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

16. The Honeymooners

The Honeymooners

Some days later . . .

It has to be one of the most surreal moments of my life when I wake up to a rough licking on my face and the sensation of what I can only call ‘slaver’. I blink and struggle to focus on the scruffy spaniel who is enthusiastically washing my face with his dog spit.

‘What the chuff?’

‘I’ve found him, can we keep him? Isn’t he adorable?’

It’s Chloe. Dressed in a Panda onesie, she’s jumping up and down in excitement at my bedroom door making daft doggie noises, while a collarless spaniel is racing around my bedroom barking. I’m extremely groggy from a ferocious late night celebrating Carl and Mitzi’s surprise wedding. The bed erupts next to me and Mitch emerges from under the duvet, naked, red-eyed and looking horribly confused. Chloe takes one look at him and staggers backwards.

‘Oh God. Sorry. Dog? Come on, dog, OUT!’

I’m almost as surprised as Chloe. Except, of course, I remember last night– lovely things that happened last night. But ugh, my head is pounding. Mitch gives me a sneaky sideways glance, a shy grin and then at lightning speed he leaps out of bed and throws on his clothes. He picks up his shoes and begins a creep round the bed as if he doesn’t want to wake me up.

‘Er . . . you off then?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Got to, y’know . . . go.’

‘Right. Bye then.’

I plant an ‘everything is fine’ expression on my face as he rushes out of the door, but as soon as he’s gone I collapse back into the pillow with a huge groan. Not only do I no doubt look crap, I feel crap, hungover and now emotionally on the floor. What is it with this guy? Hot to trot one moment, freezer geezer the next. I suppose that’s a bloody plumber for you.

I try to go back to sleep for all of two minutes, but it’s impossible. I’m a wreck. What a weekend this is turning out to be. It began as it always does with Mitzi, dramatically. An unexpected phone-call Friday morning.

‘Where are you?’ she demands.

‘Egypt, edge of the Nile, sipping cocktails with Robert De Niro. Why?’

‘Hurry. Get dressed UP, you and Chloe, and get to Halifax registry office for eleven, please. And like I said, hurry.’

‘What’s the rush?’ I’m baffled. But the phone goes down.

I’ve got a two-tin chocolate cake ready to come out of the oven and I’m whipping some double cream for a ganache. Sunday is my first proper Secret Garden Café day. Chloe has advertised it on the socials and she’s had thirty likes. Given what I’m feeling about the cottage, and its days being numbered, those likes had better turn into real people buying some of this delicious chocolate cake or I’m really kyboshed. I’m torn between pretending I’ve not had the conversation with Mitzi and continuing my day exactly as I planned, but if this is what I think it is– and since it’s a registry office, it is – and with just ninety minutes to go, I need to get the cake out of the oven and get ready pronto!

‘CHLOEEE!!!’

*

I park in a rush using the stupid app, then totter in my best navy courts across the back-street cobbles of Halifax to reach the registry office. I’m wearing a navy wrap dress I turn to in emergencies, since it’s got Lycra in it, which means it’s good on cleavage without poking anyone’s eyes out and pulls everything else in. Chloe strides ahead, teetering in silver stilettos and a strapless turquoise blue sheath dress. I am her lumpy maidservant next to her lamé wrap, chainmail bag and random bouquet of Honesty. Oblivious to traffic, she is glued to her phone, her thumbs going at speed.

‘Hurry up, Mum, they’re going in!’

We pile in the door of the office, are pointed right, barge through another set of double doors and run headlong into Mitzi, Carl and Mitch loitering in a grand tiled quadrangle. Mitzi is wearing a V-necked bohemian dress of cream lace and sequins with minuscule straps holding it all together beautifully. Her hair has been whipped into long curls threaded with ribbons, topped with a 1920s-style headpiece. She is stunning. The groom is in a cream shirt and matching beige tweed waistcoat and trousers with a satin cream cravat. Mitch looks as shell-shocked as I do, in a thrown-together smart suit, trying to wrestle a knot into his tie.

‘We weren’t going to tell anyone and then last minute I knew I wanted you both here. Carl asked Mitch and here we are, we’re doing it!’ My sister wraps her arms around us both and takes the tiny bunch of Honesty Chloe has brought that matches her outfit perfectly. ‘Thank you, darling Chlo, I love you both sooo much.’

Cuddles over, we’re ushered into the room and settle quietly when the registrar calmly explains the seriousness of the occasion. Carl and Mitzi are dewy-eyed and so in love that it’s wonderful to watch. I resist going back in my head to my wedding day; it’s such a long time ago anyway. Instead, as one of the two witnesses, it’s a strange and faintly embarrassing affair being so intimately close to Mitch. Forced to stand together, as the couple run through their wedding vows and blessings, I make a conscious effort not to touch him at all. As soon as they are pronounced man and wife and they get stuck in with a suitably inappropriate snog, Chloe produces some rice out of somewhere and flings a handful at them, which provokes a bollocking from the registrar.

‘Not in here! Jaz, get the hoover!’

We step outside and are instantly whipped by a squall, ripping down the street at speed. Mitzi hangs on to her hem and her headdress.

‘Jesus, get me a drink quick, somewhere warm.’

Which is how the reception begins. Over the day it evolves into a gathering of what feels like everyone they’ve ever known. A rabble of friends, colleagues and relatives. Carl, it seems, has lots of relatives, who all appear ready to celebrate and buy drinks at an hour’s notice. Thank goodness some people bring cake, because I am steepled by lunchtime and gulp down two pints of lime and soda water and three packets of differently flavoured crisps, to try to keep me upright. The jukebox is turned on, the dancefloor is filling up and the booze flows to celebrate the deliriously happy couple. I’m praying someone has plans for food, when a load of pizzas arrive at teatime, thank goodness. Whilst everyone is tearing apart the Italian spread, Mitzi steps up, takes the karaoke mic and does a raucous poem that brings the house down.

‘So, ladies,’ she says loudly, ‘I know you’ll understand. This poem is called “Hitting the Spot”. Here goes:

*

‘I never thought I’d do it,

No man could hit the spot.

Until this big man swooped and dived,

and ladies, I was got.

He’s got the biggest heart,

he’s got the biggest . . . part

to play in my life.

*

‘’Cos together, forever, whatever the weather,

this man, he hit the spot!

My man, my joy, my love, toyboy.

God help us –

we’ve only gone and done it!’

*

The crowd goes bananas and the tempo gets wilder; there’s more booze, more dancing and it’s impossible to keep up. I spot at least one of Mitzi’s exes out of the corner of my eye. Uh oh. I watch her consoling one of them at the bar, then she runs and jumps onto Carl’s back, and he races her around the place as if she’s a featherweight. The music gets louder and everyone’s doing some sort of variation on jigging about. Someone shouts out, ‘A pair of knickers have been found on the dancefloor,’ which has everyone howling with laughter.

Carl gets on the mic and insists that all his female cousins, of which there are many, show off their various types of underwear to prove the random pants are not theirs! It’s all a bit wild for me. In the midst of the noise and the good-natured chaos, Mitch and I really get chatting and we are increasingly friendly and a bit more touchy-feely, and before I know it, he’s asking me outside.

‘Do you fancy some fresh air?’

We are soon gripped in a passionate snog, and with little persuasion on either side, we decide to escape everyone, jump in a taxi and fall noisily and passionately into my bed. Which brings us spinning and shaking to this morning and the hangover from Hull, Hell and Halifax. Argh, why do I do this to myself? I can barely make it downstairs. Three slices of toast, two glasses of water, two giant cups of tea and two paracetamol later I am texting Mitch in a sulk.

No need to run off. Why not stay for breakfast?

Job on.

OK. Well, have a good day.

Thumbs-up emoji.

I feel like throttling him. Is it me or is it all a bit too casual? I’m too old to be pushed and pulled around like an emotional yoyo. We are something, aren’t we? It started with a kiss. Doesn’t it always, Janet? Was it just a drunken shag thing? That’s what he’s making me feel like. I’d be really disappointed in myself if I’ve misjudged things so badly. Come on, we’ve had lots of conversations now.

I gloom around for an hour and decide I’m in no fit state to think about anything sensibly. All I’m good for is eating and sleeping until this hangover wears off. There’s a note on the kitchen table from Mitzi.

We’re honeymooning in the cottage. Hope that’s OK?

My inner Good Sister wants to cook them breakfast and take a tray in with flowers and a fresh pot of English Breakfast and china cups to enjoy their first day of married life. In reality, I’m glued to the chair, my elbow propping my head up, barely able to keep my eyes open. Just then, Chloe piles in through the patio door with the dog, which immediately starts barking and jumping around my legs.

‘Chloe,’ I say feebly, ‘please tell it to stop.’

She picks the spaniel up and puts it on my lap where, warm lump that it is, it collapses. Its head rests on my leg and I can’t help but stroke its soft coat. The spaniel turns to my face and its eyes pour such affection and tenderness into mine, I almost well up.

Chloe sees and understands. ‘I told you.’ Her voice is gentle. ‘He’s adorable.’

‘Where’s he from? Why have you got him?’

‘We found him when I was out walking with Spencer. He was asleep by the bins at the Community Centre. We went looking around but no one seemed to be searching for a lost dog so we went inside the Centre and asked, but no one knew anything about him. I put a picture up on local socials and no one recognises him. I think he’s been dumped by someone passing through. So, Mum, I’ve been to the vet’s with him and it turns out he’s not chipped. He’s only a few months old, so they reckon he’s been abandoned. Apparently, it’s really common at the moment as people can’t afford to feed their dogs. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he’s lovely.’ I know it’s ridiculous, but the weight on my lap and the soothing process of stroking this dog into what is now a blissful oblivion of tiny snores, is so comforting, like those long-ago days with baby Chloe. My emotions all kick-fire in.

‘But you’re going to Uni, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You can’t take a dog with you there.’

‘Yes, no– you’re right, Mum. I probably won’t be able to take him to Uni. But there’s no way I could have left him by the bins.’

The dog gives a plaintive little sigh, and settles on my lap as if he’s found his all-time favourite bed.

‘Of course not. Right, put the kettle on, Chloe. I can’t move, I’ve been adopted.’ And then I too give a plaintive sigh and a groan. ‘I need greasy carbs and lots of tea, if I’m to manage this hangover.’

It’s at this point that Harvey strolls past. He stops at my chair, looks at the sleeping dog and with an air of disdain leaps up onto the windowsill and stares at me without a blink for the next half-hour.

‘Open a tin of tuna for the cat, keep him sweet.’

Chloe rushes to oblige us all and I have the calmest, sweetest half-hour being a dog-sitter for the gorgeous little thing, with a double egg butty on the side. I tell Chloe that Mitzi and Carl are honeymooning in the cottage and it might be nice, if I didn’t have a dreadful hangover, to take them breakfast in bed. Not that Mitzi will ever eat much, but Carl can demolish two breakfasts, no problem. Chloe gets on it, and whilst she does that, I put the sleeping spaniel in a plastic washing basket with a blanket, then go upstairs and have a reviving shower. Afterwards, I pull on my comfiest clothes and decide that what I probably need is some fresh air– and maybe this dog could do with another little walk?

It’s a bright cold day and good to be out, even if I am haphazardly retracing my steps and getting caught up in the lead, as the spaniel bounces excitedly from one tree trunk here to a clump of grass there. The collar is the wrong size for his neck, it’s too big, so it’s up near his ears all the time; I’m a bit anxious that he will slip out of it and run off. I’ll have to get him another. The canal is glorious, sparkling with light, and the tiny spaniel is ecstatic to be chasing ducks and geese, getting as close to the edge of the water as he dares. He’s such a joyful little thing, and his happiness is contagious. He makes me feel buoyant again and strong and capable, so I pluck up courage and call Mitch. Will he answer? Will he? He does.

‘Yo.’

‘Hi. I um... I hope you’re OK, Mitch.’

‘Yes, I’m sound, are you OK?’

‘Well, er... I suppose I’m looking for a bit of reassurance, Mitch. I felt a bit weird, you running off this morning without saying goodbye.’ There, it’s said.

‘Oh. Right. Sorry about that. I thought I did say goodbye?’

‘A very fast goodbye then.’

I can hear him thinking.

‘Right. It’s just– you know I’ve got a job on?’

‘Yes, you told me that, by text, after I asked why you’d run off.’

There’s a pause, it feels like an age. I’m quietly seething and feeling unsettled. I need to ask these questions. I also need to hear a response that reassures me more than he has so far. If this is just shag-land, then it isn’t happening, it’s not worth it. I need to know where I stand.

‘Er . . . Janet. I don’t want any drama.’

‘You’re not getting any drama.’ But that sends my pulse racing and out of nowhere arrives my temper. ‘I’m simply suggesting it’s not really a nice thing to leap out of bed and do a disappearing act, the first time we’ve slept together, Mitch.’

A couple walk past me on the canal; eyebrows are raised, I couldn’t care less.

‘You see?’ Mitch says. ‘This is what I’m scared of– this. This is why I don’t want to start anything with anyone.’

‘I’m not anyone. Start what?’

‘It’s too hard, relationships are too hard– they fall apart and I’m left broken. I can’t do it again. I’m sorry, Janet. I can’t.’ And the phone goes down, leaving me winded.

Scared. What does he mean, scared? That’s it then. Great. Over before it even got started. I’m taking this in, when the dog picks the middle of the towpath to squat down and poo. Thank God I’ve some tissue in my pocket. I bend down to pick it up, mindful of being a very good dog-owner and making sure I catch every scrap when, just as I’d feared, the dog escapes his collar and races off down the canal path and beyond the next bridge.

Could things get any worse? I’m holding a dog poo tissue and a dog lead but no dog– and how do I even call him back as this puppy has no name? I hurry along the towpath, shouting, ‘Dog, come here, doggie, come here!’ What I see as I race under and around the bridge is such a surprise it takes my breath away. Miles wobbling on a bike, with the dog haphazardly skittering around his wheels. There’s a scream and an almighty splash and when I look again the dog is swimming enthusiastically in the water next to a shocked, purple-faced Miles! He is shoulder-high in the water, his bike wheels momentarily visible before they slowly sink. Looking panicked on the towpath is a twenty-something Lycra-clad young woman, perched on her bike staring at him in horror. I can barely keep the smile from my face.

‘Hello Miles,’ I say, and I can’t help it, I laugh. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘Janet, right. Yes, er . . . hello.’

I kneel down, reach in and grab hold of the tiny spaniel by the scruff of the neck and yank him onto the towpath where he shakes himself and showers the Lycra beauty with freezing cold, dirty canal water. In spite of my amusement at the situation, I hope he hasn’t caught any germs from the water.

I pick him up, wrap my woolly scarf around him and tuck his shivering body inside my jacket so he can get some of my body warmth, then stride off. However, I can’t help but turn back to watch Miles. He is shouting something to the woman, who gets off her bike and reluctantly approaches him. He struggles to elbow himself out of the water and on to the bank, while she attempts in vain to grab some of his skintight Lycra cycling outfit.

‘I can’t do it, I can’t– ow,’ she squeals, ‘I’ve broken a nail!’

Hilarious.

‘Forget me, grab the bike,’ Miles bellows. ‘There’s six thousand pounds’ worth of bike there.’

‘I can’t reach.’

There are howls of frustration from Miles as he finally climbs out of the canal and attempts to pull his precious bike out of the water, against the repeated sound of metallic crunches and scrapes. Now I may be nursing a tender heart, but some things are a solace to the soul. Miles and his bike in the canal is definitely one of those things. God, I laugh. I laugh out loud! I can’t help but love this dog even more than I thought possible. I’m giggling to myself every step of the way home.

As we reach our street, I’m just contemplating putting him down with his lead on and letting him go, when Laura Watson jogs out in full matching camouflage wear and an angora sweatband. I try to veer past but she sidesteps me and blocks my way, so there’s definitely no escape. But I need to get this puppy home and dry and in the warm, so she’d better be quick.

‘Janet, I’ve been meaning to have a word.’

Here we go. Groan.

‘I’m sorry, Laura, I’ve got to get back, the dog’s wet through.’ I make to set off but she calls me back.

‘Scones and Spirits, the festival thing you did at yours. Am I right in thinking you had public liability insurance?’

The hackles go up. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘Because we had someone reverse into the Japonica. The parking was atrocious that day, you must have been aware of this. It was a shame we didn’t get any advance notice either, because we might have been able to avoid any accidents, had there been proper signage. As it is, the Japonica– it’s thirty years old, Janet, and now fatally damaged we believe by one of your cars on leaving the event. And you know how keen a gardener Oliver is.’

Since when?

‘He wants to replace it and of course there are some costs to employ an arborist, plus we’d have to import it, you see, because of the size. And the costs can add up, as I’m sure you understand. So it’s better, I think, if you have insurance, that you pass on the details. And in the future, if there is a plan for any more outdoor events involving the public, can you assure me that we will be informed well in advance, so we can approve it? I assume the council were aware you were running a festival? There are implications attached to these things, Janet. As well you know, such events have an impact on the neighbourhood and how it’s perceived. We need to protect what we have here. The exclusivity of where we live, the standards.’

‘LAURA? LAURA!’

It’s Oliver. He’s sounding agitated, and thankfully it’s enough to drag her back down her drive before I’m obliged to respond. However, as she steps away she calls back: ‘Make sure you let me have those details.’

Gloom sets in. She’s always the fly in the ointment, is Laura. I’m going to have to cancel tomorrow’s Secret Garden Café trial. She’s on a mission and I can’t have my little café venture being a controversy before it’s even had a chance to get going. I cuddle the shivering puppy closer to me, thinking about all the baking I’ve done. There are thirty scones in the freezer, two chocolate cakes, a red velvet, a lemon drizzle and a carrot cake all in Tupperware waiting to be split and iced– what will I do with them? What a shame. What a pickle. I daren’t open up tomorrow now, she’ll be on to the council pronto.

In one short walk it seems I’ve lost a business and a boyfriend. Laura bloody Watson! Bloody Mitch! Honestly, don’t I, Janet Jackson, would-be Superhost, deserve a bloody break? I suppose Miles in the canal is as good as it gets. I’m going to have to make do with that sweet little revenge.

Then I spot Chloe at the foot of the drive, obviously waiting for us. She’s waving and signalling for us to hurry up. The puppy sees her, gets excited and wriggles his way out of my arms. I put him on the ground and he bounces towards her. As he reaches her, he whirls around and is off again, racing back to me so I have to corral him towards the house as if I’m Shep the bloody sheepdog.

When we get indoors, I find Mitzi and Carl are there, crowded around Chloe on her tablet. Before I check what’s going on, I pick up a warm towel, rub the little dog dry and put him all cosy in his makeshift bed, at which he goes fast asleep.

Mitzi is ecstatic. She tells me: ‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life!’

‘What is?’ I’m intrigued by the size of her smile.

‘You will never guess, Mum,’ Chloe says, ‘not in a million years. It turns out that Laura’s B and B is a sex club!’

‘What?’

‘Get this: Rowntree, the local councillor, has just posted on to village socials that they have evidence Laura’s B and B is being used as a brothel.’

My eyes pop out of my head and roll on the ground. Mitzi joins in, reading avidly from the tablet.

‘“It’s letting down the tone of the whole neighbourhood. Bringing the whole village into disrepute”. Oh, this is too good. Look, Oliver has just responded: “It’s a load of absolute rubbish. Where’s your proof?”’

‘He never thinks, does Oliver,’ Carl says, shaking his head. ‘Would Rowntree really put something like that up unless he had the proof?’

Chloe says breathlessly, ‘Hold your horses, everyone: here’s the proof– look!’

We all stare at the screen, as what looks like a film that’s been recorded off the telly stutters and then plays. Everyone involved in the cast is very er... under-dressed, and the sign ‘Lake Villas’ is clearly in evidence in the background of one of the um... action shots. Even though things have been blurred out, what’s going on doesn’t require a lot of imagination.

‘Wow,’ is all I can say. ‘You know she’s just been having a go at me about the visitor parking during the Scones and Spirits event?’

Carl looks annoyed. ‘Has she now?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Mum.’ Chloe is very matter of fact. ‘After this she can object to absolutely nothing. There may be criminal charges to come yet! Her fancy extension is the home of a sex tape.’

Mitzi is still gazing at the tablet, fascinated.

‘Sex tapes, people tapes, plural,’ she corrects Chloe. ‘It’s a montage. There’s more than one film there. I reckon it’s a sex porno factory. Oliver and Laura are running the Soho Streams of Calderdale.’

Within minutes the item gathers hundreds of likes, laughs and comments to suggest this has gone all over the village and beyond.

Sometimes life really does turn around. I check on the pup and find him blissfully asleep and twitching in his dreams. I leave a bowl of water and some shredded chicken breast beside it for when he wakes up, and so he doesn’t feel too left out, I pamper Harvey with a few risky pats and strokes and a boiled egg. I hope he leaves that chicken breast alone. If we are going to keep this puppy, he will need a name and proper food suitable for his age and breed. Harvey will also have to learn to accept him. The poor little spaniel: I want him to thrive after his terrible start in life.

After all the excitement, I put the kettle on and as I’m reaching for the tea bags I spot a brown envelope waiting for me on the kitchen table. I open it up, having no idea what it is– and to my astonishment, inside I find a shiny certificate. On it are the words I have longed for these past many months and through all the dramas we’ve shared.

Superhost Status Awarded to Lavander Cottage and Janet Jackson!

Blimey. I dig out an old frame, fit the certificate inside and rest it against the kitchen window. After all that angst and stress and cleaning and hosting, I’ve got it. Now I’m not even sure I want it any more. Isn’t life always like that?

Anyway, there’s one thing I am sure about. My café will be opening tomorrow for everyone who is in need of a sit-down, a warm welcome, and my baking and hospitality.

I take the sign up to the street myself and tie it against the lamppost there, where passers-by and motorists can see it.

The Secret Garden Café– This Way

I catch sight of Laura in the garden of Larkspur House, plucking and dead-heading with a fury. She spots me and ducks down. I’m tempted to wave, to strike up conversation and have a go at her snooty, judgmental, awful, mean-spirited, destructive ways and how she can’t fool anyone now. But I don’t. I don’t need to torture her. I know she’ll be in bits. I’m not a Laura, I’m a Janet, and I try very hard to be a good neighbour. A neighbour with dreams which, without hurting anyone else, she very much intends to follow.

***** Five Stars

A wonderful honeymoon location. Staff, location, breakfast, all Five Stars. We’ll be back.

Sometimes it is helpful if you can get a couple of ‘friendly’ reviews, to help boost things a bit.

Bloody men. I wish I could do without them. Maybe I will.

Karma is definitely a thing.