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Authors: Miriam Morrison
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trying
not to think about the fact that she had probably gone to see
Harry, who was most likely even now enjoying the sex that
he had planned for his own evening. Jake was awake for
most of the night, thinking about little else.
Jill certainly had gone round to see Harry, but was
shocked when his door was opened by a very beautiful girl
wearing one of the bath towels she herself had enjoyed
using. As she stood there in horror, Harry himself
appeared, flagrantly, insultingly, wearing nothing at all and
not giving a shit about it either.
'Oops,' was all he said, but it was enough.
Jill stared at him silently for a minute, while it slowly
dawned on her what a fool she had been. 'You are such a
loser, Harry. For some reason your personality is permanently
in negative equity. I don't know why you feel the
need to steal from Jake to make up the shortfall, but it will
never be enough.'
For a second, Harry's mask dropped to show a face
twisted in anger, then he smirked. 'Loser? With all this? I
don't think so, babe!'
The swirling cauldron of emotions in the kitchen the
next day was about as appealing as one of Mrs Goldman's
casseroles – a dish she inflicted on her family from time to
time and which was based on the simple premise that if you
bunged roughly equal measures of the pantry and the
fridge into the oven, something edible would emerge. It
almost never did.
Jake was sad and furious at the same time, which made
his head feel quite curdled. He tried very hard to leave all
this personal stuff at the kitchen door, so to speak, and stay
professional, but he wore a permanent scowl and spoke
only in monosyllables. An equally unappetising combination
of shame and despair made Jill clumsier than ever,
while Harry's glee made him simply insufferable. He waited
until the kitchen was full of people before holding out his
hand and saying in a loud voice: 'I hope there are no hard
feelings, mate? Please don't take this personally.'
'Why not? We both know it is,' said Jake acidly and
stalked off, giving Harry all the time in the world to tell
everyone how it wasn't really Jake's fault he was such a bad
loser.
To all this was added the chef's hangover, which, even by
his standards, was of monumental proportions.
It was a morning of curdled sauces, dropped crockery
and knives sliding smoothly into fingers instead of
vegetables. The third plate that Jill dropped echoed round
the chef's throbbing head and sent him staggering to the
first-aid box.
'Fucking hell! There isn't even one aspirin left in here!'
He glared at everyone, holding his head and his bloodshot
gaze came to rest on Jill, whose eyes were so swollen with
crying she couldn't see she was putting all the knives in the
forks tray.
'Stop messing up my kitchen, you stupid woman, and go
and get me some aspirin, the extra strong sort,' he roared,
and threw his wallet at her.
She scuttled off. On her way to get her coat she saw Harry
laughing with one of the other waitresses and trying to pinch
her bum. When she got to the shop she couldn't remember
why she was there and had to wander up and down the aisles
for ages. The supermarket had a help desk and she was very
tempted to lay her head on the counter and ask for some but
she didn't think they would be up to dealing with emotional
fuck-ups. When she got back she was so late the chef had got
tired of waiting and had sloped off home.
With difficulty she staggered through to the end of the
shift, giving everyone the wrong orders and looking totally
blank when they complained. No one left a tip that
lunchtime. She was bringing the last plate back to the
kitchen when Jake looked up briefly. His eyes were dark
and sad, and she suddenly remembered all the fun they'd
had. She couldn't possibly go on working with him. She was
crap at her job anyway. She would go home to her mum.
She would do it right now. There was no point in waiting
for her wages because she probably owed more than that in
broken crockery anyway.
Putting her
not to think about the fact that she had probably gone to see
Harry, who was most likely even now enjoying the sex that
he had planned for his own evening. Jake was awake for
most of the night, thinking about little else.
Jill certainly had gone round to see Harry, but was
shocked when his door was opened by a very beautiful girl
wearing one of the bath towels she herself had enjoyed
using. As she stood there in horror, Harry himself
appeared, flagrantly, insultingly, wearing nothing at all and
not giving a shit about it either.
'Oops,' was all he said, but it was enough.
Jill stared at him silently for a minute, while it slowly
dawned on her what a fool she had been. 'You are such a
loser, Harry. For some reason your personality is permanently
in negative equity. I don't know why you feel the
need to steal from Jake to make up the shortfall, but it will
never be enough.'
For a second, Harry's mask dropped to show a face
twisted in anger, then he smirked. 'Loser? With all this? I
don't think so, babe!'
The swirling cauldron of emotions in the kitchen the
next day was about as appealing as one of Mrs Goldman's
casseroles – a dish she inflicted on her family from time to
time and which was based on the simple premise that if you
bunged roughly equal measures of the pantry and the
fridge into the oven, something edible would emerge. It
almost never did.
Jake was sad and furious at the same time, which made
his head feel quite curdled. He tried very hard to leave all
this personal stuff at the kitchen door, so to speak, and stay
professional, but he wore a permanent scowl and spoke
only in monosyllables. An equally unappetising combination
of shame and despair made Jill clumsier than ever,
while Harry's glee made him simply insufferable. He waited
until the kitchen was full of people before holding out his
hand and saying in a loud voice: 'I hope there are no hard
feelings, mate? Please don't take this personally.'
'Why not? We both know it is,' said Jake acidly and
stalked off, giving Harry all the time in the world to tell
everyone how it wasn't really Jake's fault he was such a bad
loser.
To all this was added the chef's hangover, which, even by
his standards, was of monumental proportions.
It was a morning of curdled sauces, dropped crockery
and knives sliding smoothly into fingers instead of
vegetables. The third plate that Jill dropped echoed round
the chef's throbbing head and sent him staggering to the
first-aid box.
'Fucking hell! There isn't even one aspirin left in here!'
He glared at everyone, holding his head and his bloodshot
gaze came to rest on Jill, whose eyes were so swollen with
crying she couldn't see she was putting all the knives in the
forks tray.
'Stop messing up my kitchen, you stupid woman, and go
and get me some aspirin, the extra strong sort,' he roared,
and threw his wallet at her.
She scuttled off. On her way to get her coat she saw Harry
laughing with one of the other waitresses and trying to pinch
her bum. When she got to the shop she couldn't remember
why she was there and had to wander up and down the aisles
for ages. The supermarket had a help desk and she was very
tempted to lay her head on the counter and ask for some but
she didn't think they would be up to dealing with emotional
fuck-ups. When she got back she was so late the chef had got
tired of waiting and had sloped off home.
With difficulty she staggered through to the end of the
shift, giving everyone the wrong orders and looking totally
blank when they complained. No one left a tip that
lunchtime. She was bringing the last plate back to the
kitchen when Jake looked up briefly. His eyes were dark
and sad, and she suddenly remembered all the fun they'd
had. She couldn't possibly go on working with him. She was
crap at her job anyway. She would go home to her mum.
She would do it right now. There was no point in waiting
for her wages because she probably owed more than that in
broken crockery anyway.
Putting her
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