‘How could I not like you?’ he said, once he’d switched off the tap. ‘This incredible, strong, brilliant, beautiful woman? I’d have been mad. You could have told me practically anything and I’d still have fallen for you.’
‘But I didn’t tell you.’
‘You’ve told me now. That’s all that matters.’
I stood up, pulling the plug out of the bath. Joe handed me a towel for my hair and wrapped another around my body, holding me close like it would stop me from shivering.
I pressed myself against him, relief wrapping around me like the warm towel. Joe didn’t seem to think there was anything to forgive me for. I’d expected him to react with horror and disgust, and he hadn’t. For the first time, I truly understood that what had happened that night wasn’t my fault. That I hadn’t asked for it, or covered up for it. That I wasn’t to blame. And for the first time, the weight of guilt I’d been carrying for so long lifted. I’d got so used to it being there, I hadn’t realised how heavy it was, but now it was gone I felt light as a balloon, as if I might float all the way up to the bathroom ceiling, if it weren’t for Joe’s arms holding me safe.
Thirty-One
Three months later
Joe and I walked through the unfamiliar park together, hand in hand. The morning was chilly still, but the sun was shining in a radiant blue sky. A flock of green parakeets wheeled, shrieking, overhead. On the grassy slope, daffodils shone acid-yellow against the green, clashing with the purple crocuses that had sprung into bloom alongside them.
‘Sorry to drag you all the way to north London on a Saturday morning,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t have a free minute last week, and the people from Heart of the Community said this pub’s really worth checking out. It was going to be bought by developers, too, and a few of the regulars managed to save it.’
‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘Because going for a walk in the sunshine with my girlfriend, finishing at a pub, is a really shit way to spend a Saturday morning.’
‘Especially when you’ve got a party to go to in the afternoon.’
‘Right. My life basically sucks right now.’
‘And that massive win you had in court last week. Poor you, you must be feeling terrible.’
Our eyes met and we laughed. It felt easy, on a day like this, to laugh and be silly together – in fact, it had felt that way for some time. However busy we were, we’d regained the ability to connect with each other, to be in the moment, to remind each other how much we mattered – as individuals and as that vital, fragile ‘us’, which we’d so nearly lost.
‘So where is this pub you were going on about?’ Joe asked.
‘The Winchmore Arms.’ I checked my phone. ‘It’s on the corner of the park, just off the high street. I think if we cut down here we should get to it.’
We strolled on in silence, enjoying the growing warmth of the sun on our backs, listening to the rush of the wind through the trees and the chorus of birdsong, until the path led us to a gateway in the metal railings.
‘Out here, I think.’
The pub was where my phone had told me it would be, on the corner at the end of a row of nondescript terraced houses. The street looked run-down and forlorn, paint peeling off the fronts of the houses, garden fences sagging at drunken angles. But the pub had hanging baskets of bright red and pink geraniums outside its door, and its windows sparkled in the sun.
‘Apparently the refurb didn’t cost too much,’ I said. ‘They reckon we could do something similar in a few months.’
‘Never mind all that,’ Joe said. ‘What I want to know is, what’s the beer like?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
I pushed open the door and we stood on the threshold for a second. It was early, and the Winchmore Arms wouldn’t have been open for more than half an hour or so. All the same, it was almost half full. I took in the group of people in running gear drinking coffee and eating muffins, the stack of board games on shelves, the enticing smell of eggs and bacon. It wasn’t my pub, but it was so similar it could almost have been – like entering a parallel universe.
There was even, sitting at the bar, already three-quarters of the way down his first pint of the day, a lonely old man, this pub’s version of Fat Don, who arrived every day and drank steadily until closing time. His wife had left him a couple of years back, Shirley had explained, and the Nag’s Head was his home from home, and who were we to judge? At least it gave him some company, she’d said, which was better than festering at home alone, wasn’t it?
This man wasn’t Fat Don; he wasn’t fat at all. But the slump of his shoulders was the same; the way he lifted his glass to his lips and sipped slowly – because being in the pub all day could get expensive at today’s prices and you wanted to pace yourself – was the same. The way, when he heard the door open and felt the cool air on his neck, he turned to see who the new arrival was, and whether they might come over and give him some company for half an hour or so, was the same.
He was the same as Fat Don, but he wasn’t him. He was Gordon. Jobless, friendless, alone, spending his days drinking on a bar stool.
‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.’ I practically bundled Joe back out of the door.
We were back inside the park before he spoke.
‘That was who I thought, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Sorry about your pint. I just couldn’t…’
‘I get it. Are you okay?’
Joe slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close. I felt the warmth of his body through our coats, the comforting scratchiness of his scarf against my cheek. And I realised I was okay. Seeing Gordon had been a shock, that was all. I wasn’t afraid of him any longer – why would I be? His power over me was all gone. He couldn’t control me any more.
‘Never been better,’ I said. ‘Honestly.’
‘Sure?’
‘Never been surer.’
We paused, halfway across the park, holding each other close against the breeze. Joe tilted my face up to his, looked down at me and kissed me.
‘I hate that bastard for what he did to you.’
‘I don’t. There’s no point hating him. It was a long time ago, and I got through it. I was lucky. But I’ve been thinking, Joe…’
An idea that had been barely beginning to form in my mind suddenly sprang to life.
‘What have you been thinking?’
‘I could start a thing. Like, a website at first. And then maybe a phone line. For women who’ve had stuff happen to them like happened to me. Sexual assault at work. It’s a big problem in pubs and restaurants still. I could give people advice on what to do, what their rights are, stuff like that. Give them support if they go to court. Try and make the whole process a bit less daunting.’
‘You know what? I think that’s a fantastic idea. And you’re the perfect person to do it.’
‘As a lawyer-turned-landlady?’
‘Exactly. If you’d just been appointed a high-court judge, I couldn’t be more proud of you than I am right now.’
‘You know what?’ I smiled up into Joe’s eyes, as blue as the March sky, but warmer. ‘Me too.’
‘We should get a move on. What time’s the party starting? Two?’
‘Half past. So I’ll have time to get my hair into some sort of up-do and figure out how to attach that fascinator thing. Are you sure it’s not totally over the top?’
‘Don’t be daft. It’s a wedding, isn’t it?’
‘Well, a wedding reception. Still though. First one ever held at the pub, as far as I know. That’s got to be a special occasion, right?’
‘The most special.’
We hurried home and unlocked the flat. It was empty and silent, clean and orderly. The door to our spare bedroom stood open, the bed freshly made with white sheets. In the bathroom, Frazzle’s litter tray no longer waited to trap unwary feet. When I’d opened the airing cupboard to turn the thermostat down a few days before, I’d thought something was wrong, and then realised the ja
rs of fermenting kimchi had gone.
‘It’ll be really convenient for Zoë, living in the flat above the pub,’ Joe said.
‘And she’s put a cat door in for Frazz, so he can get out onto the roof and then down to the garden.’
‘I kind of miss them both, you know,’ I said.
‘Well, we’ll see them often enough. And although we can’t get a replacement for Zoë – unless you really want a flatmate – we could…’
‘Get a cat? A cat of our own?’
‘A rescue one. Maybe a black one. I read on the Cats Protection website that they’re harder to rehome.’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ I said. ‘I did, too.’
And we held each other close for the longest time, feeling the quietness of our home around us, until it was time to get ready.
The pub was as busy as it had been for the games night and the poetry evening – busier, even. Kelly and Freddie were whisking around from bar to tables and back, pouring drinks and carrying glasses. Shirley was behind the bar, dressed for the occasion in a fitted fuchsia-pink satin dress and a matching hat with enough feathers on it to supply an entire flamingo.
The kitchen door was closed, but from behind it I could hear chatter and laughter as Zoë and Juan prepared the curry goat, rice and peas. I’d worried about Juan being co-opted for this special occasion – it was too much for Zoë and her trainee sous-chef to manage on their own – but he’d immediately taken a massive fancy to her and clearly relished being both deferred to and bossed around by a much younger woman.
‘Just look at the old git, poncing about like he’s flipping Romeo,’ Shirley had said fondly. ‘As if she’d look at him twice, bless him.’
In order to keep the cash-flow situation under control and avoid eating too much into its limited funds, the committee had decided to keep to a bare-bones renovation, but still, the place was transformed. The sticky old carpet was gone, the parquet floor restored to glowing glory. The walls had been stripped of their faded flock wallpaper and freshly painted. New banquette seating, upholstered in reclaimed fabric, had joined the existing tables and chairs along two of the walls.
The luridly coloured portrait of Princess Diana was gone – it was Shirley’s personal property, after all – and in its place was a vibrant street scene painted by students at a local art college. It had a whole lot more artistic merit, but I still found myself glancing up and expecting to see Diana looking down over the pub as she’d done for so long, and missing the chats I’d had with her inside my head. Above the bar was a chalkboard listing forthcoming events: the Woolly Wednesdays knitting group; the pay-what-you-can yoga drop-in sessions; the family fun day and lunch-for-a-fiver club for pensioners; the jazz nights and quiz nights and of course the next games and poetry evenings.
The entry for today read, ‘Closed for a private function’. Not that it was particularly private – almost all the Nag’s Head regulars were on the guest list anyway. Joe and I approached the bar and Shirley leaned over to greet us, not close enough for a kiss because her hat brim was so wide, but close enough for me to breathe in the familiar smell of her face powder and Obsession perfume.
‘Hello, my lovelies. What can I get for you? Glass of Prosecco? Can’t stand the stuff myself but everyone seems to be drinking it and you’ve got to move with the times, don’t you?’
‘Are you sure I can’t help behind the bar? Or at least carry plates once the food’s served?’
‘Don’t you dare, young lady! It’s your day off. You might be general manager here now, but you’ll still do as I tell you.’
I laughed. ‘And it might be your last day here, but you’re still the boss.’
Shirley leaned over the bar counter. ‘I’m going to let you two into a little secret. No one knows except me and Juan. But when we talked about retiring, once we moved to Spain, we realised we just couldn’t do it. I mean, imagine having him underfoot all day. I’d go mad. And there’s only so many games of golf a man can play, aren’t there?’
‘But you were so looking forward to your life of leisure in the sun,’ I said, amazed. ‘And you’ve totally earned it. What will you do instead?’
‘Have a look at this.’ Shirley pulled out her phone and scrolled rapidly. ‘Here we are.’
She passed it over to me. On the screen was a photograph of a sunny street, brilliant blue sky arching above it. There were palm trees, their fronds silhouetted against the light, and hanging baskets of cerise bougainvillea. On the pavement, under a green and white striped awning, were clusters of metal tables and chairs, each one bearing an ashtray and a dispenser for paper napkins. In between the hanging baskets, I could see a sign with something on it that I was pretty sure was a shamrock.
‘O’Grady’s Tavern, it’s called,’ Shirley said, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Oh, you won’t believe the state of the place. Fights every night, shocking food and the owners have no more of an idea how to store beer than you did when you started here, Alice, no offence. But with a bit of TLC it’ll be a real local gem in no time flat.’
‘But it’s an Irish bar,’ I said. ‘You’ll change that, surely?’
‘Oh yes. We’ve got big plans for the place. Juan’s planning the menu already: fish and chips, steak and kidney pud, tomato soup – all the traditional things. We’ll even do a veggie burger – see, we’ve learned something from her ladyship in there. That’s the thing about this business – it gets in your blood, you know.’
I nodded. It had certainly got into mine. ‘But what are you going to call it?’
‘Oh, that was easy. We made that decision right away. It’s going to be the People’s Princess. I’ll hang my portrait of her over the mantelpiece, and it’ll feel like home straight away. Now, what can I get you two gentlemen? Been keeping you waiting, haven’t I, rabbiting on?’
She put her phone away and turned to serve her next customer, and Joe and I moved away from the bar, drinks in hand, and looked around at the crowd.
Sitting at their usual table were Ray, Sadiq and Terry, all looking slightly uncomfortable in their smart suits and a bit like they weren’t sure what to say to one another with no dominoes game under way. Their wives, in contrast, were dressed up to the nines and chatting animatedly.
Susan, Victoria and Jason from the pub steering committee were fussing anxiously around the room, Jason climbing up onto a table to secure a piece of bunting that had escaped from its drawing pin.
In another corner, a group of a dozen or so smartly dressed strangers were sipping soft drinks and looking ill at ease. The men were wearing suits and hats, the women elaborate, brightly coloured lace and satin frocks. One woman had her baby daughter on her hip, wearing a lime-green dress identical to her own.
‘They must be from the church,’ Joe said. ‘Breaking rank or what?’
‘I’m glad they came though.’ I reached for his hand and squeezed it.
Near the door, Drew and Heather stood close together, glasses of Prosecco in their hands, his blond head and her dark one almost touching as they leaned in to talk, gaze at each other and finally exchange a brief but intense kiss. Drew caught my eye and waved, and we moved over to join them.
‘I’m going to miss this place, you know,’ Drew said.
‘What will you miss most?’ I asked. ‘The twelve-hour shifts? Scraping Don off the floor at closing time? Or cleaning the bogs?’
‘Oh, the bogs for sure. It’s going to feel kind of weird, working a normal eight-hour day in an office.’
‘But you’ve got this place to thank for turning you into a social-media marketing guru,’ Heather reminded him.
‘And you can move back to London,’ Joe said.
Heather smiled, and I knew what she was thinking. And move in with me. My brother and best friend’s relationship had proceeded at warp speed, hindered only slightly by Drew having to move back in with our parents. I knew it was wanting to see more of Heather that had motivated my brother to apply for normal, proper jobs for the
first time in his life. It was strange, I thought, that just when I’d abandoned the corporate world, Drew had embraced it.
I just hoped that the corporate world was prepared for the shock to its system.
The kitchen door opened and Zoë hurried over to us, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘God, this mass catering malarkey is hard,’ she said. ‘But I think we’ve got it under control. You should see the cake – it’s a showstopper. I never knew Juan was a baker but he’s nailed it.’
She gave me a quick hug, and Joe bent down to kiss her on the cheek. A few months back, I’d have bristled with alarm at that, but now I found I could see it for what it was – an affectionate gesture between old friends.
I remembered her telling me, just a few days before, that she was thinking about dating again.
‘My horoscope said that this is going to be a good year for love. Apparently Venus is moving into Aquarius, and that alignment means my emotional side will be uppermost. Of course, being an Aquarian, I’m highly spiritual anyway and in touch with my inner self. So I’ve downloaded Tinder.’
It was a measure of our new-found friendship that I’d managed not to tell her to get a bloody grip.
I was about to ask if I could give her and Juan a hand in the kitchen, when the door swung open and the whole pub erupted.
There were cheers and whoops and applause, but soon everyone joined together and sang ‘For They Are Jolly Good Fellows’ so loudly I was amazed the roof stayed on.
Maurice and Wesley stood together in the doorway for a moment, hand in hand. They looked surprised, diffident at being the centre of attention – but also glowing with something that went beyond happiness. It might have been relief at being welcomed by a community they thought might cast them out. It might have been pride at being able to live honestly at last. Or it might just have been their love for each other, kept secret for so long and now shining as brightly as the sun.
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 28
