From the kitchen, I could hear Zoë’s voice. She must have been singing along to whatever was playing through her headphones, because her voice sounded oddly tuneless, the way people’s do when they can hear the music and you can’t.
I listened for a moment, wondering if I could recognise the tune, and I could.
It was ‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart’. But when Zoë got to the bit about the world cutting you deep and leaving a scar, she switched on the electric mixer and its roar drowned out her voice.
Fifteen
Over the next few weeks, Zoë did at the Nag’s Head what I guess would have been called ‘bedding in’ in a corporate environment. But the pub was as far from corporate as it was possible to get, so her version of settling in didn’t involve online form-filling or PowerPoint presentations by the managing partner.
Instead, she gradually made her mark on the kitchen, emptying out the boxes of ready meals from the freezer, bringing in her own razor-sharp knives, and finding suppliers of everything from goji berries to organic lamb and vegan cheese. She also became a bit of a hit with the regulars – which I tried unsuccessfully not to mind a bit.
The first time she walked up to Maurice, Sadiq, Ray and Terry’s table with a plate of home-made beetroot brownies, they eyed them with extreme suspicion.
‘What’s this then?’ Terry asked. ‘Looks like it came out of the wrong end of a cow.’
Zoë smiled sweetly. ‘It’s on the house.’
The prospect of free food made the dominoes players overcome their reservations in record time, and they were soon tucking in. After that, they became her official tasters – or perhaps guinea pigs would describe it better. Every time she experimented with a new dish, she’d send a plate out for them to try and await their verdict with deadly seriousness, standing with her head on one side and her hands twisting the ties of her apron like a MasterChef contestant waiting to be told whether their chocolate fondant was oozy enough.
‘This dhal’s not as good as what my missus makes,’ Sadiq said one time.
‘Really?’ Zoë’s face fell.
‘Really. It’s miles better.’
‘Oh my God! Are you serious?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Ray cut in, ‘everyone knows Sadiq’s old lady is the worst cook in Lewisham.’
And they all fell about laughing, even Zoë. However much I resented her presence, though, I couldn’t help noticing the effect it was having on the bottom line. Whether it was the new menu, or just the presence of more customers who weren’t determined daytime drinkers, trade at the Nag’s Head was up. The pub was busy from ten in the morning until midnight. I was run off my feet and, as often as not, I found myself needing to ask Kelly or Freddie to come in for a shift even though I was working myself.
And Zoë carried on working her magic in the kitchen. Another time, she brought Maurice and his friends a plate of puffed-up little pastries, like eclairs only savoury, which she was planning to add to the menu by way of a bar snack.
‘Cheese gougères, gents. What do you reckon?’
‘This is delicious,’ Maurice said. ‘That pastry! It’s feather-light. Ethereal. How do you do it? I need the recipe for Wesley. He’s the cook in our house.’
‘I’ll show you,’ Zoë said. ‘If you teach me to play dominoes in return.’
‘You’ve got yourself a deal, young lady,’ Maurice said, and Zoë took a seat.
‘You want to get to a hundred and fifty points, see,’ Ray began. ‘That’s the magic number. Now, first we put the bones on the table, face down, like this.’
‘And we mix them all up,’ Sadiq said.
‘And then we each choose five,’ Maurice said.
‘Don’t let any of us see them, mind,’ Terry said.
I drifted away, leaving them to it. Once again, I had to suppress a bubble of resentment inside me. This was my pub. Maurice was my friend first. And then I reminded myself that not only was I being childish and petty, but that if Zoë turned around and pointed out that Joe had been her boyfriend first, where would that leave me, exactly?
A little while later I looked around. No one was waiting at the bar; I’d served the last couple of customers on autopilot, my face smiling but my mind miles away. Freddie was clearing tables, Kelly was shuffling bottles of wine around in the fridge, making sure the coldest were at the front, and Zoë had retreated to the kitchen. Maurice and his mates had left and I knew we wouldn’t see them until the next day.
‘I’m popping out,’ I said. ‘Might go for a walk, or maybe go home for a nap.’
‘We’ve got your back,’ said Kelly. ‘If things get mad this evening, I’ll give you a shout.’
Relieved, I collected my things and walked out into the chilly evening. It was five o’clock but dusk already. The sky was an intense deep blue and I could see the edges of ragged, sunset-hued clouds over the tops of the neighbouring buildings. Back in the day – in my old life – I’d still have had hours of work to get through before I could even think of making my way home. I’d be coming out of a meeting, possibly, or painstakingly trying to make sense of a contract one of the senior associates had drafted, or sitting across the desk from Gordon while he patiently explained some arcane point of copyright law.
Gordon. There on the pavement in front of me was a man in a suit, tall and confident, with coarse, wavy grey hair receding from his forehead in a widow’s peak. He was walking fast towards me, his legs scissoring underneath him, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he was walking into a cold wind, his phone clamped to his ear. Although he was several yards away, I was sure I could smell the spicy rosewood aftershave he wore.
I froze. Gordon lived miles away. There was no reason for him to be here. But he was, and there was nowhere for me to hide.
He strode towards me, but it was like he hadn’t seen me or recognised me at all. And as he grew closer, I realised I’d been wrong. It wasn’t Gordon at all – just another middle-aged man in a suit with a weirdly uncoordinated gait, like he was on stilts. Just a stranger.
As he passed me, I realised the smell hadn’t been real either – only my imagination. But instead of relief washing over me, the strangest thing happened. I felt as if a tight band was pressing around my chest – like when you wear a new bra for the first time, and when you put it on in the morning you’re all good, but by lunchtime you start to feel the underwires digging into your ribs, and once you’ve noticed you can’t stop noticing it, however many times you try to adjust it, and by the time you get home you’re in agony and rip the horrible thing off without even taking off your top.
Except this had happened all of a sudden, and the constriction I felt was way, way tighter than any bra. It was so tight I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get the next breath into my lungs. My heart was pounding and my head was spinning. Black spots were swimming in front of my eyes. I wanted to run, to get home as fast as I possibly could, but somehow my legs wouldn’t do that – and anyway, the blood was thumping in my head so hard I worried I’d pass out from lack of oxygen if I tried to hurry.
I veered to the side of the pavement and leaned against the nearest shop window, trying to steady my breathing, to slow down my heart, to shake off the awful sense of dread that was hovering over me like a thundercloud, even though the sky above was clear and blue. My knees felt like they might buckle under the weight of my body, but I was sure that if I let them I’d fall down and never be able to get up again.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice call my name, and the urge to run kicked in again, even stronger, But I couldn’t move – I was frozen into a solid lump like a bag of peas left in the freezer for too long.
‘Alice!’ the voice came again, as if from a long, long way away. ‘Are you okay?’
Somehow, I managed to turn my head, and saw a man’s worried face, leaning in close to me. The black dots cleared for long enough for me to recognise Archie.
‘I’m fine,’ I managed to gasp, although I didn’t believe it myself and I d
idn’t expect him to either.
‘Here.’ He put a hand under my elbow and gently steered me in through the door. It was his shop, I realised – I’d barely made it ten yards down the street before this – thing – had happened. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
I shook my head, and the black specks danced wildly before retreating to the edges of my vision.
‘Glass of water?’ He passed me a tumbler dripping with condensation, and I took a grateful gulp, then held it in my mouth, waiting until I was sure my throat would let the liquid through.
‘Thank you,’ I said, once it was safely swallowed.
The constriction round my chest seemed to have loosened a bit; I felt limp with tiredness and relief, the way you do when something you’ve been dreading is over, or hasn’t happened at all. Like when you run across a road away from a safe crossing, thinking you can make it just before the approaching double-decker bus reaches you, but then a cyclist appears in your path and there are a few terrifying seconds when one or both of them could mow you down – but somehow, with a blare of the bus’s horn and a furious shout from the cyclist, you’re there, on the opposite pavement, in one piece.
Archie had let go of my arm, but his hand still hovered under my elbow as he guided me towards a wooden bench that looked like it must have started life as a church pew.
‘I did a first-aid course years ago,’ Archie was saying. ‘But I can hardly remember any of it. You’re not having a seizure, are you?’
I shook my head. The swarm of specks had retreated.
‘No chest pain?’
The clamp that had gripped so tightly below my breasts had released, so I could breathe normally again.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re not diabetic?’
‘Nope.’
‘Had a shock?’
‘I’m not sure. Not that, but it kind of felt that way. Like, just a normal day, then I was freaking out.’
‘Have you eaten anything today?’
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t sure, then remembered the half a brie and tomato baguette I’d had at lunchtime and nodded.
‘In that case, although I know sweet tea is usually considered more appropriate, I think I can risk giving you a drink. Gin?’
I looked at the rack of bottles behind the marble bar top. They were all colours and shapes: some like bells, some square, some so tall they towered like supermodels over their companions.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Any particular kind?’
I shook my head. ‘You choose. I’ve got no idea.’
He looked at the bottles for a second, then poured some bright pink liquid into a cut-glass tumbler and added an ice cube.
‘Rhubarb,’ he said. ‘It’s made by the wife of the guy who grows it up in Yorkshire. There’s quite a bit of sugar in it, so that’s belt and braces, I reckon.’
I took a sip, a burst of sweet-and-sour liquid filling my mouth, the alcohol warming my throat and making me feel immediately better. I was reminded of Maurice buying me a sherry, back when the Nag’s Head was still just a run-down neighbourhood pub to me. It had been just a few weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime ago.
‘Better?’ Archie asked.
‘Much. I’m really sorry, I don’t know what came over me there. It was horrible.’
I glanced around the shop, admiring the fridges full of bottles of beer with colourful, quirky labels; the rack of bottles behind the counter; the polished parquet floor, glowing where the street lamp outside shone through the glass front of the shop; the framed posters of local landmarks, painted or maybe Photoshopped into pop-art style, hanging on the walls.
It was all gorgeous, and looking around meant I didn’t have to look at Archie himself, which was a relief. For no reason at all, I felt like if I met his eyes I might start to blush.
‘Wow. You’ve made the place look amazing. And you got it all done so quickly.’
‘It was pretty easy really. I started with a blank canvas – the landlord had already ripped everything out. He had to – it was a carpet shop before and totally infested with moths, so he had to get fumigators in. A mate of mine laid the floor and I did the plastering. It’s not that hard; I watched a couple of videos on YouTube, fucked up the first few bits and then I got the hang of it.’
I ran my hand over the wall closest to me. It was unpainted, the raw plaster a kind of pale ochre, and satiny to the touch. Archie reached out and stroked it too, and for a second our hands were right there next to each other, resting on a surface as warm and smooth as skin.
‘I love this,’ he said. ‘It’s my favourite bit.’
Again, I felt that weird shift inside me. If it wasn’t for Joe, I could really fancy him.
‘Wow,’ I said again, trying to bring my mind back to safer territory. ‘I wish I knew how to do stuff like that. The Nag’s Head desperately needs a facelift, but I’ve got no idea where to begin.’
‘Anything I can do to help, just shout. I’m right next door, after all. And Uncle Ray’s got mates who know all kinds of trades. All the businesses along here look out for one another – the barber next door cuts my hair in exchange for a few beers, and these are from the florist on the corner.’
He gestured to the vase of fleshy, cream-coloured lilies on the counter. He had nice hands, I noticed, with long fingers and neatly clipped nails. There was a watch on his left wrist that looked vintage, but he wasn’t wearing any rings.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘For the drink, and for rescuing me – again. You mustn’t make a habit of it.’
‘I think it’s you who’s making a habit of needing to be rescued.’
I laughed. ‘Sorry about that. I’m not normally the damsel in distress type.’
‘I don’t know.’ He looked at me for a long moment, his head tilted to one side. ‘Aren’t damsels meant to be blonde and blue-eyed and beautiful? I’d say you’re the exact type.’
Shit. Shit, he’s flirting with me. But instead of shutting him down, I heard myself say, ‘I’m not sure knights in shining armour normally come to the rescue with artisan gin. But maybe they should.’
‘Exactly. Watch and learn, Sir Galahad.’
Our eyes met and he smiled that beguiling, cheeky smile. I opened my mouth to make some quip about how he ought to have a white horse, not a white van – but then common sense prevailed. I had a boyfriend. I had no business flirting with Archie, beguiling or not.
‘I should get home. Thanks, Archie.’
‘Take care, Alice. I’ll see you around soon, I’m sure.’
I was sure too. But we said goodbye without so much as a handshake. So that made it totally okay, didn’t it?
I pulled my phone out of my bag as I hurried down the street towards home. Joe wouldn’t be back yet, but he might have been trying to get hold of me to let me know when to expect him, and worried when he hadn’t been able to. But instead of the single missed call and brief text I expected – Hey you! Hope you’re ok. Home nineish xx – I had a whole slew of messages and six missed calls.
Well, I was just a few doors away from the flat; there was no point checking them now. I’d sit down on the sofa and pour myself a cup of tea, or maybe have a bath – even though the evening wasn’t especially cold, I was still feeling out of sorts and a bit shivery – and read and reply to them then.
I let myself wonder what had actually happened to me, back there outside the pub. But already I could barely remember the feeling I’d had – the constriction around my chest, the dizzy feeling of fear that had made my head lurch and the soles of my feet tingle like I was standing on a high diving board, waiting for the courage to jump – and the memory was already fading. I’d thought of something, remembered something, and it had made me feel ill. But not a normal kind of ill – a strange, frightening sensation I’d never experienced before.
Now, though, I felt almost normal again. Probably Archie, with the benefit of his long-ago first-aid training, had been right and I’d just needed a
nip of gin to sort me out after a hard day of physical work and not enough food. So I wasn’t going to worry. The last thing my overstretched GP’s surgery needed was for me to turn up, in two weeks or whenever I could get an appointment, and say I’d had a funny turn for no reason I could recall, with symptoms I’d struggle to describe, which had lasted just a few minutes.
Fitting my key into the lock, I resolved to put it out of my mind and hope nothing like it ever happened to me again.
As I’d expected, the flat was empty and silent. I put down my keys and bag and walked through to the kitchen. But before I got there, I realised that the door to the garden was open, and I could see the glow of a fire and hear voices and a burst of laughter.
Zoë. She must have finished her dominoes lesson and come back here with someone. A guy? She was single, as far as I knew. So maybe she’d met someone new and brought him back for a drink. The idea of Zoë with a boyfriend – a boyfriend, crucially, who wasn’t Joe – suddenly struck me as quite a good thing.
Then I heard another burst of laughter and realised that the man’s voice was familiar.
My glass of water forgotten, I stepped out into the garden.
When Joe and I had first moved into the flat, we’d been giddy with excited plans. We had a new home! We were living together! Him and me, like a proper grown-up couple! We’d have dinner parties, and drinks parties (whatever those were – surely every party worth having involved drinks?), brunches and barbecues. We’d get to know the neighbours and have street parties. We’d buy chic little pieces of art at markets and upcycle furniture from charity shops. We’d plant pots of herbs and geraniums and climbing roses in the little square of garden.
Which was all very well, except we’d realised quite quickly that come the weekends we were generally both too knackered to even think about any of that stuff, and the few things we’d planted in our initial bursts of enthusiasm had died, gone to seed, or – in the case of one particularly determined green-and-yellow-leafed shrub – taken on a life of their own and flourished in spite of our neglect.
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 13
