Telltale ~ Liam Gallagher

NOVEMBER 2000

I will never understand why coffee shops do not supply their customers with some form of hand protection. If you're going to serve overpriced boiling hot coffee in the thinnest polyester cups, people are no doubt going to burn off their flesh.

I think this very thought each time I buy her same morning coffee, ("A white chocolate mocha please with two shots of espresso.") and never say anything. I've always been too scared to speak my mind. Confrontation isn't one of my strong points (I find it difficult to control my temper once I get going, and would be distraught if I happened to hurt anyone emotionally or physically).

Taking the absurd coffee in my non-dominant hand in order to protect my other, I thank the moody barista (who I am sure I recognise from uni) and push open the stiff door into the blissfully chilly street.

Strictly speaking the journey should take your average human roughly seven and a half minutes to complete (when walking fast) but Zara likes her white chocolate mocha with two shots of espresso to be two degrees off boiling point when ingested (any less and you need to run). This pickiness gives me round about three minutes to run like a mad woman down the parade, cross the busy road and dodge the upturned cobbles on the pavement before arriving at her fancy apartment building.

If I had the extra four and a half minutes I might peer into the windows of the vintage shops I like, or drop a crumpled up fiver into the busker's battered guitar case, maybe even stopping to request a song. But I don't. Zara (my pretentious boss) needs her coffee. Without it she's even worse than normal.

Despite being her PA (personal assistant, or, in my opinion - servant) for just under two years now, the woman scares me shitless. Routinely she'll retell obnoxious stories of how and why she fired her previous PAs. One was because whilst she was away, her PA (two before me) slightly overfed her violent little chihuahua and when Zara arrived home after a long weekend away in Stockholm, little Chico weighed an extra pound.

Shock horror.

However, two years down the line and I'm still here. Every once in a while I have a little wobbly and sob into my warm glass of red wine in front of Don't Tell the Bride and have to call my Auntie Dawn for some reassurance, but like I said, every once in a while.

Her sharp snapping heels clicking against the marble tiles pull me out of my trance. Snapping her fingers whilst peering down at her phone, she giggles as she reads a message. I place her coffee down in front of her.

I watch the coffee vanish before me (that woman must have a heat resistant tongue or something) and am suddenly handed the empty cup.

"Sleep well?" I try to make conversation, glancing at the calendar on the wall to remind me of the day's events. Nothing written in the box.

"Better than usual. I think it's that rose-hip you know, Stacey swears by it." Stacey is her homeopath.

I'm about to add to the conversation when her phone starts buzzing angrily against the table. Flicking her hair as she picks it up, I almost gag at the change in her tone. "Hi gorgeous, looking forward to later..."

Disappointed in the lack of information on the calendar, I bring out my own mobile and check for myself. Right. A busy day after all then.

I have to contact a dress designer in Norfolk and request a designer pattern for a launch event this coming Saturday before taking Chico to the dog salon (let me die) and wait in for a 'seriously important delivery' (probably more oils) before a meeting with a celebrity news organisation who have been sent images of Zara... Nudes she sent to her ex who sent them to his best mate who sent them to his cousin who showed his work colleagues who showed everyone.

Men.

Zara wants me to offer a grand per photograph. There are eight.

I pop on the kettle and remove my 'outside shoes' and put on my 'indoor shoes'. Zara is funny about feet.

"Be here at six. And smart please. Preferably something.... Tight." Zara flirts down the phone. Fantastic. Now I want to throw up.

"What's happening at six?"

She narrows her icy blue eyes at me. "Be careful Penny. You're only my PA."

I watch as she gathers her things together; a faux leather pink jacket, snow boots and a Gucci handbag costing more than my entire outfit put together: faded mom jeans and a black and white pinstripe shirt. I look like I work at Waitrose or something, but I like it.

"Don't forget my Prince's appointment." She kisses the said 'Prince' goodbye who barks in response and doesn't even acknowledge me. Lovely.

/////

I hang up the phone and groan, "Men are a fucking nightmare." And I mean it. My romantic life is more tragic than those poor sods who go on national television seeking to fix their problems.

I've managed to secure a fair deal with papers. Finally they'll delete the photographs but it took some... persuading. If this doesn't earn me a bonus I don't know what will.

The door clicks open but I'm too absorbed in the current matter at hand to take any notice. Zara can wait. I hear Chico dash up from his bed to greet her at the door. How does he act like that with her and bite me?

After leaving a long relationship two years ago, I've spent my Friday evenings watching deadbeat comedy shows with a glass of white wine in one hand and a packet of quavers in the other. What can I say? I'm a simple girl.

It was an amicable breakup, he wanted to travel the world, try new things and experience some crazy shit. He just didn't want to do any of that with me. Truth be told, I was growing tired of him turning up at the crack of dawn stoned out of his mind.

In some ways I've enjoyed being single; more independence, more reckless nights out with girls and all in all, I was constrained by him- "I agree with that love."

I am snapped out of my daydream by a gruff, cigarette polluted voice. "Any idea when Zara will be back?"

"Soon. You're early." I respond, closing my laptop and getting up to put the kettle on for the two of us. A tea (no sugar) for Liam and a coffee (one sugar) for me. "Not like you to be on time."

Liam snickers and throws himself onto one of Zara's white leather sofas. "Writin' for the next album aren't we. Means I don't have to do nothin'."

I hand him his tea and drink up my coffee, praying Zara will arrive soon. Liam and I aren't friends as such, only acquaintances. I find him too brash, he finds me too boring.

"So what are you up to this evenin'?" God, now we're onto awkward conversation starters.

In reality I'll be drinking and binge watching crappy television. I don't tell him that however, "Seeing the girls for cocktails."

No response.

"How's the band?"

"Alright."

I don't think I've ever felt this uncomftable.

"And Noel?"

"Still a knobhead."

"Cool."

Now he's on his phone. Fantastic.

"Your mum?"

Looking away from his phone for a split second, he eyes me, "Mam's fine."

I open my mouth to speak again but he silences me, "You don't have to try and make polite conversation with me. It's painful."

"I'm painful?" I retort.

He nods, staring down at his phone screen. "We don't get on. We're never goin' to be 'friends'. It's okay."

"Who says I want to be friends with a tight arse druggie who uses his fists instead of his voice half the time? You're going out with my boss Gallagher, I've got to be nice to you."

He seems impressed with my answer and smirks, leaning over to shake my hand. "Good for you Lane. Good for you."