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

9. Bye, Bye, Laura

Bye, Bye, Laura

I’m having lunch with Judy. We are in a discreet corner of a not very popular café in Hebden. I feel for her. She has ordered a pulled pork sandwich that looks like it was resuscitated just hours ago; a damp gherkin hangs out of the side like the tongue of a knackered Spaniel. I go for soup from the Specials board. I have a rule: if there are leftover crumbs on the table and a bashed-up menu, then the only thing safe to eat is the Specials, since they are the only things that are likely to be fresh. Having said that, the beef-bourguignon soup with massive crouton is taking some chewing.

I’ve brought my hand-written resignation letter with me. It’s taken me hours to write. I’ve done three different versions, one explaining I could no longer work with Miles, one explaining that for circumstances it’s difficult to explain I could no longer work there, and the last one simply reads: This is my notice of resignation. Thanks, Janet Jackson.

Judy is trying to talk me out of it. ‘Even Tony has said out loud that he misses you. Tony– Mr Misery himself!’

I’ve been off ‘ill’ for ten days. Miles made numerous attempts to get in touch for the first day or two but that stopped when I sent him the following text:

Miles please stop bothering me. You have plenty of other women to keep you entertained. I’m no longer one of them. Janet ‘no more gravy’ Jackson.

I appreciate it wasn’t my greatest literary moment, but it has done the trick. He’s left me alone. What has been touching is that the rest of the staff have been unbelievably nice; they’ve sent flowers and Get Well cards. It feels horrible having to lie, but given the circumstances, what else can I do?

‘I just think you’re being too hasty, Janet,’ Judy advises me. ‘You don’t need to leave. You can ignore Miles.’

‘I can’t ignore him, Judy, it’s too awkward. What happens when he brings his new girlfriend in, what then?’

‘Oh, he already did that on Tuesday. She’s called Franny. She’s a complete air head, twenty years younger than him and desperate for kids. He’s fifty next year, Janet, he has two grown-up daughters. I’m telling you, he’s off his nut. He’s losing the plot. It will be fun for you to watch, I promise.’

‘No, not for me, Judy.’ The news about Franny decides it. I pull out the letter. I feel a bit shaky handing it over, wondering what I’m going to do next.

‘Will you give it to Tony for me, please, and make sure to thank him for his flowers. What am I talking about? Thank you for the flowers, Judy. I’ll miss you all.’ I have to leave, before I start to cry. I put some cash on the table for my awful soup but she pushes it back into my hand.

‘No. Don’t be daft, my treat. What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t have a clue.’

Judy’s face sours, as if she’s found a mouldy strawberry in a still-in-date expensive punnet from MS.

‘He’s such a twat. I’m going to deafen him with the vacuum all afternoon.’

I laugh, give her a hug and leave. I need to, quickly, before I change my mind and snatch the letter back. Blimey. It’s done. I’m knocked out by a whoosh of fresh air as I step outside. A whole new unemployed Janet era awaits. I’ve worked at Valley Dental for seven years. Change. Here it comes, ready or not.

I’m at a loss as to what to do with myself. I wander aimlessly until I reach the cheap supermarket in the middle of town and go in. Onions and apples are on the reduced pile, so I buy them all. I soon regret it. I’m carrying my own bodyweight in shopping home before I’ve even hit the canal. Eurgh. I seem to enjoy making life hard for myself.

I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get back and hit the kitchen. Then, though, I have a glorious afternoon in batch-cooking heaven. Cheese and onion pies x three, apple turnovers x eight. The house is alive with the smells and even Mitzi comes down begging a corner of a turnover.

‘I’ve quit my job,’ I tell everyone over a cheese and onion pie.

Carl is in like lightning. ‘I need a labourer, if you’re interested.’

‘Thanks, Carl. It’s not number one on my career list but I’ll put it on there for emergencies.’

Chloe stops eating. ‘Quit as in quit?’

‘Yes, as in quit. I’m done with Valley Dental.’

‘Because of Miles?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, because of Miles. I can’t face him, not every day.’

‘Oh Janet,’ Mitzi sighs, ‘he’s the one who should be embarrassed. You can take the higher moral ground, sneer at him for the next six months and then you’ll have another fella and you won’t give a damn about him.’

‘No, I can’t do it, it’s too awkward. He’s bringing other women in, it’s too much.’

‘Workplace romance, always a disaster.’ When Carl throws in his two penn’orth Mitzi seizes the opportunity.

‘Like you’d know, working with twenty hairy-arsed builders.’

‘Office girls and brickies, the things that go on, let me tell you.’

‘Save it till bedtime, love.’

Mitzi, Carl and I share a laugh at that but Chloe cuts in deadly serious.

‘I think you’re missing something here, Mum. This is a sexual harassment case. You are being forced out of your workplace, so you should sue him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, he hasn’t harassed me’... much. I immediately think about all the texts and the fondling and the not moving when I tried to get past, then put it firmly out of my mind.

‘Chloe, get this straight,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not suing him. I’m not suing anyone. Right, I’m off to bed as I’m really tired– it’s been quite a day. Could someone please fill the dishwasher.’

I’m overcome with exhaustion. The shock of it all is sinking in. Upstairs, I turn on the laptop to look at jobs. There are hundreds of them: care assistant, retail analyst, chef, cleaner... my head is soon whirling. I move out of jobs and into my spreadsheets, where the cliff edge of the end of next month looms ominously.

I close the laptop. Turn off the light and attempt to sleep. After two hours of wrestling with the bedsheets I get up and go down for a glass of water I don’t really want. So as not to disturb anyone, I don’t put the lights on, though Harvey pricks his ears up immediately, and comes to rub around my legs. He’s obviously still hungry. I’m knelt down in the dark twirling the food round in his bowl with a fork to freshen it up and adding a few cat biscuits to it when I hear low chatter and giggly whispers. I stay bent down, thinking, Oh God, I hope this isn’t Carl and Mitzi getting frisky.

The patio door then opens and there’s a stumble and some laughter before I hear someone tramping noisily down the stairs. The main kitchen light comes on like a beacon, followed by a bellow.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ It’s Carl, loud, grumpy and confused in a pair of Union Jack boxers, his hair smudged against his head, his face a crumple of anger and hurt.

The scenario before Carl and me is revealed in all its lack of glory.

Oliver is standing in the kitchen in his royal-blue velour dressing gown holding a bottle of red wine, with Mitzi beside him clutching a large goblet that is full to the brim. My sister is wrapped in a sparkly sheer two-piece that has its own train.

‘Nothing’s going on.’ Mitzi is cool as a cucumber, as if she knows that to give away anything here would be to fall off the tightrope to sudden death. ‘I went outside to have a smoke, bumped into Oliver having a sneaky drink outside the cottage, and he offered me a glass.’

Oliver is unbelievably nervous. He puts the bottle down on the side, asking Carl, ‘Would you like a glass?’

‘No, I effin’ wouldn’t. What time is it? Thought I was asleep, did you?’ The angry accusation is pointed at Mitzi.

My knees can’t take it any longer. I stand up and face them all.

‘Sorry, it’s all my fault. I must’ve woken everyone up when I came down—’

‘Janet.’ Oliver almost throws himself on me. ‘You have a glass.’

‘No, thanks. I’m on peppermint tea and I’m going back to bed now. Oliver, Laura must be wondering where you are. I’m sure she would like a glass of wine, so you’d better get back to the cottage.’

‘You’re right. I’d better make a move. Night night, everyone.’ Oliver can’t move fast enough and, leaving the bottle behind, he gets out while the going is good.

I can’t look at my sister and Carl. It’s all too much ‘cat on a hot tin roof’ with these two. Carl is giving off gamma waves of barely held back emotion like a Yorkshire Marlon Brando and Mitzi is staring into his eyes all unhinged and teary, hanging onto her glass like a desperate Blanche clinging to her sanity. I lock the patio door and leave them, and as I creep up the stairs, the voices start to erupt.

*

The next morning, I sleep in for the first time in ages, after a rough night spent fretting about everything. I’m barely awake, wrapping my dressing gown around me on the landing, as Carl slides down the metal spiral staircase and comes past at high-speed wielding two bin liners with his clothes spilling out of it.

‘Good morning,’ I say tentatively.

‘The only thing good about today, Janet,’ he replies grimly, ‘is if I get this extension signed off at ten, then I’m free as a bird to fuck off for a bit.’

He throws the binbags by the front door, drags hi-vis and other jackets from the hall wardrobe and adds them to the pile of his stuff that’s already there.

‘You sure you’re not—’ I was going to say ‘over-reacting’ but he interrupts.

‘Sure I’m not what?’ He stops and stares at me, and I decide it’s too early for this kind of confrontation. I’ve not even had a cup of tea.

‘Sure you don’t want a sandwich, Carl?’ I manage.

‘I’ve already had breakfast, Janet, thanks. Can this lot stay here? I’ll be back for it after dinner.’

‘Of course you can.’

He’s out of the door full of purpose, slamming it hard behind him. I pick my way through the pile of coats and boots into the kitchen where Mitzi, never intentionally awake before midday, is sitting at the table nursing a coffee. She couldn’t look more miserable. Her face is pale and free of any make-up apart from a dark red lipstick to accentuate the drama. There are tearstains on her cheeks. She’s drowning in a huge grey sweatshirt that has a Howdens Kitchens logo on it. It’s definitely not like Mitzi to be anywhere near leisurewear, so I presume it must be one of Carl’s.

‘How are things?’ I ask, putting the kettle on.

She gives me the eyes. ‘What do you think?”

‘It’s a bit OTT for Carl,’ I say. ‘Why is he reacting like this? Was there something going on between you and Oliver?’

‘No way. It was a ciggie and a glass of wine.’

‘Does he know you’ve . . . y’know . . . with Oliver?’

Her lip quivers and she goes to the fridge and pulls the temporary cork out of a bottle of white wine I was saving for cooking.

‘Yes. I told him last month, in a moment of eclipse-induced honesty that I’ll regret for the rest of my life.’

I can almost see her slip and drown into self-defeat and depression, hopelessness washing over her. I can’t have it happen, I can’t – my infuriating but much-loved older sister is the happiest I’ve seen her for years with Carl.

I snatch the bottle from her. ‘No. You are not having a drink before lunchtime, and you are not letting this one go. You can persuade anyone of anything, Mitzi Jackson, if you put your mind to it. Go and tell Carl right now how much you love him. Let him know he’s the only one for you, that Oliver is a prat and a wally you regret sleeping with, and say you’ll do anything he asks to prove your love. Do it! Right now!’

She looks at me. I can tell I’ve lit something in her as her eyes flash and her face flushes. I can see her mentally drafting scenarios already. I know I’ll have to bully her to get going, so I physically push her out of her seat.

‘Go on! He’s only at the bottom of the bloody road. And get dressed, for God’s sake. I can’t cope with looking at you in a hoodie.’ I soften my tone. ‘You can sort this, Maureen Jackson.’

I pray she’s taking it in; the emotions on her face are moving faster than clouds across a windy Pennines sky. How is this penny going to fall? She stands up.

‘You’re right, Janet. What the fuck– I’m in a bloody sweatshirt.’

She rushes out of the room and I give a huge sigh of relief. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’ve done something and it’s better than letting her give up without a try. Thirty minutes later, Chloe and I are eating a frittata I’ve knocked up from an old potato, an onion, and a half-box of mushrooms and tomatoes that were going soft. I like a frittata. Heavy on herbs and well done with some kale thrown in at the end, it’s incredibly moreish and we are demolishing it between us when Mitzi powers into the kitchen dressed in the kind of outfit that would give a Kardashian goosebumps. It’s a soft, orangey-red jersey dress, skin-tight, and drops just below the knee. There’s impressive cleavage and her bare yoga-toned arms are on show, her hair is shiny, waved to perfection and pulled to one side, and she has on strappy wedge sandals that tie around her slim ankles.

‘Wow, good look, Auntie,’ Chloe says.

‘Thank you, gorgeous.’ My sister downs a pint of water in one go, wipes her lips, does a tiny burp and announces, ‘Refreshed, renewed, resurgent, here I go.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the mountain, Chloe, to the mountain.’

I shush Chloe after that, as I don’t want her to interrupt the mountain momentum, but curiosity compels us both to follow Mitzi into the hall. After grabbing the two binbags that belong to Carl, one in either hand, she strides out onto the drive and heads in the direction of Laura’s house.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the X-rated noises coming from the attic suggest there has definitely been a renewal of vows between Carl and Mitzi. Chloe, who could not resist the drama, had followed Mitzi at a distance until she got to Larkspur House. Then she had hidden in the bushes, racing back up to gleefully regale me with the details whilst I empty the dishwasher.

‘So there’s a really tall, like, official-type, glasses-wearing guy there, and he’s talking to Carl, right? Laura and Oliver are sort of behind them in the background. The official bloke gives Carl a handshake and a pat on the back and everyone is looking pleased and smiling. That’s when Mitzi turns up with those two bin bags, looking well fit.

‘She walks straight up to Carl, holds the bags up then drops them, really dramatic like, and says straight to him, “I would never, ever choose a washed-up prick like Oliver over a god like you. If you want to leave me, you are gonna have to get these bags off me first, ’cos I’m going nowhere, and neither are you.” Then she grabs the bags again.

Chloe giggles. ‘Well, the official bloke takes one look at Mitzi and turns round and says, “Well, I know you’re not talking to me, love, ’cos no one’s ever called me a god. Except maybe Sheila Cross when I passed her Orangery. Job well done, Carl. I’ll be seeing you.”

‘He nips past Mitzi who’s totally obliv to him and he does, like, a salute to Oliver and Laura and he’s gone. Now, keep up, Mum. Carl at this point doesn’t know what to do with himself. He ums and ahs for a bit and then he grabs hold of Mitzi and she leaps on him and that’s it then, they’re, like, in full snog. Except, get this, now Laura and Oliver are going at it full blast.’

‘Eurgh – what, snogging as well?’

‘No, arguing. “Choose a washed-up prick like you, Oliver? What does she mean?” Laura is on one. Oliver’s trying to, like, bring her back down.’ He’s saying, “I don’t know what she’s talking about, darling.” Then he tries distracting her. “What’s the important thing here, hmm? The house has passed, Laura, we can move back in.”

‘Oliver’s, like, hopping from leg to leg like a madman, so I start laughing and they both turn and look towards the bush. So I thought I’d better get out of there before, y’know, they find me or something. Though it’s a street and it’s freedom of speech or whatever, but, y’know, I am spying.’

‘Excellent work, Poirot.’

‘Yeah, I think I’d make a good detective or private investigator– get all the cheating bastards.’

*

I’m closing up the dishwasher and trying to leave the kitchen clean when I hear a car screeching up the drive towards Lavander Cottage. Laura Watson is at the wheel, storming past with Oliver chasing after her, still pleading.

‘The house has passed, Laura– come on, we should be celebrating!’

Laura pulls the car to a halt and gets out. She whirls around, her teeth bared. ‘Oh fuck off, Oliver.’

Blimey.

Laura doesn’t acknowledge me once all day. Her face is rigid as she schleps backwards and forwards from the cottage to the car, heaving stuff about like a machine. The energy required to keep that level of rage going is genuinely impressive. Oliver looks fit to drop after lunch and I feel sorry for him. I take him out a cup of tea and a bit of millionaire’s shortbread I’ve made.

‘God, Janet, that is so delicious. I’m going to sit down and enjoy this.’ He perches on a lounger, and after another mouthful he has lifted his legs up and is now lying back, eyes closed, savouring every mouthful.

‘That’s so good,’ he says dreamily, licking the last crumbs from his lips. ‘Laura doesn’t allow this sort of stuff in the house. She says it’s because I’m an emotional eater. She’s right, of course. If I’m happy I eat, if I’m miserable I eat. When I see something nice, I want to eat it. Why not? Life’s short– eat the bloody lot, I say, Janet.’

When Carl and Mitzi appear hand-in-hand out through the patio door, loved up and ruffled, I gulp. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I needn’t worry, as Laura’s piercing nasal voice powers down from an open Velux window on the first floor of the cottage, which dispels all the unknowns in a flash.

‘You haven’t time to sit down, Oliver, if we want to be back in our own home before bloody midnight.’

Oliver leaps up from the lounger as if he’s been prodded with an electric cattle prong. Unfortunately he leaps straight into Carl who stands like a solid brick wall above him. Poor Oliver, he collapses back down on to the lounger.

‘Better get a move on, Oliver, or you’re gonna be in trouble.’ Carl can’t help himself. At that, Oliver whirls himself around on the lounger and rushes into the cottage at whippet speed. I try to create a distraction.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Carl, or some millionaire’s shortbread?’

‘Yeah, I will if you don’t mind, Janet. I’ll have a brew and then get stuck into your attic.’

‘Great.’

I’m heading inside when Mitzi steps up.

‘Stop. I’m going to make this drink. Strong builder’s, Carl, not a lot of milk, right? Can I get you one, Janet?’

Er... Mitzi never asks me. Not that I’m a martyr or anything, but well, it doesn’t happen very often.

‘All right, thanks. An Earl Grey, please, not a lot of milk, and leave the tea bag in.’

Carl pipes up, ‘And get us a piece of that millionaire’s shortbread, Mitz. You want one, Janet? Make it two.’

Carl and I both perch on a lounger each, and before we know it we are both lying with our feet up relaxing, enjoying some milky sunshine, being served by Mitzi in a strange turn of the tables.

‘Make sure they pay you before they go,’ Carl says to me as he struggles with trails of caramel around his fingers. ‘There’s a lot of red bills coming through the door at that Larkspur House.’

I frown. ‘Really?’ I’m shocked to hear that and I’m still taking it in as Laura appears at the door with armfuls of dresses all bagged up in dry cleaning covers. I need to use the opportunity.

‘Let me help with those.’ I jump up and reach out to grab a couple, and she reluctantly hands one or two over. Massimo Dutti, Karen Millen, Ghost, Jasper Conran. All immaculate pastels. I follow her to the car.

‘So, you’re definitely leaving today?’

‘This is the last of my things.’

I take a deep breath. This is hideous, I’m sweating with embarrassment.

Handing the outfits over, I say, ‘We should... er... probably settle up then, if that’s the case, or will Oliver be dealing with i–?’

She’s in like a blast before I’ve even got all my words out.

‘Definitely Oliver. His mess. His to clean up.’ She throws the dresses into the back of the car, and it’s now I notice that it’s packed with expensive-looking shoe boxes and shopping bags.

‘OK, I’ll talk to Oliver then. I hope you’ve had a nice stay, under the circumstances, Laura.’ I’m being a bit obsequious, I know I am, but Superhost status is glowing like a neon light on the horizon and the Watsons have been here three weeks. I really need good reviews if I’m to stand a chance of making anything out of Lavander Cottage now– and God knows, with my situation at the moment, I need every scrap of cash and good luck going.

Laura, now sitting in the car, clicks her seatbelt, pulls on her impenetrable designer dark sunglasses and slides down the electric window.

‘Between your crapping cat, uncomfortable bed, grubby shower and nymphomaniac sister, it’s probably been one of the worst times of my life, Janet. That answer your question?’ She hits reverse at speed, does what is almost a handbrake turn and screeches off down the road. I’m left as one of those figures hit by an arctic blast from the White Witch of Narnia, frozen to the spot, gobsmacked by the ruthlessness of the character they’re dealing with and foolishly na?ve to the danger.

Oh my God. What is the review going to say?

*One Star

Cottage needs an update. Uncomfortable beds. Women guests: watch out for your husband.

Don’t do it. It’s so bloody hard. Soul crushing. And expensive. No one’s ever happy. You barely make any money. You have no control over what people say or do about you and your cottage. I don’t know why I bother. Sorry, I’m being a miserable bugger. I can’t help it.

Don’t sleep with the boss. It will go horribly wrong. You’ll end up paying the price.

If someone, say a neighbour, is not very nice, maybe they’ll always be not very nice. You can make an effort to get on and it might feel like youaregetting on. But inside, the truth is, they’re still not very nice. So don’t be shocked when they prove it by being horrible.