“Two women in the same night, eh?” said Mo through gritted teeth, pretending to talk to herself.
“I'll leave you all my Boney M records, Mo,” mumbled Jazz pathetically.
“And two women who've been friends since they were four, too,” Mo went on, a bit firmer this time.
“And my papier mache bin,” continued Jazz.
“Who live in my flat,” finished Mo.
There was a long pause. Slowly Jazz lifted her throbbing head and looked suspiciously at Mo.
“Wha - ?” she interrogated.
“You didn't sleep with Gilbert Valentine last night,” Mo told her gently.
“I didn't?” Jazz started to frown and shake her head, but it hurt too much.
“No,” said Mo. “You slept with a big smile on your face.”
“Oh! Thank Christ for that,” said Jazz, emotionally. “You don't know how happy you've made me, Mo. You're an angel.” Grinning, she sat back in her chair. “I must give something to charity. Have you got any small change?” She padded over to the cupboard where the aspirins were kept.
“I slept with Gilbert Valentine,” said Mo calmly.
And Jazz was suddenly stone cold sober.
“What do you mean, you slept with him?” hissed Jazz.
“I mean I had carnal knowledge of him,” said Mo, straight-faced.
“What?”
“I had sexual intercourse with him.”
Jazz felt faint. “Please. I might want to eat later.”
Mo ignored her and read her paper silently.
Jazz came back to the table and stood by Mo. This was terrible.
“Do you know what you're doing?” she asked eventually. “He is a lizard of the highest order.”
“I didn't know lizards had orders.”
“He - he - he -”
“He made me scream Eke a wildcat four times in one night,” said Mo. “That doesn't happen very often.”
Jazz thanked heaven for small mercies and thought she was going to retch again.
Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Gilbert himself came into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her favourite yellow fluffy towel.
“That's my towel,” she croaked.
“Oh, I'll take it off then,” said Gilbert, smiling wickedly at Mo and starting to peel it off.
“No!” screamed Jazz. “It's fine. You can borrow my robe as well.”
“Hello, pussycat,” Gilbert slimed at Mo.
To Jazz's utter horror, Mo actually purred and Gilbert slid past Jazz to Mo and the two of them started doing some very loud, wet kissing.
Jazz thought she was living in a nightmare. This couldn't possibly be happening. Not in her own home. In her own kitchen. In her own towel. Oh God. She struggled to her room and phoned George. George was out. She paced her room. A whole Sunday to get through and Mo had gone mad in the kitchen and George was in love somewhere. Should she phone Josie? No, Josie had a life, the bitch. Her mother?
No, that would only depress her. What to do, what to do, what to do ...
The phone went. Jazz rushed to answer it.
“Poppet?” It was her mother.
Jazz started crying silently into the phone.
“Hello, Mum,” she sniffed.
“Mo is allowed to have boyfriends,” said Jeffrey, sipping tea, while Martha cut Jazz another slice of apple cake and thought her heart would burst.
“Not boyfriends I hate,” sniffed Jazz pathetically.
“You're just jealous, dear.”
“Jealous? Yes, I wish I'd have spent the last month dieting my personality away so I could sleep with Mr. Oilslick.”
“Not of her. Of him.”
Jazz paused.
“More apple cake?” asked Martha.
Jazz sat silent.
“Jealous?” she finally repeated.
“Yes,” said Jeffrey. “You've lost Mo, your soulmate. But don't worry, you'll soon get over it - when you find a true soulmate. Your own longterm partner.” Jeffrey felt proud that he'd managed not to say husband — that was very old-fashioned nowadays.
Martha and Jazz both looked at him in dismay.
“You were doing so well, dear,” said Martha, disappointed. “For a man.”
Chapter 14
Jazz got into work early on Monday morning. She had woken up at six and after twenty minutes of lying in her bed, fast awake, decided she couldn't get back to sleep. The thought of bumping into Gilbert in the hall again had actually invaded her dreams and roused her before the alarm went off. When she got there, she had only been slightly surprised to find Mark already there, tapping away furiously at his computer. She knew he was hungry, but hadn't realised how hungry. Another one on his way to the tabloids. Alison the secretary had put the coffee on and was already replying to readers' letters, while humming a Tammy Wynette number. Two years previously, when Jazz had started at Hoorah! she had been horrified to discover that Alison was only three years older than her. It was enough to make her want to cry. Alison wore little knitted cardis and put her long hair in a bun. Her stockings were never laddered and her eyeshadow was always blue.
“Good weekend?” Mark asked Jazz before she'd even taken her coat off.
“Oh, you know,” said Jazz, pouring herself a coffee. “Shite.”
She sensed Alison bristle in the corner. Tammy Wynette took a pause.
“Mine was amazing,” said Mark, leaning back from the desk and stretching out as if yawning. Jazz noticed he always did this when he was trying to hide the fact that he was feeling self-conscious. She cupped her coffee and watched him do his act.
“Got laid,” he smiled, and stopped suddenly when he realised he was starting to blush.
He looked at Jazz for a reaction. Jazz looked back at him for signs of a brain. Eventually, they both looked away, feeling lonely. Mark started typing again. God, he wished he worked at Loaded.
Jazz closed her eyes and started taking slow sips of her coffee. Suddenly, a voice interrupted her messy thoughts.
“Jasmin?”
Jazz opened her eyes to find Paul, the Art Editor, standing so near to her, he was actually blowing on her coffee. How did he always do that? She checked his feet for wheels.
“Hi,” she smiled, taking a small step back. Coffee was always better hot. And without an Art Editor's saliva in it.
“How's it going?” He cocked a lazy smile at her. He was feeling good today. He was wearing a new taupe shirt.
God help me, thought Jazz. One day I'm going to kill him.
“It's your My Breast Enlargements Didn't Work! piece. Um . . .”
Ah yes, my finest hour, thought Jazz. She raised her eyebrows encouragingly.
“Agatha wants to add a column of copy, so I'm afraid you're going to have to cut five hundred words.”
“OK,” she said. She didn't bother asking what the column was. She'd find out soon enough.
“I've got a purple head this week.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“A purple headline. Well, mauve actually.”
“Good.”
“Make a bit of a change. Wake the readers up.”
“Mm.”
“You know me, I like my colour.”
“Mm.”
“And if the head brings them in, they'll read your brilliant words.”
Jazz smiled weakly.
“Right,” said Paul, and then vanished as quietly as he had come in. Jazz looked at Mark and Alison to see if they'd also seen him. They didn't seem to have.
Half an hour later, Maddie, their boss, came in.
“Hi guys!” she said. “Good weekends?”
Mark sighed loudly. “Well, if getting laid counts in this creche of a features department, then yes, I had a good weekend.”
Maddie looked at him in surprise. “How lovely,” she said in a strained voice. “I went to IKEA. It was marvellous.”
It didn't happen often, but when Maddie was annoyed, you knew it. Her rosy red lips pursed together and she frowned very determinedly. Jazz was always surprised at how much Maddie hated it when anyone got too personal in the office.