“Where was I?” she said.

“Sara.” He sipped his drink noisily.

“Oh, yeah. Sara. Supposedly my sister’s best friend, but it turns out she slept with Josh twice. And we only found this out because Maxine got drunk and was spewing and you know how some people get, crying and blabbing everything. Did I tell you abut that time I got legless with Paul from WHSmith? Anyway, Maxine said Beth swore her to secrecy. But Beth hates my sister so it’s more likely she only told Maxine because she wanted her to blab, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s Beth who got it out of him. They’re mates, but not like that.”

“Mates with who?” asked Martin.

“Josh!”

“Oh. Who’s Josh?”

“Josh! You know, the one everyone thinks is gay, but he can’t be, can he, if he slept with Sara, and my sister, well, she’s not a fag hag. But that reminds me, you know Peter, the guy who works the petrol counter? Well, apparently he and Paul got drunk together one night and Paul showed him his dick, just whipped it out for a laugh, but then, you have to wonder, don’t you? Booze just makes people not afraid to do the stuff they want to do sober but wouldn’t dare, doesn’t it?”

Martin frowned. “Peter? Don’t you mean Greg?”

“No, Peter. Works in the petrol station.”

“Greg’s the one who works at the petrol station.”

Jenny frowned. “So who’s Peter?”

“I don’t know.” Martin returned to his drink.

The automatic doors past the shops opened and two guys came in. They were talking and laughing. Martin watched them carefully. One was tall, meaty, wearing a puffy old coat with thready white lining poking out of tears in the shiny material. The other was about half his age, nearer Jenny’s. He was wearing dark jeans, a thick jacket, and was cute even though Jenny though his wooly beenie hat couldn’t have suited him any less.

When the two men reached the food court, the younger one clapped the older one on the back. “Look, thanks.”

“No problem. You watch yourself.”

Then the younger one headed into the toilets. From behind, Jenny could see he was wearing a large camping rucksack. It looked worn but full.

“Couldn’t fill this up, could you?” the other man asked Jenny, holding up a battered red thermos flask.

Jenny nodded and smiled and took the flask. She filled it and charged the man the price of four cups of coffee. He paid in exact change. When he turned round and headed back out the door, Jenny realised he and the younger man weren’t actually together.

“Is Peter the lad who works in Clintons?” said Martin.

Jenny looked up. “Hmm?”

“Red-headed kid. You can always see the panty-line of his Y-fronts through his trousers.”

“Oh, god, yeah! You’re right!”

“That’s Peter?”

“He’s gay?”

The guy emerged from the gents with his jacket undone and the rucksack slung over one shoulder. He stopped at the edge of the food court and clasped his hands together.

“Anyone heading to London here?” he said.

A few people looked up. A couple of them shook their heads.

“No?” he said, brow furrowed dramatically.

When there was no response, he threw his hands up in surrender and walked up to the counter. He hopped up onto a stool and pulled off his beenie hat. He had the most beautifully messy hair Jenny had eve seen.

“What can I get you?” she said with a smile.

“A horse would be useful.” He grinned back.

Jenny looked at him blankly.

“Coffee would be great too,” he added. “Thanks.”

She made his drink. “£1.90, please.”

He gave her a fiver. She got him his change.

NOTES:
Yet another shop assistant, this one pretty much a straight comedy character. I've been nosey enough to listen to the chatter of girls hanging over the counter gas-bagging instead of serving in shops, and it wasn't too dissimilar to what I put here: who's sleeping with who, who hate's who, etc. The comedy of misidentification I lifted liberally from the latter Bret Easton Ellis novels, where everyone confuses everyone else for someone else entirely. I envisage Jenny being the motorway service station bike; been ridden by everyone (and probably lining up Martin next).