seem to be making a right mess of it,’ Cleo spoke, ushering her sister into the room.

  Samantha came in and sat down on the bed next to Cleo.

  ‘Why the long face? Ah ha, I see they’ve made up your new name badge. Surely that was a highlight of your day - something to smile about? By the way, what on earth time did you get in last night? Jeremy left at eleven and I waited up until almost one with hot chocolate at the ready, but there was no sign of you,’ Cleo spoke as she put some waxing strips on her leg.

  ‘I had paperwork to do, at the office - you know - what with being manager,’ Samantha replied quickly.

  ‘So you didn’t go out with Darren last night?’ Cleo quizzed.

  ‘No,’ Samantha answered.

  Cleo let out a blood curdling scream as she ripped the strip from her leg.

  ‘God! This flaming kills! The things we have to do to be hair free! I thought epilating was painful but that has nothing on this,’ Cleo remarked, smoothing another strip of paper on her leg.

  ‘I didn’t go out with Darren last night - but I’m going out with him tonight,’ Samantha stated with a deep breath.

  ‘Wow! Great! Where? When? Is he coming here?’ Cleo babbled excitedly.

  ‘We’re going to see a band, Air Patrol at the Presbook Centre. I…’ Samantha started.

  ‘Air Patrol! How the Hell did he get tickets for that? When those tickets went on sale, must have been a few months ago now, they sold out in four minutes or something stupid - I heard it on the news,’ Cleo exclaimed impressed.

  ‘Have I heard any of their records? ‘I’m All Out of Love?’ Is that one of theirs?’ Samantha enquired.

  ‘No Muppet, that was Air Supply in the 1980s. Air Patrol is a rock band. They’ve had loads of hits, you’d know some of them for sure. God, I can’t believe you’re going to see them,’ Cleo carried on.

  ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ Samantha told her sister bluntly.

  Cleo let out another shriek as she ripped more hair from her leg.

  ‘Is your skin supposed to go that red?’ Samantha enquired as she scrutinised her sister’s shin.

  ‘Yes, at least I think so. Anyway I’m done now and hopefully, by the time Jeremy arrives, it’ll be back to somewhere near flesh colour. Either that or I’ll have to wear stockings or something. Right, outfits, come on, let’s have a look, I am, after all, the fashion expert of the house,’ Cleo spoke.

  She grabbed her dressing gown, wrapped it round her and got to her feet. Then she led the way to Samantha’s bedroom.

  ‘I was thinking maybe a suit. My black one or maybe I could borrow one of yours. There’s that grey one you bought that was too big,’ Samantha suggested as Cleo marched straight up to her wardrobe and threw open the doors.

  ‘A suit! To a rock concert! Are you insane?’ Cleo exclaimed in horror.

  ‘Well, I’ll be having a look at the facility too, in a professional capacity. They are our rivals for the council’s cash,’ Samantha told her as Cleo began to remove articles from the cupboard. Blouses, tops and skirts were parted, taken out, scrutinised and then either put back or held on to.

  ‘But it’s a date isn’t it? We have to dress you for a date. Try on this, this and this,’ Cleo said, handing Samantha some items of clothing.

  ‘I can’t wear this, you wore it to that party where the hostess was sick all over your boyfriend,’ Samantha said and she held the green top away from herself with two fingers, as if it were soiled.

  ‘Oh God, yeah it was. But she wasn’t sick on me, just him. What was his name?’ Cleo asked her mind wandering.

  ‘Well whatever it was I can’t wear that top. I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else all night. He was called Gareth I think,’ Samantha said and she dropped the offending item to the floor.

  ‘Alright, well try this top instead,’ Cleo spoke and she handed her sister a replacement.

  ‘Oh no, I can’t wear that one. That one you wore when you went on that date with - erm, I think his name was Mark. He took you horse riding. It wasn’t very supportive and you basically cantered out of your cups. What was the silly name of the horse?’ Samantha told her.

  ‘Jesus Sam! Do you know where I wore every item of clothing I ever had?’ Cleo wanted to know.

  ‘No. Well, OK, probably. Doughnut, that was what the horse was called. Hang on, how about, this top?’ Samantha asked and she pulled out a plain black, long-sleeved top.

  ‘Hmm,’ Cleo said, surveying the item of clothing.

  ‘What does “hmm” mean?’ Samantha asked her.

  ‘It means the top is plain and boring and it will say “Hello Darren, I’m Samantha Smith and I’m as plain and boring as this top I’m wearing”,’ Cleo stated bluntly.

  ‘Well, if I wear something of yours it’ll say “Hello, I’m Cleo, let’s cut to the chase and go to bed”,’ Samantha told her.

  ‘Cheek! No it won’t. It’ll say “Hello Darren, I really like you, so much so I’ve made a real effort to dress nicely”,’ Cleo insisted.

  ‘Oh I don’t know - maybe I shouldn’t go,’ Samantha spoke with a heavy sigh.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’re going. What time is he coming?’ Cleo asked, checking her watch.

  ‘He’s not. I’m meeting him there at seven thirty. My goodness, it’s half six, I haven’t showered, I’ve got nothing to wear and I need to catch the bus at ten past,’ Samantha exclaimed hysterically.

  ‘You’re not getting a bus, get the tube.’

  ‘You know I don’t like the tube and what if there’s a priest on there or something? I’ll probably end up sat next to him and then I won’t be able to relax and I’ll be clutching my bag to my chest the whole way,’ Samantha explained.

  ‘Mum’s mugger wasn’t a real nun you know.’

  ‘Yes I know that, but can you tell a real priest from a fake one?’

  ‘Right, well, so we avoid everyone from the church, imposters or not, by calling a taxi. Now calm down or you’ll make yourself red and blotchy. Go and have a shower now, I’ll find you some
thing to wear that’s a compromise between understated and a come on and then I’ll do your hair and make up,’ Cleo spoke and she began shooing Samantha towards the door of her bedroom.

  ‘But what about your date with Jeremy? Won’t he be here any minute?’ Samantha asked, stopping in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll call him, tell him I won’t be ready until half past. He’s usually here too early anyway and I’m never ready on time,’ Cleo spoke with a grin.

  ‘Thanks Cleo,’ Samantha answered, smiling back at her sister.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there, shoo! Get in the shower!’ Cleo ordered and she pushed Samantha out onto the landing and closed the door behind her.

  Fourteen

  The taxi arrived at 7.15pm and Samantha began the five mile journey to the Presbook Centre.

  Cleo hadn’t done too bad a job with her outfit. She was wearing jeans, some designer ones Cleo had bought in a size twelve instead of a ten in some sale or other. Usually a twelve wasn’t big enough but Samantha could only assume they were a big cut, because they hugged her in all the right places and she could sit down without feeling her stomach was rolling up towards her chin.

  With the jeans she was wearing a red long-sleeved top that had two bits to tie around the neck that Cleo had done up in what she called a ‘nonchalant bow’. On her feet were a pair of shoes she had long since forgotten she owned. They were black wedged sandals she had bought on impulse in Simpkin’s Shoes. Lydia, the most bitchy of the band of The Witches of Woolston, had been standing by her at the time, looking over her shoulder when Samantha had been contemplating buying them for Cleo. Lydia knew Samantha would never wear anything like it and suggested loudly that Cleo might prefer them in yellow. She had then cackled, bringing Samantha to the attention of the other witches. Riled by the comment Samantha had picked another pair up in her size, taken them to the counter and bought them with her ten percent discount, loudly announcing they were just the right pair to go with the new Miss Selfridge dress she had bought to attend her cute cousin’s wedding. It had been worth the nineteen pounds ninety nine just to see the smarmy looks wiped from the witches’ faces for five minutes.