Authors: Lauren Davies
‘You kna Cliff Richard?’ Maz asked after a moment.
‘Yup,’ Troy replied.
I nodded with a mouthful of mint choc chip.
‘D’yas reckon he really is the Messiah?’
‘What?’ We broke into hysterical laughter. ‘Aagh, ice cream headache,’ I screamed.
‘Na, but listen reet. He cannot be livin’ that pure life for nothin’. I mean he’s a rock an’ roll star, man. He cannot be here just to sing them crap songs and be al’ holier than thou. He must be gettin’ somethin’ at the end, like crucifixion or risin’ from the dead, mustn’t he?’
‘Maz. He isn’t the Messiah, though.’
‘Why not then?’
‘Well, I don’t know … because … because … I don’t know. That bloke Lloyd Webber is. You must admit, he works miracles with musicals.’
‘Aye true. And you’d have to be a bloody saint to marry someone lookin’ like Sarah Brightman. Scary woman or what?’
The night was rapidly degenerating into a post-work alcohol and junk food session. After the unsettling episode in the pub, I had needed de-stressing with calories. Maz was only too happy to oblige and Troy had tagged along for ‘a new
experience of you British folk’. I had somehow managed to swallow my pride and invite Troy to join us for a girlie night in. I admit it felt odd. Yesterday, boyfriend potential, today as off limits as a Black Forest gâteau in Jodie Kidd’s fridge. To be honest, I don’t think Troy even realised how close he’d come to being accosted by a rampant woman. In fact, Troy was so baffled by British humour, he didn’t seem to understand what was going on at all half the time.
Such nights with Maz generally ended up with us playing games like ‘count your stretch marks’, ‘who would you want to be in your next life?’ or ‘name all the people you’ve ever shagged, even the pig-ugly ones’. Tonight’s game was ‘mysterious questions of life’. OK, it wasn’t too taxing, but in this state, we were the first to admit that Trivial Pursuit was a little out of our league. Answering impossible questions for plastic bits of pie … What’s the point? I’d rather ponder over stupid questions and get real food. Much more satisfying.
While Maz and Troy discussed how it was possible for all the kids from
Fame
to know the same dance when they impulsively broke into song, I thought back to the afternoon’s events.
My mother had left the pub alone, after my father’s unprecedented rebellion. War had been declared on all those responsible for the family’s so-called demise and I had been cursed for single-handedly ruining my mother’s life.
‘You were too much like me,’ my father had said honestly. ‘She can’t stand the sight of me, so you were never going to have much of a chance. She blames you for everything. She
even says she knew from the start. Apparently, she thinks her body stayed perfect after Susie, then you came along and messed it all up.’ Oh what a selfish, vindictive foetus I had been.
‘You weren’t planned, you see.’ He was drunk and desperate to explain. ‘She likes everything to be planned, Jennifer. It all has to be organised and perfect, so that people will see and be impressed. She only wanted one daughter. A perfect only child.’
Silly me for disappointing everyone. Perhaps the stork should just have dropped me off somewhere else.
‘You were always my favourite.’ He had become tearful. ‘You were my little girl. You still are.’
My poor father. He had continued to talk and explain and cry as if to release all that had passed unspoken between us over the years. Why he had never stood up for me, why he had let her try to push me around. It was strange to hear and upsetting to see, but I felt as if a new honesty had come into our lives. Perhaps we could try again and support each other openly.
Father’s morose stage had been brought to a conclusion by Auld Vinny demanding that his drinking partner ‘Stop actin’ like a ponce and play catch up’. The bizarre duo had occupied their own corner of the pub, gibbering away until after last orders. My father had always had a fascination with boats and listened intently to Vinny’s wildly exaggerated tales of life at sea. It was so good to see a sparkle in his usually dull, saddened eyes. The man who had finally stumbled out of the door singing ‘Sloop John B’ was not the man who had traipsed in behind my mother several hours before. I
had felt so proud. Proud of him, proud of myself, even proud of my new job. It had somehow changed things.
‘Earth calling Jennifer.’ Maz waved her arms in front of my glazed eyes. ‘What do you reckon then?’
‘To what?’
‘Sex.’
I glanced quickly at Troy. ‘Um, it’s OK I suppose. It depends on …’
‘Nah, you gobshite. You weren’t listenin’. Why is it that when you’re havin’ sex, you suddenly start thinkin’ about weird stuff?’
‘How do you know? I do not …’
‘Na, not just you, everyone. You kna like about shopping, or … or what’s on tele, or what you have to do the next day.’
‘Yeah,’ I joined in. ‘Like “Ooh, I must tidy my knicker drawer and clean the oven”.’
‘Or you remember the name of someone you’ve been tryin’ to think of fer the last two weeks.’
We erupted in fits of laughter.
‘Or the special offers on the meat counter at Tesco’s.’
Troy laughed heartily. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed. I put on a straight face and stopped giggling. ‘Well, I don’t know Marilyn, that’s never happened to me in my life.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘Oh yeah.’
Remembering Troy’s existence, I regained my composure. I glanced at him as he sat on the floor and tried to take in the view. The wide shoulders, the tan, the perfectly ironed, crisp clothes. He was almost too perfect. I sighed. Perhaps it was
a blessing in disguise that he had only had eyes for our hip-wiggling waiter. Let’s face it, new relationships are such hard work. You have to get to know him; he’ll try to get to know you. You’ll have a good time but pretend to be something you’re not. You’ll have fumbling kisses, then it’ll get passionate. You’ll hold hands in the street and he’ll tell you you’re beautiful. Then he’ll ask you to move in perhaps. You’ll spend more time together. You’ll get to know his habits; he’ll find out you really do burp, fart and occasionally pick your nose. He’ll start wanting nights out with the lads, weekends alone. You won’t hold hands any more. You’ll stop going to movies and on dirty weekends and start going to Ikea and B&Q instead. Then you’ll get bored. He’ll stop telling you you’re beautiful. You’ll get paranoid, feel ugly and start eating more. He’ll watch
A Question of Sport
and fall asleep without saying he loves you. You’ll read all your horoscopes in every paper and get totally confused. Then, just as you convince yourself you’re being stupid, he’ll run off with a silicone, brain-dead secretary and break your heart. Aagh!
I stared at Troy as my imaginary future flashed before my eyes. He caught my psychotic expression and coughed nervously. Bloody hell, I’d had a lucky escape. I had saved myself months, perhaps years of emotional trauma. Thank God for gay men.
‘Boy I’m beat,’ said Troy, after a silent pause. He scrambled to his feet and smiled at us both. ‘Goodnight girls.’
‘Stay if you like, Troy. You’re very welcome,’ I beamed through my new inner peace.
‘Gee, thanks, but Julio, the waiter …’ He tilted his head towards me for a sign of recognition. As if I could forget.
‘… Julio knocks off at one.’
‘And he’ll be knocking you off shortly afterwards,’ Maz howled.
‘Maz!’ I squeeled.
Troy blushed and gave us a knowing wink. I followed him to the door, kissed him on the cheek and watched as he bounded down the stairs with an ‘I’m going to get lucky’ spring in his step. I felt my inner peace start to crumble.
‘Jammy sod,’ I grumbled. ‘At least somebody’s getting some action around here.’ I slammed the door, huffed exaggeratedly and trudged back to the sofa for another glass of cheap red wine.
13th February, 10:00 a.m.
People always say that your body is at its thinnest point first thing in the morning. This particular day I strongly opposed that theory as I awoke to find someone had cruelly switched my own body during the night with that of a beached ocean mammal. In a vain attempt to spoon myself into a pair of jeans which had fitted me – rather sexily I thought – in December, I had almost cut off the circulation in the lower half of my body and ripped both side seams at the hips. Considering that jeans were originally designed to withstand about 40 years of tough cowboy life, this was no mean feat. ‘They’ve shrunk,’ I moaned to myself, and started to gripe about ‘shoddy workmanship’.
So as not to live in fat person’s denial, I locked myself in the bathroom and forced a glance at my naked body in the full-length mirror. Lordy, lordy, I thought, staring at my hips. Who filled up the saddle bags?
Full-length mirrors are a cruel invention as far as the naked human body is concerned. The combination of a full-length mirror and weighing scales comes close to sadism.
‘How much? You’re wrong!’ I yelled, kicking the scales and fiddling with the adjustment knob. ‘You just can’t find an accurate pair of scales these days. Total crap.’
After forty minutes of trying to strangle the scales, staring at my reflection with only one eye, holding in my stomach until I could no longer breathe, and blaming the earth’s gravitational pull, I finally had to admit the inevitable. My recent diet of alcohol, pork scratchings and chocolate, combined with a distinct lack of physical activity, other than working behind the bar, had taken its toll. The chance of my achieving supermodel status in the near future had seriously dwindled. Today, in my eyes, I was disgusting, obese, repulsive … depressed. I slumped on the turquoise woolly bath mat with my back to the mirror. My stomach rested on my thighs, exhausted from the effort of being held in for more than ten minutes. I needed a plan.
My first idea was swimming. I dug out my rarely used navy Speedo cossie, and smuggled it to the bathroom. No chance. My hips and thighs sprang out of the elasticated leg holes with amazing volume. No way was I going to reveal my white, dimpled body mass to any toned athletic lifeguard. Besides, I decided the chlorine was bad for the condition of my hair. A very important consideration.
Next came aerobics. That idea lasted all of thirty seconds. The thought of throwing my newly accumulated bulk around a huge mirrored room, surrounded by two dozen
Lycra-thonged anorexic fitness freaks made me feel physically sick. I had never been very good at public displays of co-ordination and I envisaged having to pay the equivalent of two entrance fees to cover the amount of space I took up in the studio compared to everyone else. I was exaggerating, of course, but it was one of those days.
A personal daily exercise routine was my next bright idea. Exercise confined to the boundaries of the flat involving neither Lycra nor leg-warmers. Perhaps eventually, when I was closer to presentable, I could hire a strapping male personal trainer, preferably black, six foot, and called Leroy, to take me through my paces. After this spurt of initial enthusiasm, I managed three partial sit-ups before collapsing in a heap with severe indigestion. So much for Leroy.
I finally decided on the simple option of jogging. Every day I saw people of all shapes and sizes ploughing the streets, Walkman in one hand, sweatband on the other. It did have a public aspect but I figured that with a cunning sporty disguise I could perhaps pass unnoticed. It would be worth it in the long run. I had to at least reach the outer limits of toned. I mean, how hard could it possibly be?
‘Help me, I’m dying,’ I wheezed, falling through the front door of the flat and collapsing at Maz’s feet. ‘Water … food … Ambulance.’
‘Bloody hell, lass, what have you been doing?’ Maz was laughing hysterically at the crumpled sweaty mass on the floor.
‘Dying … I can’t take the pain … Water,’ I spluttered. ‘Must kill … Mr Motivator.’
Maz continued to laugh as I rolled onto my back, arms outstretched, with ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’ still blaring in my ears.
‘Maz, my head’s boiling up.’ I took a few deep breaths. ‘I can’t feel my legs. Help!’
My trainers, or rather £9.99 plimsolls, felt like shackles on my feet. I couldn’t move my body, and my sweat-soaked T-shirt clung with gay abandon to every spare tyre. Sweat dripped from my bedraggled curls, stinging my already red eyes. I could feel the pink ‘Dance Crazee’ headband slowly compressing my throbbing head. Wow, jogging a mile was harder than I thought.
I was suddenly roused from my post-exercise stupor by the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. ‘Flippin’ ’eck, it’s Mad Lizzy! You’ve let yersel’ go a bit, haven’t you, pet?’
I jumped to my feet with sudden ease as I saw a tall, muscular, huge man standing over me with a stupid grin on his big face. ‘I thought headbands went oot years ago,’ he roared, clutching his sides. ‘You’re the funniest thing I’ve seen fer ages.’
‘Charmed I’m sure.’ I scowled at what I assumed was another of Maz’s one-night stands. ‘Yeah, and I suppose you’re fashion personified, I don’t think,’ I growled.
The stranger laughed again and held out a large, strong hand. ‘Jen, I’m Dave.’
‘My brother,’ Maz added, ‘recently released from Her Majesty’s Hotel, Durham.’
Maz and Dave – not to be confused with a famous cockney singing duo – spent the next few hours catching up on four years’ worth of sibling banter.
I quickly returned to my usual fitness-free self and settled down to hear ‘Tales from the Inside’ à la Dave. Each story seemed to consist of ‘dirty screws’, incredibly inventive smuggling of contraband and wildly elaborate escape attempts by Dave’s fellow ‘residents’. The details were obviously greatly exaggerated but Dave was a professional yarn-spinner and Maz was in her element in his company.
Dave’s last four-year stint had been the result of a bizarrely pathetic attempt by himself and his gang of mates to rob the local ten-pin bowling alley. More stoned than St Stephen, and in search of financial backing for a late-night curry binge, the four friends had broken into Ten Pin City – Fast Family Fun. Closed-circuit-TV tapes later revealed the clearly identifiable troop staggering round the building, using 50p pieces from the safe to win cuddly toys from the clamping machine and each carefully selecting a suitable pair of Happy-Days-style bowling shoes.
Although the safe had been successfully cracked and bags of paper money extracted, Dave and the boys had never received any financial gain from their crime. Stig, the least intelligent and most stoned member of the group, had fallen asleep while guarding the money as the other three had attempted to ice-skate down the bowling lanes. A joint had fallen from his mouth and onto the surrounding bags of notes. It was estimated that £10,000 was destroyed in the resulting fire. Dave was picked up by the fire brigade, still sporting a pair of red and blue shoes with ‘11’ painted on the back, and delivered to Whitley Bay police. The group had become known as ‘Smokey and the Bowling Bandits’, and Dave had returned to jail for a third time.
‘Aye wor Maz, you’ve done well fer yerself, pet. Pub, flat an’ al’ this. I’m glad, you didny turn oot like us.’ Dave rolled a big joint and lay back on the sofa. His massive frame dwarfed the room. ‘Aye, you’ve got it sorted, lass, well done.’
Maz was quieter than I’d ever seen her. She just smiled at her brother and puffed on a cigarette. Dave hadn’t let her visit him in prison. He didn’t want her to be embarrassed by her own brother. From the look on Maz’s face, she thought Dave was fantastic.
Dave turned to me. I felt sheepish next to this big man. In his enormous presence, I actually felt petite. Something made me want to talk like one of the Kray Twins, but I quickly banished the thought from my mind.
‘So you’re Jen,’ he asked loudly. ‘Funny ’ow we’ve never met, eh?’
‘Yes, funny, hmmm.’
‘I thought you’d be reet posh. Big house and geet swanky job and al’ that.’
‘No, not at all, A’im not porsh.’ How Now Brown Cow. Oh God, I didn’t know what to say to a … a criminal. Thoughts of knee-cappings flashed through my ridiculously vivid imagination.
‘What do you do, Jen?’
‘I work for Maz. I used to …’ I suddenly thought back to my brief encounter with ex-con Chip. Although my career in corporate law was a far cry from the lawyers Dave would have met, I felt the intricacies of legal practice would be lost on him. ‘… to um … not work here, but now … I do, see,’ I stammered.
‘Uh, right, aye.’ He stared at me blankly. ‘Well, I need a piss,’ he said, and left the room.
I breathed for the first time in about half an hour. I could be so daft. He was Maz’s slightly clueless brother and here I was treating him like a serial killer, making the poor guy feel completely uncomfortable. Luckily Maz didn’t seem to notice.
‘He’s lush isn’t he?’ she sighed after a while, lighting another fag. ‘He learned tons of stuff in jail you kna. Speaks French an’ everythin’.’
It seemed Dave had entered prison as a poorly schooled amateur criminal, but had emerged, four years later, educated in French, carpentry, hot-wiring, ram-raiding and drug-dealing. He had enough contacts in the criminal underworld to start up his own branch of the North-East Mafia.
‘Oui, juz parles france-ay,’ said Dave in a strong Geordie accent as he re-entered the room. ‘Ave-hey voose le fer?’
‘What does that mean?’ I laughed.
‘Ave yuz got a light? Wait, I kna better stuff than that.’
‘Ya posh git …’
‘Hang on, sis, I’m thinkin’. Aye, voolez-voose couchez avec moise. J’ai un trayse grand sex?’
‘What did that last bit mean?’ I was beginning to relax. ‘Will you come to bed with me …’
‘I’ve got a geet big —’
‘Hi guys!’ Troy suddenly appeared in the room. ‘The apartment door was open so I kinda let myself in. Howzit goin’, guys?’
‘Great, Troy.’ I jumped up and grabbed the arm of his crease-proof shirt and kissed his smooth cheek. I instantly
wished I’d put on more make-up, or had a full body transplant. Gay or not, being in the presence of such carefully groomed and toned physical perfection made me feel like Cilla Black on HRT.
‘Troy, this is Dave, Maz’s brother.’
‘Hiya Dave, great to meet ya.’ Troy smiled broadly and patted Dave on the back, almost hugging him in the process. ‘Great name, Dave. Kinda manly,’ he joked.
‘Aye right.’ Dave looked puzzled and ignored Troy’s offer of a handshake.
Troy continued unabashed. ‘So Dave, what’s up? You’ve got a really great body, man, d’you work out? What d’you press?’
Great, Troy, why not just ask him his favourite position and be done with it? The barrage of questions remained unanswered as Maz and I looked on, intrigued. Dave stared blankly at the sparkling, enthusiastic American. He was totally lost for words, which, I imagined, was not a regular occurrence for Dave. Of course, compared to the people Dave had spent the last few years with, Troy was as alien as a great musical talent in the Top Ten.
Dave took a long, slow drag on a tab as Troy questioned him about where he liked to buy his clothes, what aftershave he wore and which cocktails he preferred. Maz and I tried not to laugh. Eventually, frowning, Dave stood up, blocking the light as he did so. ‘I’m gan fer a piss,’ he growled, and left the room.
Troy and I walked out past the scrapyard and down the steep incline towards the river. He swung my arm playfully as I attempted banal conversation. Fearing Dave would stamp on
Troy’s head if he heard ‘you’ve got a great body, man’ one more time, I had offered to take Troy out for a bit of cold, fresh air under the guise of showing him the sights. As to which sights, I was still trying to think of some, although four generations of one family wearing matching radio-actively orange shellsuits had provided a moment of special interest.
The sky was bleak and a strong north wind played havoc with the collection of anti-frizz products that I had cemented to my hair. As we reached the derelict pub halfway down the hill, I heard muffled laughter, followed by a loud explosion. A rocket landed at Troy’s feet and set fire to the laces of his incredibly shiny boots. Bangers exploded all around us as Troy danced about in an attempt to extinguish the flames. I suppressed my giggles at the sight of Troy doing a very good impression of Riverdance, and pulled him away from the war zone.
‘A’reet ya chava!’ shrieked the gang of small boys from the top of the crumbling wall. ‘Ya dance like a bleedin’ lass, man.’ They laughed loudly.
‘Damn kids,’ Troy growled. ‘They can be so cruel.’ I was surprised to see tears welling up in his eyes.
‘Howay man, come ’n’ get us! Gis a kiss, auld wuman.’
Worried that my delicate friend might start sobbing hysterically, I guided him down the hill, feet still smoking from his close encounter.
A small ginger-haired boy of about thirteen strutted past with a car stereo under his arm. He stared menacingly up at Troy and began to approach us. As he reached into the immense folds of material in his jeans, searching for a
pocket, I felt Troy flinch. Ginger kid pulled out a half-smoked cigar. ‘Got a light, mate?’ he asked. Troy stared blankly and hurried past.
‘Fuck ya then, ya ponce!’ came the reply.
Bravery, I decided, was not Troy’s strong point, but everyone has their weaknesses. He hadn’t kept such a perfect set of teeth from being a fighter. I squeezed his arm reassuringly.
‘Troy, are you finding it hard to adjust to living here?’ We sat quietly on a bench by the river. I glanced down the road in the direction of my old flat.
‘Oh, not really,’ he stuttered. Troy fiddled with the toggles on his coat and stared down at his slightly charred boots. I attempted conversation.
‘So, Troy, as it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow …’ (Not that I believe in all that sentimental tripe of course) ‘… will you and Julio be doing something special together?’
Troy continued to fiddle with his toggles and avoided my gaze.
‘Do you have any plans at all? Have you bought him a card?’
No answer was the loud reply.