2. Jessica

Jessica

1998

"Jessica, can you do me a favour and take this bottle of champagne over to table six?" my boss, Mr Indrani asks with a casualness that sets my teeth on edge. "Raj has already laid out the glasses so all you need to do is pour."

"Sure, no problem," I smile, wiping my hands on my apron. "You said table six, right?"

"Yes. You sure you're okay to do this?"

"Of course! No worries, leave it with me."

Taking the bottle of Moet and an ice bucket from him, I move through the crowded restaurant towards a group of rowdy men celebrating a stag do. The truth is, I'm not okay with this at all. Despite waitressing at Spice Palace Indian Restaurant for over a month, I still haven't got the hang of how to serve champagne correctly. My workmate Raj has shown me several times, but I just can't get my head around how to use the folded service cloth or master that funny way of holding the bottom of the bottle as you pour. I'm going to need absolute concentration, but from the way the guys are behaving as I approach, I know this is going to be a complete disaster.

"Hello sweetheart," leers one of the men. "Seeing you feels like all my Christmases and birthdays have come at once."

"What a stunner," says another. "Looks like a catwalk model. Legs that go on for miles."

Their sloppy attempts to flirt go unregistered. I'm lost in my own world trying to remember everything Raj taught me to ensure I get it done in the right order.

Let's see, present the bottle, hold the bottle away so that the champagne doesn't explode everywhere, do a taste test, then move around the table clockwise, serving the host first…

With trembling hands, I present the Moet to the men to check they are happy with their selection, and then, holding the service cloth around the bottom, release the cage. Gripping the base, I keep my hand over the cork pointed away from them and then, slowly twisting the bottle, ease the champagne open. With a sense of relief, I hear the muted gush of air as the cork is finally released with no unwanted spills.

Smiling, I lean forward to fill the first glass with the intention of working my way around the table. As I do so, the bottle suddenly slips and bubbly splashes all over one of the men's jeans.

"Shit, I am so sorry!" In a tizzy, I grab a handful of serviettes to clean up the mess, but compound matters by knocking over another two glasses. "Fuck! What am I like?"

"It's all right, love," the guy grins. "No harm done. I only look like I've peed myself, but not to worry, the wet patch will soon dry. Is this your first day here?"

"Actually, I've been working here for a while," I say. "Oh my gosh, this is such a fiasco. Please accept my apologies. Would you like a replacement bottle of Moet?"

"No, this one is fine, thanks. I don't want to make a fuss and get you in trouble. Just finish pouring the rest and we're good."

"Thanks. I really appreciate that."

To a chorus of whoops and sniggers, I throw him some more napkins and hurriedly resume filling the rest of the champagne flutes. All the while, I can sense Mr Indrani's eyes burning into the back of me from over by the kitchen. No doubt he witnessed everything and is less than impressed by my monumental cock-up. From the moment I started this job, I knew I was living on borrowed time. The truth is, I'm just not cut out for fine dining. I don't have the poise or composure for it and am far too clumsy to ever make the cut. Still, I live in hope that somehow, I can muddle through until at least the end of the summer.

Some chance.

Half-way through my shift, my boss sternly calls me into his office, and I know I'm in the doghouse before he even utters the first syllable.

"Take a seat Jessica. This won't take long."

"Am I in trouble?" I ask fearfully. "Is this because of what happened earlier when I spilt the champagne on those guys? It was an accident; you've got to believe me. A one off. I promise it won't happen again."

The old man sighs and rubs his temples. "Listen, I like you, I really do, but if I'm being honest, this just isn't working. When you first took this job, you told me you had waitressing experience."

"I do! I have a second job at a diner that I've worked at for over two years."

"Yes, but with all due respect, waitressing at Sloppy Joe's American Diner is nothing like working at Spice Palace. Here we have a different sort of clientele and a prestigious reputation to uphold. The food critics love us. We've had a four-star review in Time Out. It's a fast-moving environment and you've got to be on the ball at all times. There's no room for slackness." Grimly, he opens a small safety deposit box and begins counting ￡20 notes into an envelope. My heart sinks. "I'm sorry Jessica, but I'm going to have to let you go. I'm giving you your final week's salary, and then we'll call it quits."

"No! Please Mr Indrani, don't do this. I can change, I can do better. Please, just give me one last chance and I promise not to screw up this time. I really, really need this job. There's something important I'm saving up for and I really need the money."

"I'm sorry," he says firmly, handing me the envelope. "I'm not a charity and it's not just what happened today that's the issue. Your timekeeping is abysmal…"

"My little brother has autism," I blurt. "Sometimes he has these meltdowns before I leave the house and I have to help my mother calm him down. If I've ever been five minutes late, that's the reason. But I promise I can change. I can make sure that we—"

"It isn't only that," he cuts in. "You take ages to lay the cutlery. You take long toilet breaks. You still haven't memorised the key ingredients of our signature biryani. Laksmi only arrived from Kathmandu a fortnight ago and already his performance is out stripping yours three to one."

"I can change! Please, I'm begging you, just give me one last chance and I'll prove it to you."

Mr Indrani closes his eyes and steeples his fingers. "I'm so sorry Jessica. You're a lovely, lovely girl. Everyone likes you, and if it wasn't such a fast-paced environment, I'd love to keep you on. Can I give you a word of advice? I honestly think you'd be better suited to something in fashion or retail. Something with a slower pace. You're great at talking to customers so try to find something that plays to your strengths. Unfortunately, Spice Palace is not the place for you to shine."

A lump forms in my throat and I struggle to hold back the tears. It's no use. From the unyielding expression on his face, I know his mind is made up and there's nothing I can do to change it.

Taking off my apron, I return to the kitchen to say a tearful goodbye to Raj and the others. None of them can believe I've got the sack, and their kind words and indignation at how I've been treated help to soften my humiliation. They're such a great bunch of guys, so sweet and caring. We haven't known each other long, but for the short time I've worked here, I feel like I've made some true friends. Eventually I leave the restaurant clutching a complimentary carton of korma and pilau rice, promising Raj to stay in touch and bring my family to Spice Palace for a meal on the house.

When I get outside, a cold, February wind chills me to the bone and I wish I'd worn something warmer than this thin denim jacket. Miserably, I trudge through the dark, treelined paths of Clapham Common, turning left at the bandstand which serves as a short-cut to my housing estate. Inside, I'm kicking myself.

What a fiasco. What a monumental fuck-up. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I try harder to fit in? Why didn't I do everything in my power to memorise the ingredients of that damn chicken biryani? There were so many things I could have done better but it's too late now.

I've let myself down badly.

Worst of all, I feel like I've let Mum down.

Eight years ago, my mother Cynthia was diagnosed with an extremely rare form of cancer, and she spent my early teenage years in and out of hospital undergoing various treatments. It was a difficult time for us all, but I found it especially challenging because she was told her diagnosis soon after giving birth to my younger brother Freddie, who has autism and ADHD.

With his father Darren out of the picture, it meant I had to grow up fast to assist with parenting duties and provide the unwavering support required to help look after a child with special needs. Of course, I love Freddie to bits, so I was more than happy to play surrogate mother when I needed to, but I still look back on it as one of the bleakest periods of my life.

Mum's cancer eventually went into remission, and we enjoyed a few happy years where her ill health didn't dominate our lives so much. Then around six months ago, the cancer returned and this time the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for her—on the NHS at least. Our one glimmer of hope is a pioneering medical procedure offered at an esteemed clinic in Germany where a course of treatment costs somewhere in the region of ￡50,000.

Unfortunately, as we're poor, we don't exactly have that kind of money lying around, so I've been working night and day to save up as much as I can to put towards her treatment fund. In addition to juggling two jobs, my fundraising activities have included sponsored runs, a raffle at my brother's primary school and selling off my old clothes and records at a tabletop sale at St Matthew's Church.

So far, I've managed to save ￡2438, which barely makes a dent in the overall cost, but hey, you've got to start somewhere, and as my mother Cynthia says, you've got to stay positive as you never know when your luck will change.

Sadly, my fundraising attempts have taken a bit of a setback now I've lost the gig at Spice Palace. However, at least I've still got the job at Sloppy Joe's and if I scan the classified section of The South London Herald tomorrow morning, I can start getting some interviews lined up for early next week.

At last, I reach my home on the Terrapin Road estate—a small development of low-rise council flats built sometime in the mid-sixties. As far as housing estates go, this is one of the nicer ones. One of my mother's favourite anecdotes is how when she was pregnant with me and on the council waiting list, she refused the first couple of flats she was offered due to them being ‘complete and utter hellholes.' She said she knew something decent would come up eventually and she was determined to hold out, even if it meant living in temporary accommodation for just a bit longer.

It turned out she was right. Compared to some of the sink estates around this neck of the woods, the Terrapin Road development is clean and tidy with well-kept front and back gardens and a communal entry hall that doesn't smell of urine. Mum reckons this is because the majority of our neighbours are elderly pensioners who purchased their homes through the Right to Buy scheme so are house proud and have that classic sense of working-class pride that was endemic in days gone by.

With a sense of relief, I approach the ground floor communal entrance and, rummaging through my bag, fish out my house keys. Once inside the block, I walk through a dimly lit hall and let myself into flat number2. As soon as I enter, I'm hit by the sound of trumpets and drums. My mother is blaring out El Ritmo Latino, a collection of her favourite Latin American grooves on the record player and the whole place feels like one big carnival. Instantly, I'm infused with a sense of warmth and welcome and I thank God for sweet moments like this. No doubt the noise is winding up the neighbours no end, but I absolutely love it.

Smiling, I push open the door to the living room to find a familiar scene of beautiful, glorious chaos. Used as an all-purpose space, it doubles up as both Mum's bedroom and a makeshift art studio. Against the wall sits a second-hand futon while canvases, cardboard boxes and tubes of acrylic lie scattered everywhere.

In the middle of the floor, my nine-year-old brother Freddie is lying on the rug playing with his Matchbox toy cars that have been painstakingly laid out in symmetrical colour-coded lines. As I move through the room, I'm careful not to step on them because even the slightest slip could be enough to trigger a mini meltdown.

My mother Cynthia is standing before an easel, putting the finishing touches to her latest painting—a picture of a dark-haired man with a severe side-parting dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing sitting in a warm, gaslit room. The image is stunningly realistic and looks like something Rembrandt might have whipped up. I find her talent mesmerising and never tire of telling people just how proud I am or how amazing she is at art.

Physically, we are like chalk and cheese. Cynthia is short and slim with pale skin, blue eyes and red hair fashioned in a pixie cut. I'm tall, tan, and gangly with long brown hair and dark, almost black eyes. I'm told she is the image of my Irish grandmother Mandy, while I apparently resemble my father Carlos, the sexy and sophisticated art student Mum had a brief fling with at college when she was nineteen (the same age as me). It was the romance of the century until Carlos the Lothario pissed off back to Spain, never to be seen again.

"Darling, you're back!" Cynthia puts down her brush and wipes her hands on her paint splattered dungarees. "What do you think of my latest creation?"

Craning my neck, I squint at the picture fixed to the easel. "It's amazing, but who is it supposed to be?"

"It's a portrait of D.H. Lawrence contemplating Lady Chatterley's Lover."

"Cool! I love the colour palette. Blacks and browns make it very…very atmospheric." I laugh inwardly, amused by her pretentiousness.

"Glad you like it," she grins. "Oh, guess what? I spoke to a man at Northcote Library today and he says they would be happy to put on an exhibition of my work there. Isn't that brilliant?"

"That's great, Mum. I'm so happy for you."

She glances at her watch. "Hey, it's just gone half eight. What are you doing back? Did you finish work early tonight?"

"No, I got the sack."

Her mouth drops open. "Oh no! What happened?"

With a non-committal shrug, I flop down on a beanie bag and cross my legs. "Mr Indrani said I wasn't good enough. I kept being late and wasn't great at table service. Also, I dropped a bottle of champers over this group of guys and that was kind of the final straw. So, it's back to the old drawing board in terms of finding another job."

There's an awkward pause. Then swiftly, my mother's cheerful mood returns, and she tells me not to worry, life is too short to be depressed. Grabbing both my hands, she pulls me to my feet and spins me around in time to the music. Her playfulness is infectious and soon we're both dancing around the room and laughing hysterically in a haze of sweet delirium. In the pit of my stomach, however, I'm still feeling a little sick.

Moments like this are golden but also tinged with sadness because I can't help but wonder how much longer my mother's fragile health can hold on for. Will she survive this time around or will she suddenly be taken away from me? The thought of losing one of the two people I love most in the world completely destroys me and the worry of it stalks me day and night. My mother is my best friend, the woman I most admire, and I can't even begin to imagine a life without her. If she passes away, how will we cope? The thought of it is utterly inconceivable.

To make matters worse, there's no one around I can talk to about my concerns. I don't have any close friends I trust enough to confide in, and Cynthia has banned all conversation about her health for fear of upsetting Freddie. As a result, we're never allowed to address the elephant in the room and must only focus on happy things. Even the subject of my firing is not something to be dwelled upon for long. No, we must all put on a brave face and keep up the cheerful charade, even though deep down inside playing pretend is killing me.

"Jess, have you seen my model Porsche?" Freddie cuts in, holding up one of his toy cars. "Don't you think it's really cool?"

"Yes, it's wonderful, Freddie."

"Do you like it? Really and truly?"

"Yes, that's one cool set of wheels. But, Kiddo, shouldn't you be in bed by now? It's almost nine o'clock."

He juts out his bottom lip. "But I don't want to go to bed yet. I want to finish playing with my cars! Mum, Jess is trying to make me go to bed. Do I have to?"

"Do as your sister says," Cynthia admonishes humorously. "She's right. It's long past your bedtime. Sorry Jess, this is all my fault. I should have been getting him ready for bed ages ago, but I got so caught up with this painting, the time just flew by."

I roll my eyes. God, what is she like? Sometimes she acts like such a big kid I'm certain if it wasn't for me, she'd let my brother stay up until the early hours. It often feels like I'm the only one in this house trying to establish any sort of routine. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. By now, I should be used to how scatter-brained Cynthia is. After all, I've been playing parent since I was eleven years old.

"Come on Kiddo, time for beddy-bye. Let's go." Gently, I take Freddie's hand and lead him to the bathroom to clean his teeth. Setting my stopwatch, I count each second out loud to ensure he brushes for precisely two minutes (a little trick I've learnt to get him to clean his teeth thoroughly). Then I help him put on his pyjamas and tuck him into bed.

"Jess?" Freddie asks before the lights go out.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"If I'm a really good boy, do you think Father Christmas will bring me a Super Nintendo? My friend Ollie has got Super Mario World on the Nintendo and I want one too because I love Super Mario Bros."

I stifle a smirk. Sometimes he's so damn adorable it makes me want to weep. With his mop of red hair, snub nose and freckles, he's the spitting image of my mother only twice as cute.

"Christmas is a long way off," I say. "But sure, I don't see why not. If you're a really good boy, Father Christmas will bring you anything you want, as long as he can afford it. Sometimes Father Christmas has a tight budget to work with, you know. And sometimes Father Christmas and the elves may not be able to get you stuff that is always brand new, so the Nintendo might be second-hand, but it will work just as good."

"Cool. I just want one, I don't care if it isn't new."

"Good. Well, keep being a good boy and I'm sure it will happen."

"Jess, is today Friday 6th February?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Yes." I smile inwardly, knowing what comes next. It's the same routine every single night and I enjoy playing along. "Today is Friday 6th February."

"And is Friday 6th February the 37th day of the year?"

"Um, I'm not sure, I don't have a calendar to hand, but I bet you're right. You're always right."

Freddie sits up excitedly, warming to his topic. "Yes, I am right, I know because I counted it on my fingers, and I also know this year is not a leap year so there will only be 28 days in February. And tomorrow is Saturday 7th February so that will be the 38th day of the year, and then Sunday 8th will be the 39th day of the year…"

"All right, Kiddo," I soothe, pulling the blankets up to his chin. "Enough of that. Time to go sleepies."

"Goodnight, Jess. I love you."

"I love you too."

"More than anything?"

"More than anything."

"More than ice-cream?"

"More than ice-cream, Mars bars and all the Sherbet Dip Dabs on the planet."

"Oh my gosh, did you watch Sunset Beach this morning?" Amina asks excitedly as she wipes down the serving counter. "It was wicked! Annie is still acting the psycho, Virginia is still trying to break up Michael and Vanessa and Cole…oh my God, Cole! He's so bloody hot he deserves a spin-off show all of his own."

"Sorry, I didn't see it," I say. "But it sounds brilliant."

"It is! I'm addicted. I've tape-recorded the last couple of episodes so if you ever want to check it out, let me know." She pauses to pour herself a cheeky glass of Pepsi from the drinks' dispenser (she'd better hope our boss Brian doesn't catch her as he's warned us not to take the piss with freebies).

"I mean," she continues, wiping her mouth. "I know it's not exactly Twin Peaks, but trust me, Sunset Beach is the most perfect guilty pleasure. The storylines are off the wall and the cast are so hot they're on fire. I can't get enough. Everyone I know watches it. At first it started out as a bit of a joke, but I think it's got a cult following now."

"You've sold it to me," I say. "If it's a guilty pleasure then it should be right up my street." I can't be bothered to explain the real reason I won't be watching Sunset Beach anytime soon is because we haven't had a TV for six months, not since the man from Radio Rentals came and took it away. In my home, television is a luxury we can ill afford, like the house phone that gets intermittently disconnected on account of the unpaid bill. Currently, we are blessed to have a working landline but for how much longer is anybody's guess.

"I mean, when I say the storylines are nuts, I do mean nuts," Amina laughs. "There's this character called Meg—she's a total sweetheart—who meets this random guy on the Net and moves to Sunset Beach to be with him. How freaky is that? Can you imagine falling in love with someone you met on a computer who you'd never actually seen in real life? I mean, the bloke could be a total perve, right? What kind of a weirdo would date someone they met on the Net? But hey, it's just a show, I guess. Not supposed to be realistic. Trust me, computer dating will never catch on."

I smile blandly. I know very little about the world of the Net so I'm not in a position to comment, but I agree it does sound far out.

It's Saturday afternoon and I'm working the lunch shift at Sloppy Joe's American Diner with my friend and fellow waitress Amina Jones. As always, Amina looks too cool for school with her shaven head, black lipstick, nose ring, knitted choker and long green dress teamed effortlessly with a pair of blocky, limited-edition Dr Martens. We've worked together at the diner for over two years and have become pretty good mates.

Amina and I used to attend the same secondary school but didn't know each other that well because we moved in different circles. At school she was part of the Grungers crowd while I, being a bit of a loner, didn't form part of any group at all.

It's funny, but looking back on my school days, I realise that so much of where you sat in the pecking order was dependent on what type of music you listened to. So, at the top of the hierarchy, you had two groups of popular kids—those obsessively devoted to Mark Owen and Take That and those who listened to the likes of Jodeci, Snoop Doggy Dogg and Adina Howard. Then you had Amina's crowd, a motley crew of kooks known as the Grungers, who worshipped Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins and Skunk Anansie with the occasional side helping of Oasis, Blur and Suede thrown in for good measure. These kids weren't exactly popular, but they had safety in numbers, and you picked on them at your peril. Then at the bottom of the heap you had the Swots—the kids who got straight As and sucked up to the teachers with an avant-garde musical taste ranging from obscure B-side dance tracks to The Beatles.

And then there was little old me who, with a penchant for ‘50s show tunes and Kylie Minogue after she stopped being cool, didn't have a hope in hell's chance of being accepted by anyone. At school I was virtually friendless, a sad state of affairs caused by my complicated home life and a general lack of worldliness which meant very few of the other kids found me relatable.

My closest acquaintance (I hesitate to call her a friend) was a girl named Charlotte ‘Midge' Ramsey who was in the same form class as me. With thick glasses, a face covered with acne and wildly unmanageable hair, Midge had all the attributes of a popular girl hiding in the body of a geek. She smoked. She loved Robbie Williams and Take That. She needed counselling when they split up. She studiously collected every single edition of Smash Hits and Vogue and was up to speed on all the celebrity gossip. Had her outward appearance been different, I'm certain she would have fitted right in with the popular crowd she so desperately wanted to be a part of.

But instead, she got lumbered me—boring old Jessica Gardner who nobody wanted to sit with or be friends with, but as we shared many of the same classes and often needed to buddy up, the two of us were sort of thrown together. Out of necessity, we formed an uneasy alliance, but we didn't like each other much and had nothing in common to talk about other than how much we despised the bullies at our school.

Time and again, Midge would chastise me for being so weird and constantly took the Mickey out of my ‘deeply uncool' fixation with Edgar Allan Poe and ‘50s musicals. She told me I was good-looking enough to be popular if only I would make more effort and stop sabotaging myself by getting straight As and wearing clothes from charity shops. Midge was the ultimate definition of the word ‘frenemy,' and I can't say I was sorry when she eventually moved to Scotland to live with her grandparents.

"Jesus Christ, look what the cat dragged in," Amina groans, rolling her eyes. "Have you seen who's just walked in the diner? Are you going to serve them, because I'm telling you, I'm not touching those creeps with a bargepole!"

Snapping from my reverie, I put down my stack of plates and sneak a peek through the beaded curtain to view the shop floor.

"Fuck!"

My heart sinks as I recognise four familiar faces who used to go to our school: Georgina Wickham, Lorraine Templeton and their boyfriends Jack Parker and Thomas Statham. With beautiful faces, beautiful smiles, and perfectly toned bodies, the four of them could easily be mistaken for cast members from Baywatch. However, behind their glittering fa?ade lies a poison that only those who had the misfortune to attend Salesian Comprehensive know about. Georgina Wickham was the biggest bitch in school and one of the worst bullies who tormented me mercilessly throughout my education.

It all started in Year Seven when a teacher complimented me on a poem I wrote. I was given an ‘A' for effort and told to read it out loud in front of the class. No sooner had the words been spoken, then Georgina, who was sitting behind me, began kicking my seat and chanting "Swot" and "Little Miss Smartie Pants," over and over again. Soon everyone joined in. Somebody threw a spit ball. Another kid poked me in my spine and put chewing gum in my hair.

That was just the beginning.

At every given opportunity after that, Georgina and her friends picked on me and made my life complete hell. Every day they made snide comments about my appearance, slagged me off for being a Teacher's Pet and were generally nasty to be around. Worst of all, they encouraged my classmates to join in, branding me an ‘untouchable' and completely demolished my chances of ever having any proper friends. I soon began to dread returning to class after the summer holidays and the very sight of a ‘Back to School' sign in Woolworth's was enough to make me puke. My fear and self-loathing were all consuming and I spent most of my time at secondary school living in utter misery.

During this terrible time, I've got to admit my mother didn't help matters. I never told Cynthia about the bullying because I felt she had enough problems already, what with her ill health and having to bring up two children on her own. Compared to that, my problems seemed insignificant, and I didn't want to burden her. But there were definitely things she did to seriously undermine my street cred. I've never understood why parents behave as if they don't know what it's like to be a teenager and that their well-meaning advice is likely to go down like a lead balloon when applied to real life situations.

Case in point: my mother has always been a staunch feminist who refuses to kowtow to male ideals of beauty. As such, she refuses to shave her legs, armpits or pluck her eyebrows, and during my early teenage years, she insisted I do the same. If men weren't pressured to shave their bodies, she argued, then why should she? It was all about Girl Power, trying to make a statement, which is fine if you hang with a bohemian collective of artists, musicians and Yoga teachers. Not so fine if you attend a school where everyone's role model for beauty is Claudia Schiffer.

Georgina and her cronies had an utter field day when they found out my hairy secret in the changing rooms after P.E. and never stopped going on about it. They laughed and christened me the ‘Devil's Daughter' on account of my eyebrows meeting ever so slightly in the middle. Even after I finally had the guts to stand up to Cynthia and get hold of a razor and pair of tweezers to ensure my skin was as smooth and hairless as a baby's bottom, the nickname stuck, and I'm still called it to this day.

"Jesus, did you ever see four such perfect tossers?" Amina hisses, watching as Georgina's group get seated in one of the booths. "Lorraine's got that G-string shoved so far up her arse she's walking on tiptoe." Grimacing, she pushes a stack of menus on me. "Here. You do it. Go and take their order."

I shake my head. "No way! I can't stand those guys. Why do I have to do it?"

"Because if I go, I'm likely to punch somebody's lights out, and I need this job too much to give Georgina Wickham the satisfaction of getting me the sack. You know me, Jess. I've got a big mouth when it comes to arseholes and if they start anything with me, there's going to be a bloodbath. So please, just do this, okay? You've got a better temperament than me. You can handle this."

"Okay, okay," I say. "I'll do it, but if something bad happens, this is on you." Discreetly, I sneak another glance through the beaded curtain. "To be fair, it's mainly Georgina who's the problem. Jack isn't so bad."

Amina's eyes narrow. "Not so bad? Are you serious? Did you fall down and hit your head? Jack Parker is a complete and utter wanker."

"No, he's not. I think he's nice. He's not a bully like the others."

"Ah. I see. You're saying that because you fancy him."

"I do not!"

"Listen, I'm not going to deny he's sex on legs, but he's still a wanker. Look who he hangs with. Look who his girlfriend is. Plus, I've heard that he sleeps around. He's like a dog with two dicks. Don't give him an easy pass just 'cos he's hot and you fancy him."

"I told you, I do not fancy him."

"Yes, you do," she laughs. "It's written all over your face. So, you like a boy. Big deal. It's okay to admit it, I won't think any less of you. You can still be a feminist and want to give a man a blowjob."

My cheeks flush. The truth is I do have a thing for Jack Parker. Always have done. From the moment I laid eyes on him as an eleven-year-old, I've been nursing a monumental crush that simply won't die. I thought he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. ‘Hot' doesn't come close to describing the perfection of those chiselled features, dreamy blue eyes or that firm, muscular body that gets all the girls creaming in their knickers. Whenever I'm in his vicinity I get sort of tongue-tied and feverish and the only way to control my emotions is to keep at a safe distance. God help me if Georgina ever knew I was secretly crushing on her boyfriend.

Taking a deep breath to psych myself up, I step boldly onto the shop floor and enter the world of a ‘40s diner. A lifelong fan of vintage American culture, our boss Brian has really gone to town with the décor and no expense was spared to recreate this pretty time capsule. Sadly, that was about 20 years ago and now the pretty time capsule has stained carpets, faded furniture and a whiff of having seen better days.

As soon as I pass through the beaded curtain, my ears are serenaded by the sweet sound of the Cardigan's Lovefool playing on the stereo.

Lovefool? How ironic, given my hopeless fixation with Jack Parker.

Tentatively, I walk with purposeful strides towards the dreaded booth to face my nemesis, praying for my nerves not to get the better of me. Looking around, I see the diner is empty except for one old man drinking a cup of coffee by the window.

As I approach the booth, both girls start giggling and I feel a sick sensation in the back of my throat. All at once, the old feelings of inadequacy come flooding back and I'm almost paralysed with fear at the sight of Georgina's angelic face—that exquisite face that has haunted every one of my nightmares for the past eight years. Wearing a red NAF NAF jacket with a low-cut top and tight leather trousers, she looks gorgeous enough to give any of the super models a run for their money. It's just a shame her outward beauty only runs skin deep.

Come on, you can do this. You can do this…

No, actually, I can't.

Four blonde heads swivel in my direction, causing me to almost have a heart attack. Jack is looking directly at me, and I'm so overwhelmed by the attention, it's a struggle to meet his gaze. The beauty of the boy is astounding. Oh my God, oh my God. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Swiftly, my confidence evaporates and I'm back to being a frightened eleven-year-old again.

"Fuck, I didn't know the Devil's Daughter worked here," Lorraine hisses. "They must be really desperate for staff."

"Shhh!" Georgina giggles. "Don't be mean. Even the Devil's Daughter's got to work somewhere." Then, flashing a dazzling smile, she locks eyes with me. "Hello Jessica, it's so nice to see you again. How long has it been? Two years?"

"Yeah, something like that," I mumble, dropping the stack of menus in the middle of the table. "Um, can I take your drinks order?"

"What do you fancy, ladies?" Jack asks brightly. "Shall we get four Cokes?"

"Actually, I'll have an orange Fanta please," Thomas says. "I've gone off Coke lately."

"Hey Jessica, do you sell Devil's Food Cake?" Lorraine cackles. "If you do, then I'd like that for dessert!"

Georgina kicks her friend's leg under the table. "Don't be a bitch. Come on, let the poor girl do her job. If you keep on like that, you'll make her cry and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"It was only a joke!" Lorraine fires back. "Can't you take a joke?"

"Girls, girls, just stop it, okay?" Jack snaps. "Stop taking the piss. It isn't funny anymore." Turning, he treats me to the most heart-stopping smile I've ever seen. Kindness radiates from his face and I melt a little inside. "Sorry about that. Right, we'll have three Cokes and one Fanta."

"Cool," I beam. "Cokes and Fanta. Got it."

For a moment, his eyes travel over my body, before fixating intently on my chest. I blush. I've always had big boobs so you can't exactly miss them. Truth be told, it's not the first time I've caught Jack staring at them. Clearly, he likes what he sees. The sense of being appreciated makes me feel all warm inside.

Spluttering with rage, Georgina slams her fist on the table to get her boyfriend's attention. "Jack!"

"What?" he says innocently. "What did I do?"

"You know damn well what. Just wait till we get home." Looking up at me, she displays a dangerous smile I know so well. A smile that turns my skin cold. It's the prelude to her sticking the knife in and sadly the victim in her sights is me.

"You know Jessica," she drawls, "I'm really surprised to see you working somewhere like this. It's so down market. To be honest, I'm shocked by how low you've sunk. You were always such a stuck-up little cow at school, I thought you'd be manager of Barclays Bank by now. Not to worry. Your mum used to work in Kwik Save so I really shouldn't have expected you to do any better."

Lorraine shrieks with laughter. "Oh Georgie, you're so bad. Now you've gone and made the girl cry."

My tears fall slowly, bitterly. I start to get palpitations. With a loud sob, I turn and scarper back to the kitchen like a frightened little mouse, wishing to God I had the guts to say something back to her, but it's as if I've been struck dumb. Years of having my confidence run into the ground has left me incapable of fighting my own corner the way I know I should. Years of verbal abuse from my classmates has trained me not to talk back and it's now so ingrained in my subconscious, it's built-in like muscle memory. I hate myself for being so weak, but it's like Georgina's evil aura has a way of sucking all my strength and leaving me a snivelling, quivering wreck.

"Hey lovely, what the hell happened?" Amina gasps when she sees the absolute state of me. "What did those bitches do to you?"

"I-I can't take this anymore," I wail. "Georgina hates me. I don't know why, but she does. She's just so fucking horrible, I can't do this anymore. Stop the world I want to get off."

"Right," she says through clenched teeth. "Have you got the twats' drinks order?"

"Uh-huh. Three Cokes, one Fanta." I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

"Okay, time to go Medieval." Thunderously, she grabs a tray from the stacking station and proceeds to fill four glasses with pop at the drinks' dispenser. "All right, now they're going to get it. An audience with the psychopathic bitch and her merry band of cunts, take two."

I laugh through my tears. I can't help it. Even when everything has turned to shit, Amina always gets me to see the funny side.

With a face like stone, she marches up to the booth and slams the tray on the table before whipping out her notepad.

"What food do you want? Be quick about it, I haven't got all day."

"Jesus Amina, what's with you?" Georgina says with surprise. "Are you on your period or what? Take a chill pill, deep breaths and calm down."

"I love that dress by the way," Lorraine quips. "Are you going to a Halloween party?"

The boys exchange glances. A guilty grin spreads across Jack's face.

Calmly, Amina takes a pencil from behind her ear and waves it menacingly at Lorraine. "See this? One more word out of you and I'll shove it so far up your arse you'll be shitting pencil shavings for the foreseeable future. So no more of your lip, okay? If you can't play nice then you can all sling your hook. I'm not kidding. I'm in no mood to entertain your BS today."

"Hey, hey!" Georgina waves her hands in a placatory gesture. "Wow Amina, what's gotten into you? I thought we were supposed to be friends. Why are you behaving so hostile?"

"Because I don't like what you did to my mate Jessica. You made her cry and that isn't on. Like I said, if you lot are here to make trouble, then you can piss off back to the hole you crawled out from and find somewhere else to spread your misery."

Lorraine's mouth drops open in shock. Evidently, she's never been spoken to like that before and is so taken aback, she doesn't know what to say. I let out a quiet cheer.

Georgina's face darkens. "Oh, for crying out loud, Jessica's such a soppy cow. We were only playing around. Can't she take a joke?"

"It wasn't a joke, and you know it," Amina shoots back. "You guys made her life hell all throughout school so don't pretend to be all sweet and innocent. Now I repeat. Are you going to be nice today or what?"

"Look, we don't want any trouble," Jack cuts in, finally calling time on the dispute. "Please accept my apologies for the girls' behaviour. They can be so childish sometimes." He quicky scans his menu and hands it back. "Let's have four cheeseburgers with chips and a side serving of onion rings."

Amina scribbles down the order. "Cheeseburgers, chips, onions rings. Got it. How do you want your burgers?"

"Medium rare, please."

"Right, will that be all?"

"That will be all," Jack confirms with a nod. "And I'm sorry again for any trouble we've caused."

"It's not me you should be apologising to," she mutters as she storms back to the kitchen. "It's Jessica who deserves the apology, you complete bellend."

Four pairs of eyes shoot in my direction, and with a yelp, I dart out of view behind the beaded curtain and crouch down on the floor, my heart thumping so hard I can barely breathe. Jesus, Amina was magnificent. Jules Winnfield would have been proud.