Janet Jackson Superhost: Warmth, humour and romance for a gorgeous heroine forced to reinvent hersel

5. The Hot Boys

The Hot Boys

Six of the fittest young men we have ever had in the cottage are staying for a week of training before a huge overnight fell race at the weekend. They are up and out at all hours, stretching, jumping, running up and down the lane doing ‘intervals’, timing each other, goading each other.

If I’ve ever wondered what it would be like to have sons or quadruplets this, I imagine, is a bit like it. They’re always bringing me into conversations when I’m in the garden or putting out the recycling; they start arguing about something and want me to offer a thought. It’s that type of thing. They’re loud, fractious and so competitive. Mitzi does her best to restrain herself until Carl disappears in a morning and then she is out there in her Lycra gear doing outdoor yoga... as if any of these twenty-somethings want to see a forty-plus woman doing Downward Dog.

That is very judgy, Janet– she’s gorgeous, is my sister, and I’m sure they love it. I’m definitely not into them in that way. To me, they’re boys and they bring out the mother in me, not the cougar. OK, out of the corner of my eye I can spot the odd good bicep curl, but I’m not going to stare. Plus, what would we have in common? Fitness, I’ve realised over the years, is something I admire, but it’s like a foreign country to me. I’ve arrived at the port but never had the time or the money or the inclination to catch the ferry.

Here’s my personal fitness regime: I can manage Zumba once a fortnight if the weather’s all right and Chloe’s had her tea and Harvey the cat doesn’t need defleaing. I cycle a mile down the road to work when the weather’s decent. That sort of thing. It’s pretty much the bare minimum. So though Miles has kindly organised to bring a bike to the house for me, I can’t help but feel nervous about what he’s expecting from me today on our cycle ride. It’s officially winter, for goodness sake: who does fitness outdoors in these temperatures?

Miles arrives exactly on time. He seems a little bit rattled to find me laughing with one of the lads about the latter’s hairy calves. They really are the hairiest I’ve ever seen. He is the loveliest of the lot, called Reiss. He’s twenty-four and as he explains he has no hair on his chest, I make a little joke.

‘It’s travelled down with all the running.’

He is laughing at this as Miles wrestles uncomfortably with the bike rack.

‘All right, mate?’ Reiss asks in a friendly manner.

Miles nods, but it’s on the rude side and I cringe a bit. He turns to me, says curtly, ‘Are you ready?’

I mean, clearly I’m not, since I’m still in my dressing gown. ‘Not unless we’re going in pjs?’ I say. ‘Give me five minutes.’

A grin from Reiss, barely an acknowledgement from moody Miles.

I squeeze myself into leggings I haven’t worn for quite a while. The fact they say Zumba Lite on them pegs them to at least ten years ago. An old Benetton T-shirt goes on top. I don’t need a sweater or tracksuit top. It was a frosty start this morning, but once I get moving on that bike I know I’ll be too hot. I overheat very easily. I hope Miles hasn’t planned a route with lots of hills. I dig out a luminous yellow wind-catcher thing and a pair of knitted gloves. It’s not a very coordinated cycling outfit but then I’m not a very coordinated cyclist.

Gulp. I’ll have to do.

‘Are you wearing a pair of cycle shorts under those?’ It’s Miles, looking disapproving.

The idea that anything could fit under these gives me the giggles.

‘No, Miles, I don’t have any and I’m not sure I could fit anything under these. They’re a bit tight.’ I smile, he doesn’t return it.

‘We’re doing twenty miles, you’ll need something.’

I don’t like this. Miles is being stern and it’s rather intimidating.

Reiss, who is doing press-ups in the background, turns to us in a perfect side plank, ‘I’ve got some cycle shorts you can borrow, Janet.’ He returns moments later with a large pair of red knickers with a giant padded bum.

‘God, they’re hideous.’ Mitzi is hovering in Tree pose.

‘It doesn’t matter, she’ll need them.’ Grumpy Miles again.

The way he is behaving suggests this cycle trip is taking a serious turn. Meanwhile I pack a couple of Kit-Kats, a flask of tea and two packets of Seabrook Ready Salted crisps into a little rucksack. I go into the living room and peel off the leggings and slide on the cycle knickers. Getting the leggings back on is quite a feat. I notice Mitzi walk past and call out for help.

‘Give me a hand.’

She takes one look. ‘Haven’t you any others?’

‘No.’

‘Any that actually fit? What size are they– zero?’

I feel quite proud that I once squeezed into an eight. The fact they don’t actually fit is not the point. Maureen returns with a pair of leggings that I can actually pull on, and though they’re not perfect they do actually go over my tummy and the cycle knickers so they are much better. The cycle knickers are so strange; they turn walking into a Wild West cowboy-style experience, putting a gap between my thighs I haven’t had for years. I pull on my wind-catcher jacket to try to disguise everything and go back out into the garden. Miles is engaged in a press-up challenge with Reiss, with the other lads shouting them on and Chloe filming it on her iPhone.

Mitzi lights up a fag. ‘I hope he has got life insurance and hasn’t got a dicky heart. He’s at a funny age, Janet.’

Miles is becoming very red in the face and I decide I need to get him out of there.

‘Oh Miles, come on. What time are we setting off? I thought we had to get going if we want to be back for that thing?’

‘That thing?’ Mitzi raises an eyebrow.

Miles takes the lifebelt I throw him and collapses onto the ground whilst Reiss continues to finger-press himself up into a plank, to the roar of the lads and the coos of Chloe.

Fifteen minutes later Miles and I, seats adjusted, gloves on, helmet on, brakes tested, are on the road. It’s a bright winter’s day which is lovely, if a bit blinding, and it isn’t long before I’m hoofing like a good ’un, attempting to keep up with the dot on the horizon that is the rapidly vanishing figure of Miles. I catch up with him eventually and find him sitting at the side of the road looking at his phone.

‘Sorry,’ I gasp, and know I’m bright red in the face. ‘I can’t keep up. It might be easier to say where we’re going and I’ll meet you there.’

‘No, it’s no bother, I’ll slow down the pace. Right, let’s get going.’

Miles’s slow pace and my fastest ever pace are so far distant from one another that it’s embarrassing. I’m going full whack and I’m waaay behind him. At one point I even get off and push the bike up a really steep hill and only catch him up on the downhill ride, when my weight against his skin and bone gives me much-needed extra momentum. As predicted, I’m so hot by now that I’ve taken the wind-catcher off and wrapped it around my waist. I’ve taken my gloves off too, and they are in the pocket of the wind-catcher. If I could take off my top and travel in my bra without causing a major pile-up, I would.

The road is so busy and the cars are so fast and so close it’s terrifying. I’m concentrating on avoiding the pot-holes when I notice that Miles has veered off the road into a pub car park. Thank God.

‘Hurrah, are we done?’ I’ve got just enough breath for the following words: ‘I could kill for some chips.’

‘We’re not even halfway there yet, Janet.’

My heart drops to my boots and suddenly everything starts to hurt, my bum, my wrists, my head itches, my legs are shaky. I take off my helmet.

‘I think I need a sit-down.’

‘We’ve been sat down for the last hour.’ Miles seems determined to be unpleasant.

Something kicks in. Annoyance. This isn’t a nice romantic ride, this is a bloody endurance test and I don’t remember signing up for it. I face him, my hands on my hips above the strange knickers.

‘Well, Miles, I’m going to go inside that pub, get a drink and order some chips and relax for half an hour.’

‘Half an hour? That means we won’t make Brighouse for one o’clock!’

‘No. We won’t but you will. I can’t keep up, Miles. These are horrible roads to ride, the drivers are all way too close and fast. You’re travelling at ten times my speed and I don’t want to hold you back. You carry on and I’ll see you later.’

‘I’m not going to leave you.’

‘You’re not, I’m leaving you. Go get your time in. I’ve come easily far enough if I’ve to turn around and get home again. Read my lips, Miles: I’m done.’

I’m resolute. Miles looks unsure, but I push the bike against the picnic table, go inside the pub, order half a lager and some chips and when I come back outside Miles has gone. I’m glad. I don’t like feeling that I’m holding someone back. I eat my chips slowly, savouring every salty mouthful. I slurp my lager and try to work out where I am on Google Maps. My backside is sore and my thighs feel chafed as I eventually summon all my courage, mount my steed and wobble off.

I take the first road off the main road that I can and slowly pick my way down onto much quieter lanes. I get off and push a couple of times where it gets a bit hilly and eventually I find the canal. It’s not as if it’s all that peaceful, with walkers and prams and dogs and the Canadian Goose population terrorising me at every opportunity. Though there are moments where it’s just me and the absolute quiet and the turn of the wheels, the trees reflected on the water and the odd floating duck. I forget about my bum hurting and my legs straining and my wrists stiffening, and it’s bliss.

Then the rain hits. Didn’t he check the bloody weather? It’s an absolute deluge. I’m getting battered by machine-gun-like drops, I can barely see where I’m going and my fingers are numb with cold. My wind-catcher is now stuck to me like a drenched second skin– nothing, absolutely nothing, is waterproof. My trainers squelch, rain runs down my face as if I’m being sprayed with a hosepipe. It’s horrible. I’m frozen stiff. There’s nowhere to shelter on the canal so I dig in and plough my way home, almost hysterical with gratitude when a familiar landmarks pop up. Slowly, slowly, I drag my weary self and the bike onto the drive. The patio door opens and out pops Miles.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

I try to hold myself together. ‘Can do,’ I manage, resisting the urge to throw his stupid bike as far as I can.

I stumble exhausted into the house where Mitzi is gliding around in a floor-length purple dress with a purple-plaited bodice and matching purple-plaited headpiece, and she’s chanting whilst holding what looks like a smoking wooden frog. Her chanting increases in volume over the noise of the kettle. I’m defeated and peed off and tired and wet and cold. I’m not by any stretch of the imagination my best self.

‘Bloody hell, give it a rest, Mitz.’

She gives me an iron stare. ‘I’m tuning into my shaman self.’

What the heck is that? Later, much later, I look it up in the Collins Dictionary, where it explains: shamanism is a religion which is based on the belief that the world is controlled by good and evil spirits, and that these spirits can be directed by people with special powers. The shamans, no doubt.

But at that low point in my day, all I can say is a narked: ‘Do you have to do it in the kitchen?’

‘I’ve nowhere else, Janet, not whilst the building work is being done. According to the new census, shamanism is the fastest-growing religion in the UK and I, Janet, have done three weekends down at that camp in Surrey studying shamanic ritual. I might possibly be an expert. Oh, and Carl’s here. He wants to speak to you about—’

‘Give me a minute, can you,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m piss wet through here.’

‘Er... Janet.’ Miles is trying to say something but I ignore him.

I couldn’t give a monkey’s, I’m past caring. I pull off my trainers, strip off my gloves, drag off my socks, wrestle with my T-shirt and wriggle out of my leggings. I chuck everything on a pile and am standing dripping in wet soggy bra and cycle knickers, my hair plastered across my face, when Carl enters the kitchen with Oliver and Laura Watson in tow.

‘Ah Janet,’ he says, ‘Laura here needs a word.’

Never, I swear, has a moment lasted for so agonisingly long. Chloe saves the day. She pushes through them, takes one look at me and says, ‘Fuck’s sake, Mum, go and get changed.’

I reach out for the tea-towel hanging over the kitchen chair and hold it in front of me, and I can’t decide which bit of me to try to cover up. I’m shuffling sidewards out of the room when the patio door opens and Reiss and his mates put their head through.

‘Wish us luck.’

Everyone is grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at me. There are lots of ‘Good lucks!’ and ‘Best wishes!’ when, I’ve no idea what possesses me, I shout out, ‘Good luck!’ and I wave the tea towel like a banner, revealing all.

‘You can keep those pants, Janet,’ says Reiss with a wink. It is at this point I drop the tea-towel and run.

*

Twenty minutes later I’m dried off after a hot shower, wrapped up in my woolliest cardigan and rocking a pair of Chloe’s sweat pants. I’m sitting in the front room, drinking a huge mug of hot chocolate, topped with cream, a chocolate flake and some hundreds and thousands courtesy of Chloe, and I’m listening in shock to what Laura Watson is telling me, in between bouts of weeping.

‘They’re saying your house is not safe?’

‘Yes, Janet, not just the extension, the whole bloody house.’

I’ve no idea what to say. Oliver pats her gently on the shoulder but she shrugs him off with a blast of contempt.

‘I told you not to use him. Didn’t I? Didn’t I? “Twenty grand less,” that’s what you said. “Twenty grand less.” I said he was very young and I didn’t like the look of him. You totally ignored me, refused to listen to me. And look where we are now!’

Oliver sighs. ‘Not this again, Laura. This gets us nowhere. We don’t need to do this again and definitely not in front of Janet.’

‘But it’s your bloody fault. We’ll have to strip out all our savings, fund the build ourselves whilst we wait for the bastard insurance to come through, all because of you and your tight penny-pinching.’ She takes a deep breath, turns to me. ‘Janet, could we stay in Lavander Cottage whilst all this is going on? Hopefully with Carl and the Planning Officers keen to help we can get through this as quickly as possible. Obviously, we’ll pay whatever your going rate is, but the ability to pop down, supervise the build, keep an eye on the property and be around my own special things whilst this is going on would be of massive psychological benefit to me as I endure this TRAUMA.’ She pivots to hard-stare at Oliver at this point.

As Mitzi wanders in mid-chant, there’s a momentary glance between her and Oliver that Laura and I both clock, but I pretend I haven’t seen. The room crackles with tension– or it could just be Laura’s long nails clicking together as she flexes her knuckles. Mitzi closes her eyes, resumes her chant, turns and walks straight back out of the room.

‘Obviously, it’s far from ideal.’ Laura throws an evil look towards Oliver.

Carl then comes into the room with Miles. They are talking winter tyres by the sound of it, and Oliver makes a big effort to join in with their conversation.

‘What’s that, lads?’ he says jovially. ‘Tyres?’

I need to give Laura an answer. ‘Of course, if it will help the situation.’

Gulp. Is this really a good idea? I think Laura might end up killing Mitzi. Does she know that she and Oliver had a thing? A Christmas bonk? I get the feeling she does know. There’s never been an open acknowledgement, of course, only an underlying hatred that bubbles to the surface every now and again. So why, knowing that, do I feel absolutely obliged and on a train track I can’t escape with the destination firmly fixed at ‘Yes’?

‘How soon are you thinking, Laura?’

‘This coming Monday, if you please, Janet.’

*

After what feels like an exhausting day I’m now lying in bed thinking about Laura Watson moving into the cottage on Monday. Practically Perfect Laura bloody Watson. Living next door. I don’t know how this is going to play out.

Chloe was not at all happy about it. Once the Watsons and Miles had departed, and Carl had gone to the pub with a friend, she spat out: ‘That Laura was a right biatch to you last year.’

Very black and white, is my daughter. She doesn’t get neighbourliness or forgiveness. I tried to explain to her.

‘I’m channelling my inner Joanna Lumley, Chloe.’ She looked blank, didn’t have a clue who Joanna Lumley is, so I tried again. ‘Think of someone with a big heart and a sense of humour.’

‘Er... you’re describing yourself, Mum. I certainly wouldn’t put up a cow who’s slagged me off and tried to close my business down.’

All true. But these are desperate circumstances for horrible Laura.

‘It’s not for long,’ I said feebly. ‘Just to help her whilst this building work is going on.’

‘Mum, what about our building work? Who’s doing that if Carl’s round at Laura’s? I can NOT continue to wake up every day with dusty hair.’

Oh God, I think now. What a mess. In doing someone else a kindness I have made all my own family miserable. Mitzi went pale when I told her.

‘Laura and Oliver Watson next door in the cottage?’

‘Yes, just whilst her house gets sorted.’

‘Janet, you know she hates me.’

‘Oh, I think she must be over that.’

‘No, she’s definitely not over that.’

A bit of me shrivelled inside, but I had another go. ‘We’re doing her a favour, Mitzi, it’s an emergency situation. She’ll owe us after this and she asked me outright, which made it awkward. I don’t have any bookings either, plus I need the money, so... To be honest, I couldn’t say no.’

‘You know that Oliver still contacts me.’

‘Er . . . no.’ I was gobsmacked.

‘And you know that Carl has no idea?’

‘Er . . . no. Sorry.’

My sister then swept out of the room, saying, ‘I’m going to have to do some incantations.’

And the chanting started in earnest and is still going on. I feel like joining her.

Face it, Janet, you’ve upset everyone to please Laura bloody Watson. What an idiot I am. I’m feeling panicky about the cottage now too. It’s a nice welcoming space, it’s homely, but it’s not up to her snooty standards. I’ll have to try to lift that burn stain off the hob. The grout in the bathroom’s going a bit black in places and I haven’t managed to touch up the paint in the entrance where the kids ran round it with felt tip. Oh Gawd. It’s hardly Superhost standards. I might have to insist as part of the arrangement that she doesn’t leave a review.

What on earth have I done?

***** Five Stars from Reiss Co.

Janet and fam are boss hosts. Fun times. Great place for training. We won!

Sometimes guests are hot young things. Try not to notice. Or even better, treateveryoneas if they are hot young things

Remember that having guests around can impact on your personal relationships. Your nearest and dearest can resent the attention given to others. Looking after guests whilst looking after relationships takes some managing, that’s all I’m saying. Not sure how you prepare for that one, good luck.

Keep an eye on the weather when planning a cycle ride. For goodness sake make sure at least one thing you’re wearing is waterproof.