Page 6

‘We could just get the small ones then?’ the middle brother says, hopping around as he chose not to wear shoes.

‘The baby ones?’ says the youngest.

I intervene cautiously. ‘So that one – does it have a bubblegum in it too?’

‘Yeah, at the bottom,’ one of the kids tells me, looking pleased that I’ve leant on his expertise in ice creams. ‘That one is the best but I like the Oreo one too. That one’s got chocolate sauce and Oreo crumbs but they all get stuck in your teeth.

Depends if you have a date later on?’ he jokes with me.

‘I don’t actually,’ I reply. ‘I’m single. I got dumped.’

‘Oh. That sucks. Was she a moo-cow?’ asks the littlest brother.

I think that might be my favourite way that someone has ever described Krystal. ‘Yup. Kinda.’

‘Is that why you’re getting ice cream?’ the other brother asks me. ‘To make you happy again?’

All the brothers look up at me. We’re in this conversation now but I don’t really know how to answer.

Also, the dumping happened about three months ago in the immediate aftermath of sock-cock-gate, over a pretty savage text where she called me a waste of time.

Yeah, I don’t think they need to know about that.

But pretty soon after the whole debacle, I realised Krystal was deeply self-obsessed, slightly toxic and not a very nice person, and maybe I should be aiming for more. For nice, at least.

‘No. Actually, I wanted to buy this for myself. I’m celebrating…’

‘On your own?’ one of the boys asks, looking around for who I might be with. ‘That’s a bit sad.’ His brother nudges him in the ribs. ‘Is it your birthday?’

‘No. I’m celebrating because I got a new job today.’

This doesn’t elicit the happy response I thought it would.

I guess when you’re little you don’t get the thrill of these things but today, I went for a job interview and a man I’d never met before told me I was quick-thinking, knowledgeable and personable – all the buzzwords – and he offered me a position there and then, on the spot.

It’s a longer commute than my last school but it seems like a decent place, and I’m just glad to have a job to pay the bills.

‘What’s the job?’ one of the boys asks me. ‘Are you a businessman?’

‘No, have another guess.’

‘Accountant.’

‘Are you telling me I look boring?’ They don’t reply. ‘I’m a teacher.’

One of them steps back from me, like I may have just grown horns.

‘What do you teach?’ he asks me.

‘Spanish.’

‘Like Dora the Explorer?’

‘?Vámonos!’ I say, putting on the accent of an eight-year-old Latina girl.

This does not endear them to me, in fact, the family in front turn around and watch me curiously, one dad putting a protective arm around his daughter.

It’s the heat. Let’s blame the heat. I must look ridiculous, sweat patches forming around my armpits and the tops of my shoulder blades.

I undo more buttons on my shirt, hoping it doesn’t start to look too indecent.

There’s a man further along down the queue in what looks like a string vest and I’m strangely jealous of him despite the fishnet tan he’s likely to get on his chest and back.

‘Don’t grown-ups usually celebrate with alcohol?’ the eldest brother asks me .

‘I might do that later but I thought I would go with ice cream first.’

Again, they look a little unimpressed by me and my sad life.

I can be fun. Really. The queue at the van moves forward and I find myself at the window, an older woman inside looking like she’s ready to melt, a towel wrapped around the inside of her T-shirt collar, her face flushed.

There was me thinking that selling ice cream might be a lovely and cool way to spend the summer months.

Surely, you could just put your head in the freezer?

‘What will it be, lovely?’ she asks me. She leans forward.

There’s no polite way of saying this but the lady has a rather large set of bosoms and they sort of lean against the shelf of the window.

I thought the man before me took an extraordinarily long time to choose his cider lolly. I try to be polite and look away.

‘Can I get an Oreo sundae, please? They come recommended,’ I say, turning to the boys behind me.

‘Sure thing, sweets,’ she says, winking at me.

I never quite know what to do in that situation because you don’t wink back, surely.

She heads into a cupboard in her van and pulls out a large waffle cone.

I watch as she fills it with ice cream and adds chocolate sauce, Oreo crumbs and more Oreos to the top.

That’s less a celebratory treat, more a one-way stop to diabetes.

‘You’ve got quite the queue today,’ I say, seeing it wind down the pavement.

‘Oh, they love a bit of Madame Whippy…’ she laughs.

I look up at the name of her van. Mr Whippy is the customary name of the traditional British ice-cream man but I like how she’s upgraded her name so it sounds fancier, if a little kinky.

‘They come for the sauce.’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘My Biscoff sauce,’ she says, quite liking that she has someone to banter with.

‘The ice-cream men round these parts know nothing about sauce. And you should see my toppings.’

‘I can see them,’ I say, pointing at her sprinkles.

She’s got a load of them. ‘I mean they’re all on show.

’ What am I saying? I don’t quite know what this is.

I’m flirting with an ice-cream lady who I suspect is double my age and could very well eat me alive.

This could be quite the rebound fling. I suspect she’d be a lot of fun but also keep me in Magnums over these hot summer months.

I notice a wedding ring on her finger. Looks like there’s a Mr Whippy, possibly a Monsieur Whippy.

But the lady has impeccable sales skills, I can see why she gets this sort of business.

‘How many spoons, gorgeous?’ she asks.

‘Just the one.’

‘A man after my own heart. That’s seven pounds, sweetie.’

I hand her a twenty-pound note and lean forward. ‘Look after the boys behind me too. Don’t say it was me or they’ll think I’m weird. Any change you keep it for yourself, Madame.’

She stops for a moment. ‘And he’s a gentleman too. I’ll come down your street again soon.’

‘You come whenever you want.’ I said that, didn’t I? We’ll blame the ice cream, the heat.

She laughs again at the top of her voice. ‘Right, who’s next? Oh, it’s you three monkeys again. What am I getting you? Why aren’t you wearing shoes?’

And as I carry my ice cream away, I smile to hear how she just turns on yet another persona for the next customer.

And there was me thinking I was special.

I put my spoon in my sundae and scoop out a giant mound of soft white ice cream.

It is stupid how bloody excited this makes me.

There’s a toddler a few yards ahead of me doing the same, a flake sticking out of his cone, the ice cream all round his mouth, with exactly the same grin as me.

Well done us. Aren’t we lucky? I’ve got a new job.

The sun is in the sky. I take another spoonful of ice cream until I get to my gate and see a figure lurking by the door.

She turns, her hair scooped back into a messy bun, a bit too much flesh on show for a seventeen-year-old.

She might as well just go out in her pants.

‘YOU GOT ICE CREAM WITHOUT ME?’ she squeals, completely aghast in the same way people should be about global warming and bad politicians.

‘You weren’t here, Brooke,’ I explain.

‘I am now.’ She reaches over, helping herself to an Oreo and using it to scoop up some ice cream. ‘Were you going to eat all of that by yourself?’

‘Obviously not anymore,’ I say.

‘Too right. Sharing is caring, bruv. I almost passed out on the bus. It’s so bloody hot.’

I look up into the sky one last time before we head inside, feeling the sun against my face. ‘You complain too much.’

‘Yeah, whatever. Why did you only get one spoon? And what’s going on with your sweat patches? You’re gross.’