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Fried Scampi From Hell
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'Circulation,' she was shouting. 'It gets the circulation going.'
She must've figured that one out herself cause they didn't mention
it in Just Seventeen.
Mostly she just says 'He' or 'Him' but sometimes there are other
people around and we have to use the code name H.P. It stands for
Hunky Phil. One time Vicky's Mum shouted through the serving hatch,
'Do any of you ladies fancy a squirt of H.P. sauce on top of
those chips?' I had a mouth full of Coca Cola that almost burst
on to the checked table cloth. Vicky had to make up a story that
I was allergic to H.P. sauce.
'Whatever next?' said her mum, chewing her pork chop, 'It just
goes to show...' and then she turned to watch the weather on
Reporting Scotland.
'I love H.P. sauce though, don't I?' said Vicky, tilting the bottle
and looking at me in a kind of James Bond eyebrow way.
'Oh yeah, you love it Vicky. You just can't get enough of it.'
Now that Hunky Phil has left school to work on his Dad's fishing
boat, we hardly ever see him except from a distance. From the corner
of Shore Street Vicky was still able to detect his new earring.
'Check it out,' she says, with her hand over her mouth, 'he's got
his ear pierced.' She sounded like a football commentator announcing
a goal. I thought I could see a wee silver hoop but I wasn't sure.
To keep from getting bored at school, Vicky likes to imagine things
about him. She is good at helping me with my physics homework
and I am good at helping her imaginings.
'Imagine his bedroom,' she says, 'I bet he's got a Habitat duvet
that his mum brought back from Glasgow. I bet it's all soft and
clean and smells like Persil Automatic.' She was doodling on the
cover of her jotter. Miss McTaggart was still drawing chromosomes
on the blackboard so I say 'Imagine him lying in his bed listening
to AC/DC with his hands behind his head and underneath the Habitat
duvet he's only wearing a pair of white boxers.'
''God,' she says, 'Imagine,' and laughs with a shiver like she's
cold. The doodles turned into little love hearts.
*
Today when she comes into the shop I have some top class info for
her but it is Christmas Eve and we are dead busy. 'Merry Mayhem,'
Frankenstein calls it as he rubs his hands together. Mostly it
is people pouring in off the street with their eyes all screwed
up from the wind. I can only talk for a minute and I have to show
Vicky the revolving jewellery case at the same time. We lean over
the glass and she pretends to point to things that she likes.
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