Obligingly, he did – although with hindsight I realised that he left out anything that could actually incriminate anyone. He didn’t name the woman who’d been fired when it was discovered that the healthful glass of tomato juice she drank at her desk every morning was actually a Bloody Mary. The senior partner who he said used to entertain colleagues and clients in strip clubs (‘So there I was, with a stunning Russian girl’s tits in my face, and all I wanted was to get home to my wife’) had been retired for a decade. He claimed to have forgotten the name of the admin assistant who’d embezzled thousands of pounds to fund her scratch-card habit.
Still, I was agog and listened as attentively as he had to me, barely noticing that our food was finished and so was the red wine.
‘Now, I think something light for pudding, and perhaps a splash of cognac, don’t you?’ he said.
I excused myself and went to the loo again, by which point I’d lost count of how many drinks I’d sunk, but this time when I looked in the mirror I thought I actually looked pretty damn hot, and I was sure no one noticed that I’d wandered into the men’s by mistake. And when I got lost trying to find my way back to the dining room and one of the smiling staff had to show me the way, I was positive I styled it out just fine.
And Gordon – why had I ever been nervous about him inviting me out for a drink? Why had I been intimidated? He was lovely. So kind, so funny, so interested in what I had to say. So full of compliments about my work so far, my telephone manner, my looks. And there was surely nothing inappropriate about that – after all, he was a professional, a partner in the firm, and – of course – old enough to be my dad. Older than my dad, probably.
‘This has just been such an amazing evening,’ I said, sipping my cognac and taking a spoonful of crème brûlée. The cognac wasn’t as nice as the wine had been, I thought – it was almost too alcoholic, burning my throat as I swallowed. But Gordon had been so generous, treating me to this amazing meal, which must have cost hundreds and hundreds of pounds and was easily the poshest I’d ever had. There was no way I was going to let on that I was completely full and beginning to feel dangerously drunk.
‘It’s my absolute pleasure.’ He did another of those discreet signals and a waiter appeared at his side. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else? Another brandy? Coffee?’
‘Honestly, I couldn’t possibly. It’s all been delicious, thank you so much.’
‘Just the bill then, please. And would you get a car for us?’
Us?
‘I can quite easily get the Tube,’ I protested.
‘We can’t have that,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s late, and it’s raining. I’d be failing in my duty of care if I left you to make your way home alone. I can easily drop you off in – Wembley, was it? – and go on home from there.’
‘Well, if you’re sure…’ I was far from sure, but I also had a feeling that the homing instinct that got pissed people safely from clubs and pubs up and down the country back to their own beds might let me down on this occasion. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to find my way to the Tube.
Gordon paid the bill with a gold credit card, I thanked him yet again, and we stood up. I felt my knees buckle slightly, and he guided me out of the room with a firm hand on my elbow. One of the doormen produced his coat and briefcase and my bag, but I resisted the urge to check my phone.
The waiting car was black and sleek – a Mercedes, not a standard Uber or a black London taxi. One of the doormen opened the door for me – another first; no one had ever done that before – and I slid onto the cream-coloured seat, feeling like I was some kind of celeb and any second a bunch of paparazzi might jump out and try to upskirt me. The interior was warm and smelled comfortingly of new leather. It was raining, as Gordon had said – quite hard. How lucky I was, I thought, to be making the journey home in luxury rather than getting onto a crowded Tube with my face in someone’s armpit or waiting for a night bus and ending up sat next to someone stuffing a lamb doner kebab into their face.
‘What’s your address, darling?’
‘Twenty-five B Tunley Road.’ Obedient as a child, I recited the postcode, and the driver entered it into the satnav.
As the car inched through the City traffic, busy even at this time of night, I leaned my head back and let my eyes close, lulled by the swishing of the windscreen wipers.
I must have fallen asleep – okay, passed out – almost straight away. For what felt like hours, I was aware of the pull of consciousness bringing me almost back to the surface, but not quite. I was so tired. Very, very tired. Also, I was starting to feel quite powerfully sick. It was better – safer – to drift in oblivion, to stay in the warm, still darkness for as long as I could.
At least, I suppose that’s what must have been going on in my mind, if indeed anything was. I don’t remember much about that journey at all. Only the thrum of the car’s engine, the sweeping windscreen wipers and a phrase that I became aware of, repeating itself over and over in my head to their rhythm. It was like a dream, only I wasn’t dreaming.
It was something I’d seen in the newspapers, in reports about some scandal involving politicians. A quaint phrase, one I’d never used or heard anyone say until I read it.
Handsy in taxis. Handsy in taxis. Handsy in taxis.
It meant something. It meant something to do with me – to do with what was happening.
My brain was still almost shut down, but I became aware of a new sensation. I was warm – too warm. I could feel hot breath on my neck, a body pressed up against mine. But my legs were cold. Cold, and somehow constricted. My skirt wasn’t where it should be, nor my tights. And there was a hand touching me, caressing me through my knickers.
I froze – not that it mattered. I hadn’t been moving anyway. I was as limp and unresponsive as a piece of warm meat. My befuddled, drunken brain managed to make sense of the situation.
He’s groping me. More than groping. So much more.
I don’t know why, but it seemed like the most important thing in the world not to open my eyes. If I did that, all this would be real – would actually be happening to me, and I’d have to do something about it. If I stayed very, very still, perhaps it would stop, or turn out to be only a dream. If I stayed silent, perhaps I’d be safe.
So I did. I kept my eyes closed, I breathed, I waited. I did nothing to stop him while his hand carried on.
And when the cab finally slowed, and the driver said, ‘Number twenty-five B, was it?’ Gordon stopped.
That was it. I felt him rearranging my clothing as best he could – pulling my pants back over where his hands had been, twanging my tights back over my waist, rucking down my skirt.
‘Number twenty-five, yes, that’s correct,’ he said. ‘Alice? We’re here.’
And then, at last, I allowed myself to open my eyes. He’d moved across to the other side of the seat, but I could still feel the warm place on the leather where he’d been.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you.’
Seventeen
I’d never seen the Nag’s Head so busy. We’d brought in extra tables and chairs, and all of them were full. The platters of sliders, sandos, sweet potato wedges and fake fried chicken were disappearing as fast as Zoë could turn them out of the kitchen. The four of us behind the bar were faced with a crowd three-people deep.
Drew was working the room, chatting and laughing, enjoying his moment of glory.
Not only had the games afternoon been his idea, but he’d taken to social media and promoted the hell out of it, Instagramming every new board game he purchased, running ads targeted to local users of Facebook, posting on Nextdoor and blogging furiously on the Nag’s Head’s own website.
It helped that it was a miserable November Saturday, heavy drizzle falling outside and the light almost gone, even though it was only mid-afternoon. I imagined the families and groups of twenty-somethings stepping out of their front door, thinking they might go for a walk or do the weekly shop
or take their kids to play in the park, then passing the inviting, brightly lit windows of the pub and thinking, Sod that, let’s have a drink and a sit-down in the warm.
There was mulled wine, mulled apple juice and hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top for the children. There were regular Scotch eggs and a vegan version Zoë had come up with, as well as chopped-up raw veggies with hummus, which health-conscious parents were foisting on their children. There were strings of fairy lights festooned over the bar. Princess Diana was looking down on it all from her spot above the fireplace with an expression I thought was slightly bemused but not disapproving.
The pub was buzzing with conversation as people approached the shelves of board games, selecting their favourites, saying, ‘Oh my God, remember this? We used to play this at Christmas when we were kids!’ Around the tables, there was fierce concentration, bursts of laughter and occasional groans of despair. There was a table of poker players that included Fat Don, stacks of coloured chips in front of them, their faces impassive. There was a little crowd standing around Maurice and his friends as Ray patiently explained the rules of dominoes – which, no matter how often I watched their games, were still a total closed book to me.
And, most importantly of all, the tills were practically smoking with a level of activity I was fairly sure they hadn’t seen in years. I hadn’t sat down or taken a break for what felt like hours, but I didn’t care – I’d never felt prouder of the pub, of the little team that had worked so hard, or of myself.
I turned to serve a waiting customer and stopped in my tracks. There was Shirley, wearing a leather mini skirt and a fluffy angora jumper, her fuchsia lipstick freshly applied and outsize gold hoops swinging from her ears.
‘I was going to ask for a Bacardi and Coke, love,’ she said. ‘But it looks like you could use an extra body behind the bar.’
‘That would be amazing! It’s so good to see you. How’s Juan?’
‘He’s back on his feet, and he’ll be rid of the crutches soon,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know when – or whether – he’s going to want to come back to work. But since I’m here, I may as well see if I’ve forgotten how to pull a decent pint.’
I opened the hatch and Shirley stepped in, immediately swinging into action. I watched her gratefully for a couple of seconds, in awe of how she seemed to know by instinct which of the crowd waiting to be served had been there the longest, admiring the way she could recall even the most complicated order without having to ask whether that was regular or slimline tonic and a pint of London Pride or a half, amazed that she remembered the names of all the old regulars.
Over the past months, I thought I’d gone from totally incompetent to more or less knowing what I was doing, but Shirley was still in a league of her own.
While we worked, she quizzed me about the new website, the new chef, the new programme of events Drew had planned.
‘This is the first games afternoon, obviously,’ I explained. ‘But we’re planning to make it a regular thing. It brings in a more diverse group of people than just having the football on. But of course if you’d prefer to go back to doing that…’
‘That bloody Sky Sports subscription costs a fortune,’ she said. ‘And nowadays most people have got it at home, so why would they come here? I reckon you’re on to a good thing here, love.’
‘I didn’t want to take over…’ I began.
‘But I asked you to take over! If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what would have become of the place, with me off for so long waiting hand and foot on his nibs. And you’ve kept the kitchen going, and there’s even a cocktail menu now, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes, well, we thought people would want that, you know. It’s pretty basic but they do sell well.’
Shirley picked up a food menu from the bar and perused it. ‘Brussels sprouts with nduja. Veggie haggis toastie. Spaghetti aglio e olio. Quinoa with sprouted grains. I don’t know what half this stuff is when it’s at home. If Juan put scampi in a basket on the menu we’d think we were practically The Ritz.’
‘No, well,’ I mixed a Manhattan and stirred it vigorously, ‘I didn’t either, if I’m honest. Zoë offered to help out in the kitchen and she seems to know what people like.’
‘Personally, I’d rather have fish and chips,’ Shirl said. ‘But what can I say? It looks like I’m behind the times.’
She turned to take a food order.
‘There are still some classic things on the menu,’ I said.
‘Like a burger,’ Shirl sniffed. ‘A burger served with lactic-fermented pickles. That sounds like something they’d have called the environmental health on you for, back in my day.’
I didn’t mention that, when I’d seen the jars of pickles fermenting away on a shelf in the kitchen, I’d almost called the food safety inspectors myself, before Zoë explained what they were. I felt torn between loyalty to Shirley and a conviction that what I was doing was the right thing to make the pub thrive.
And there was another thing. Shirley was still, officially, in charge. If she didn’t like what had happened on my watch, I’d be out on my ear. And that would leave me jobless and incomeless once more. And possibly boyfriendless. I pushed the horrible sense of impending crisis to the back of my mind and turned to Shirley again.
‘Of course, now you’re back, we can go back to the old menu,’ I suggested. ‘Juan could supervise, even if he’s not up to working in the kitchen full-time. It’s your pub, Shirl. I was just keeping it warm for you.’
‘It’s not either of ours. It’s Cathy, the landlady’s, and who knows what she’d make of all this.’
From what Shirley had told me about the Nag’s Head’s absentee landlady, I was fairly sure she wouldn’t have cared one way or the other, as long as the rent was paid. But I sensed that Shirley was hovering between being impressed – with the packed pub, the efficient bar staff, the delicious smells wafting past every time a plate of food made its way from kitchen to table, the constant opening and closing of the tills – and a quite natural feeling that she’d been usurped and her old ways overturned.
I badly wanted her to come down on the side of impressed and forget about the growing resentment I was sure I’d be feeling if I were her. I wondered, desperately, what would be the right thing to say. But there was no time or space to think – orders were flooding in, Kelly had had to abandon the bar to bus glasses and as soon as one table got up to leave, it was filled again.
‘Oh my God, you must be Shirley!’ Drew appeared at my side, aiming the lighthouse beam of his smile at her. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Alice’s brother Drew, I’ve been helping out here a bit. Would it be possible to ask a huge favour? There’s a table over there about to start a game of Trivial Pursuit, and there’s just one space. I’ve made you a Baileys espresso martini as a bribe. I can help Alice at the bar, because I’m semi-competent at that, but I can’t answer any general knowledge questions apart from about geography. Do you mind joining them? Someone will bring you a burger, too. Don’t be put off by the bone marrow thing – you won’t actually notice it and, if you do, it’s really delicious.’
Shirley had never been brought face to face with a full Drew charm offensive before, and she didn’t stand a chance. For a second it looked like she might be about to object, but then Drew put his head on one side, smiled again and said, ‘Please?’
The next thing I knew Shirley was sitting with a group of strangers, sipping her drink, her eyes narrowing as she remembered how long the River Nile was, which Shakespeare play featured the character Robin Goodfellow, and the names of the original members of NSYNC. I mean, I was a massive fan back in the day, but my crush on Justin Timberlake was so overwhelming the others might as well not have existed. But Shirl clearly had a memory like a 256GB iPhone, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. Soon, the little coloured segments were taking their places in her plastic token as it moved around the board, and she was clearly having a brilliant time. Occasionally, I could hea
r her voice rising above the general chatter, triumphantly answering ‘Sheffield United!’, ‘George Bush Senior!’ or ‘The lesser spotted dogfish!’ and seriously, I couldn’t even.
‘Well done,’ I said to Drew. ‘How did you know that was her thing?’
‘Ray mentioned that she always used to set the Tuesday night quiz herself,’ he answered. ‘And apparently she went on Mastermind once, back in the day. Specialist subject, the Kray brothers. Who’d have thunk it?’
‘Really?’ I’d known for some time that Shirl had hidden depths, but I’d never have guessed that London’s most notorious gangsters would be her forte. ‘Well, you certainly calmed her down. I was worried she was really pissed off with me there, for a bit.’
‘When you want people to do what you want, you’ve just got to offer them something they want more than not doing it,’ Drew said. ‘Basic psychology, innit?’
‘Well, whatever it is, it worked. I’ll have a chat to her later and check that she’s okay, because I really don’t want her to be hurt, or feel like I thought she wasn’t doing a great job before. Because she was. Her and Juan.’
‘But they weren’t moving with the times,’ Drew said. ‘Go big or go home, right?’
‘But I don’t want Shirl to leave! She is the Nag’s Head.’
‘Maybe the Nag’s Head isn’t her any more, though.’
‘But…’
Drew shrugged and turned to pick up an order from the kitchen, whisking it away to a table, saying a few words to the group there and making them all laugh. I soon lost sight of him again, though, as a round of cocktails were ordered and then another table wanted food, and then someone dropped a full glass of wine and I had to dash over with a roll of paper towel and a dustpan and brush.
But by about seven, the pub was beginning to quieten down. The normal Saturday evening crowd was arriving, of course, but the families were taking their children home to baths and bed, the raucous groups of twenty-somethings heading off to more exciting entertainment than Risk and Racing Demon, and the hardcore poker players had decided to call it a day, one woman having smugly collected all the chips.
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 16
