She looked dubious, but turned anyway and walked towards a door marked DOCTOR – PRIVATE. There was a cardboard insert just beneath this:
DR MAXINE FOX
Ooh, perfecto! I practically hugged my bad self with sheer molten glee. I turned and gave Susie, who was by now staring at me saucer-eyed, the thumbs up.
‘Where you going, Ave?’ she whispered.
‘Just got to – um – check out the, ah, the lie of the land!’ I finished in a distracted rush, watching Dr Fox’s back go through the doorway to her office. She turned, and she looked at me with just a
hint
of that arrogance which often seems to bubble under the compliant surface of Chinese birds – or perhaps that was just my fevered imagination . . .
‘Susie?’ she said, a bit stern like, and I straightened my pencil skirt and pushed Mum down as she tried to stand up. ‘Get the weight off your feet!’ I advised her over my shoulder as I tip-tapped into Dr Fox’s lair. ‘You’re standing for two!’ Too late I realized I’d played into her soppy old hands, and I was aware of her face crumpling again. Whatever!
Dr Fox was sitting down behind her desk when I got into her room, which was a shame as I’d been hoping for a good look at her legs.
‘So you are . . .’ She looked at her clipboard, then up at me. She did that eyebrow thing again. ‘Susie Sweet. But there’s surely some mistake. It says here you’re thirty-five.’
‘We live fast up Ravendene,’ I said with a winning twinkle. The Fox frowned and I realized I’d got it the wrong way round. ‘Good genes?’ I said weakly. Then, in the corner, I espied a table-type thing covered in slippery paper. ‘Shall I get my kit off, then?’ I stood and began to unzip my skirt.
‘PLEASE!’ She stood up and shouted, but she was sort of smiling too. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? This is hardly the time or place for jokes.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I sat down. I’d tried the humorous approach, perhaps now it was time for a touch of tragedy. ‘It’s just that –’ And here I made a little wobble come to my voice – ‘My mum – Susie Sweet – she’s never done anything like this before . . . she’s a Catholic, innit . . .’
‘Oh dear!’ said the Fox sternly.
‘Yeah, it sucks, dunnit!’ I agreed readily.
‘But if that’s the case – excuse me, what
is
your name?’
‘Maria Sweet. Well, Ave-Maria Sweet. But you can call me Sugar.’
‘If that’s the case,
Miss Sweet
, then why is your mother here?’
‘Mental health,’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘She reckons it’s . . . ah, the spawn of the Devil. Like in that film. Cos she’s, um, what’s the word,
sinned
. And lapsed. And like, we all know it ain’t Satan the Second, of course –’ See the clever use of ‘we’ there, to bond me and the Fox into a team! – ‘but there ain’t no telling
her
that. And she says if she’s made to have it, she’s going to, like –’ I knew I was being a bit naughty here, of course, but all’s fair in love and war and stuff – ‘um,
kill
it. So, you know, me being a good daughter and all that . . . well, I thought, might as well get it done by a professional.’ Uh-oh, the Fox was looking daggers at me! ‘I mean, might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Not that I think it’s killing . . . not like hanging . . . but on the other hand, you know, they deserve it most of the time.’ She was looking at me absolutely baffled, I realized. ‘Kiddy-fiddlers?’ I added hopefully.
The Fox gave me a look that could have meant anything – fascination, lust, love – but, fair play, most likely meant that she thought I was an ocean-going prannet. So I held up my hands, got to my feet and admitted defeat. ‘Best leave it, yeah?’
‘Yes. Best.’ The Fox wasn’t having any, that was plain to see, as she went to the door and opened it, looking at me sternly. Talk about ‘a whopper a day keeps the doctor away’!
But a playa never says neva, and as I passed her I couldn’t help whipping out a tampon, pulling off the cardboard and unrolling it in one graceful action – George Clooney’s got nothing on me when it comes to smooth moves, I tell you! I grabbed a pen from the Fox’s top pocket and scribbled my mobey number. Before she knew what had happened, I’d shoved it into the pocket, with her pen,
and
copped a quick backhand breaststroke into the bargain.
But she still wasn’t having none, it seemed – and so neither was I, apparently. She shot me a look that would have put me straight into the freezer compartment, had I not been so hot-blooded, nudge nudge!
Joking apart, I knew when I was beat. So I licked my lips, batted my eyelashes and ran my hands casually down my breasts, as if smoothing my sweater, causing my nipples to pop out in a defeated, forlorn sort of way, natch.
But she still wasn’t having none. She held the door open a fraction wider. As I walked away, I heard her voice, crisp and cross –
‘Send your mother in, will you –’
I nodded, not even looking at her –
‘
Sugar
.’
7
‘And then she pushed me back on the table thing, right, and before you could say, “Do me three ways!” we were sliding about on that slippy paper. AND she looked like Lucy Liu!’
‘What – right there in her office?’ gasped Baggy at my feet, biting off a bit of cotton from the hem of my culottes. NOT one of my favourite outfits, to be honest.
‘No – in
her
dreams!’ sniggered Aggy, shoving him with his foot and me with his elbow. ‘Admit, sherbet-dip – the nearest you got to experiencing the foxy doctor’s bedside manner was when she asked you to help your mum on to a trolley!’
‘OK . . .’ I shrugged, ‘but it’s gonna happen, I just know it. She’s playing a game with me, innit. You know . . . whatsit gratification . . . when you’re not getting none—’
‘
Deferred
gratification, saccharin-swizzler,’ said Aggy. He snipped something off my sleeve and stood back, squinting. ‘OK – it’s a wrap!’
I gasped; I wasn’t expecting my career as a muse to come to such a sudden end. ‘That’s the collection? It’s finished?’
‘The difficult bit – the designing is. Now all we have to do is make, show and market the gear – easy-peasy.’ Aggy laughed. ‘Just think, Bags will never have to kneel at your minging plates of meat ever again!’
‘If only he could stop kneeling at yours too!’ I shot back fast as lightning, and they both pinched me as one in two places. As well as the pain, I felt a warm glow: of belonging, of confidence, of self-esteem, of being valued for something other than sex, which had been all I’d known since I was thirteen or something. I was sad to think this might end.
‘So . . . you won’t need me any more?’
Aggy shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to go back to skivvying for us.’
I shook my head, no way!
‘As I thought . . . well, then I guess the answer is no, we don’t need you to work for us any more.’ He paused. ‘So I guess you’ll just have to settle for being a very special friend of ours, sugar-shack. How will that do?’
I threw my arms around him.
‘Group hug!’ shrieked Baggy, springing to his feet. As we stood there, I must admit that tears came to my eyes. And not
just
because Bags had stepped on my toes with the full force of his beloved body.
I walked home on air, feeling so good about myself, even though I was once more officially unemployed. I’d soon find something else. And what did I care – once a muse, always a muse!
My mood didn’t change when I put my key in the door and walked into the kitchen. Jesus was lying on the sofa flicking through some tit-tastic lad mag and flipped me a friendly middle finger as I passed by. Swearers Three were still at it, it seemed, and even the twins ‘singing’, if that was the the word for it, couldn’t get me down. I smiled as I watched them do a dance routine on the kitchen table, little Rajinder between them, performing their latest opus, ‘The Little Shih-Tzu That Swore.’
‘O little Shih-tzu you look so sweet
From the bow on your head to your four furry feet
But there’s one thing about you that makes me sore
YOU’RE THE LITTLE SHIH-TZU THAT SWORE!’
Then, of course, came a list of all the bad words the delinquent dog could say. I looked at the twins swearing happily, their Punjabi mate between them, and I looked across at Mum, her back to a sink piled high with dirty dishes, laughing as she drank a watermelon Bacardi Breezer. I felt real pleased with her for pulling through her little adventure so cheerily – not to mention myself, for setting it up so well. We were like some warped sort of Waltons – only more fun. Personally, I was well proud of us.
Well, my love life seemed to be sorted – the foxy doctor was a sure thing, the way I saw it – my social life was sound – when the Baggy-Aggy collection came out, I was gonna be getting free goes at every bowling alley in town – but I still needed a rotten old job. And I still had this dream of getting out of Brighton, nabbing some private dick – heh heh! – and searching for Kim; sorry, REN. Well, both of ’em – Ren for Mum and Kim for me. But no need to tell her that right this minute!
So because Susie thought I was intending to get Ren back and do the brave single-mother stuff, she said that even when I got another job, I could still live at home rent free so’s to be able to save – she’s good like that, not too bright; I like that in a mother. Which is why I s’pose I could take or leave motherhood myself – there’s just this whole side of yourself: intelligence, selfishness, enjoyment, that you’re meant to kill off in order to be what people think of as a ‘good’ mother. But without them, so far as I could see, you weren’t any longer a real person, just some sort of robot programmed to wipe asses and blow noses. Well, my mum’s a Catholic and my husband’s a Lutheran and I never really got a handle on either except that the first lot go in for a lot more confessing, but I do know one thing – if the good Lord had intended me to be a robot, I’d have a little panel on my chest that opened up so you could tell me what to do.
So that Thursday morning I bought the
Brighton Argus
, wrapped up warm and took it down to the beach for a read of the jobs. It’s a good thing I’m not depressively inclined, or I would have drowned myself in the briny right there and then. The first job that caught my eye required a Chinese-speaking employee, which of course made me think of my foxy doc; get this – you had to be IT literate, and have at least two years experience! And for this, you got the skanky sum of £6 an hour. And they wonder why kids become ho’s and drug dealers! It’s a little word like RESPECT – and ho’s and dealers get a damn sight more respect from their clients, the way I see it, than ‘decent’ employees get from employers. At least they pay a decent rate for the goods!
I could’ve quite fancied working at the Spud-u-like (FRESH – HEALTHY – SATISFYING) but was put off by the fact that I knew I’d be the size of a house by the time I reached eighteen. And as for the call centre, which sported a smiley face by its logo – don’t make me laugh! As has been pointed out from time to time, I’m a gobby cow, and within days of acting as a punchbag for some pissed-off consumer’s ear-bashing, and not being allowed to answer back, I’d be gurning with rage, not grinning with glee.
Then I saw it –
FOR A NEW CAREER THIS YEAR, VISIT THE STANWICK AIRPORT CAREERS FAIR.
Free admission. 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. Drivers – Retail – Hospitality – Passenger Services – Flight Attendants – Aircraft Grooming – Catering
I know this sounds dumb, right, but airports are really glamorous places to me. Maybe it’s something to do with Mum never having taken us on holiday, but when I was about twelve, before I discovered shagging, sometimes I used to get the bus up to Stanwick and just sit in a Macky D’s watching the planes flying off to who knows where. That line of white they leave behind . . . it’s well my favourite sight in the world; it makes me think of freedom. And stands for all the stuff that goes towards making up one sweet life, the way I see it.
I could see myself in one of them cute little stewardess outfits, like Britney in ‘Toxic’, wiggling up and and down the aisles and pulling fit blokes into the toilets for a quickie. And when I found Kimmy – and Ren! – we could have all sorts of cheap holidays and free flights. It’d be well sweet . . .
And if I didn’t find ’em, heck, I could always invite the foxy Maxine for a dirty weekend of Doctors and Nurses. Got to have a Plan B. Or in my case, a Plan XXX.
So next day I was up Stanwick like a shot. But, to cut to the chase – or rather, to the free flight that never happened – it wasn’t to be, my stewardess fantasy. Strike one – I wasn’t eighteen or above. Strike two – no passport. And strike three – no GCSEs. I mean, like they’re going to be REALLY useful, for pouring drinks and wearing a tight skirt! However, I WAS old enough, English enough and dumb enough to be an airport cleaner, as it soon turned out at the Stanwick Airport Careers Fair. Yes, all right, I KNOW! But it wasn’t just being a cleaner; it was being part of an airport. It was part of getting away.
So here’s our schedule. There’s five crews, working rotating shifts – cleaning toilets, departure and arrival lounges and check-in areas; clearing rubbish, emptying ashtrays, wiping tables, vacuuming baggage-claim and check-in halls, cleaning check-in desks and lots of offices. I’m like the youngest on our crew, then there’s this pair of Goths in their late twenties, early thirties – the state of them! Call themselves the Dracules, but I happen to know that their real name’s Lambie. They spend most of their time bickering and you kinda get the impression Drina/Katie would be happy to bin the black lace and throw on a cute sundress but Drew/Josh still insists on living the Goth dream or the nightmare, or whatever. Still, they can be a laugh when they want to be.
Then there’s Mrs Tribbley – late fifties, walks around wearing a badge saying DO NOT RESUSCITATE and talking about her ‘imminent’ death as though it was a date with him out of Hard-Fi, though she looks as fit as a vet’s vole to me. There’s Kathleen and Kathryn, mid-thirties, who basically hate each other and engage in competitive cleaning – if one’s on her hands and knees scrubbing sick off a toilet floor, the other will make sure she gets her head right down the bowl, no gloves, nothing to kneel on – hardcore. You should see the time I take to clean the toilet mirrors when all this is going on!