by Sharon Owens
‘So do I, I suppose. Although sometimes I think I want to kill Bridget. She never remembers to leave us any milk for our breakfast. Honestly, last night I saw her heading to bed with a pint mug full of it!’
‘Problem solved,’ said Jack, showing Lily a packet of soya milk he had hidden behind the vegetable rack. ‘Bridget will have to get up early in the morning to get the better of me.’
‘We'll keep going, then?’ A fat tear rolled down Lily's cheek.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Don't cry. We'll keep going.’
Downstairs, Trudy was fully recovered and enjoying the attention her allergy drama had created. The other girls remembered various medical horror-stories from their childhoods and they had a great evening telling more and more outrageous tales to each other. Daisy had an aunt in Kent who got stung on the tongue by a bee and suffocated to death beside her own barbecue in the garden. The others asked when that was. During Wimbledon, apparently. Daisy couldn't remember the exact year. The unfortunate aunt had been watching the television coverage through her patio doors and had been cheering for John McEnroe at the time.
Bridget had a cousin who once had hay fever so badly she had to be left in the bath overnight and covered with ice to bring her temperature down. Luckily, this time there was a happy ending. The girl survived and went on to open her own hair salon in Sixmilecross.
‘Another half a degree higher and my poor cousin would have died,’ said Bridget, with her eyes as wide as plates. ‘They had the priest in to give her the Last Rites and they had a big wooden crucifix, which once belonged to some saint or other, rushed to the bathroom from county Cork. They held the crucifix on her forehead to help reduce the fever.’
‘You can't buy memories like that,’ said Daisy, sarcastically. ‘I bet the wretched creature still has nightmares about it.’
Trudy seemed rather deflated by these hair-raising anecdotes. They made her own aversion to lemon juice seem very dull by comparison. She reminded them that she also had a button phobia. She couldn't stand being within four feet of a button of any description without feeling queasy, she told them. And the other girls were very understanding.
‘Pearly buttons in particular,’ added Trudy. ‘Pearly buttons make me heave.’
‘Don't worry,’ they said. ‘We won't wear anything with pearly buttons on it and you can stay behind the bar when it gets busy. Just in case the customers' clothes upset you.’ Trudy was delighted.
Marie, still slightly tipsy from the Peach Bellinis, confided that she fancied Michael Devaney like mad and that she was determined to tackle him (her words) on New Year's Eve. That was a huge relief to Daisy and Bridget who were both planning to seduce spiky-haired David at the earliest opportunity. They were chattering away happily behind the bar when Lily told them the brothers had phoned to confirm they would be performing regularly at the tavern. Most nights over the Christmas period, probably. The girls were thrilled. Things were looking up.
When Bridget began bossing them around again during the new Sunday evening shift, Daisy smiled at the others and winked conspiratorially.
‘It's going to be great,’ said Daisy to her new friends Marie and Trudy at closing time, as they waited inside the front door for the taxi. ‘Never worry about wee Bridget O'Malley and her mighty ego. If the three of us stick together we'll have a fantastic Christmas. I just know it.’
6. Shaw Stories Rides Again
Perry Shaw was giddy with happiness. Liam Bradley had been on the phone for over an hour telling him about the plot of the new book.
‘Aw, Limo. I mean Liam. That's just fantastic news. I knew you could do it.’
‘I didn't know I could do it, Perry. It is not easy work, writing. Even though people think it is. There's nothing on earth as frightening as a blank computer screen.’
‘I never thought for one second it was easy, Liam. You're a genius,’ he soothed. And he gently touched the framed photograph on his desk of his twenty-two-year-old son who was a soldier in the British army. Perry could think of a few things more terrifying than a blank screen. But he remembered his golden rule: never be honest with a writer.
‘Anyway, the new book will be even better than Bang, Bang. I'm still undecided on the title, though,’ Liam went on.
‘What about Boom, Boom? For continuity of style?’
‘That sounds like two bombs going off. You haven't heard the ending yet.’
‘Is there an explosion? Or even better, two explosions?’
‘Okay. Yes, there is. As it happens. The tavern gets blown sky-high at the end. Just when everything was sorted out and everybody is celebrating in the street outside. Someone tosses a lit cigarette near the door and whoosh! Up it goes!’
‘Well, there you are! What causes it, by the way?’
‘An undetected gas leak. Courtesy of the same company that unearths the bones of the first victim.’
‘And the second conflagration?’
‘A car. Slinger's car is torched by Claudia.’
‘Isn't that fantastic, Liam? Isn't that very convenient? We'll call the novel Boom, Boom then? While I'm selling it to the publishers?’
‘Are you going to start taking bids already, Perry? Before I've even written it? Is that a wise thing to do?’
‘Sure, Liam. If I don't start stirring up some interest immediately they'll just offer some other author a contract. And tell them to rip off your style. So, don't worry. Boom, Boom sounds just right. Yes, indeed: another brilliant blend of mystery, comedy and soft porn, from the legendary Liam Bradley. The publishers will adore it.’
‘There's just one thing, Perry. You might not like it.’
‘Hit me,’ said Perry, hoping he wouldn't have to break his golden rule today of all days when financial salvation was so close.
‘Well, I thought I would go for a surprise twist at the end?’
‘I don't know if I like the sound of this, Liam.’
‘Okay. I'll tell you quickly. Slinger falls in love and fathers a child with the landlady of the tavern. Her husband sadly expires in the explosion, which is rather handy for our hero. No need for an untidy divorce case. And Slinger settles down at last, to the amazement of all the lads in the police station.’ Liam held his breath for Perry's reply. But he wasn't going to be surprised by his agent's reaction.
‘No, no, no, Limo. I mean Liam. No way! Absolutely not! Slinger simply can't fall in love. He must be free from emotional ties. That's the whole point of his character. He's a rolling stone.’
‘He's getting tired of rolling, Perry. He wants to gather a bit of moss.’
‘Well, he can't.’
‘But he's going to be thirty-eight years of age in Boom, Boom. He's going to have crow's feet and hairy ears.’
‘So what?’
‘Won't he be a little sad when he reaches forty and he's still living in a mess-strewn bachelor pad? With only his CD collection to keep him company at night? A man of thirty-eight doesn't look as hilarious with his trousers round his ankles as a younger lad does.’
‘Liam, I'm worried about you. You're not going soft on me, are you?’
‘No. I just thought it was time Slinger grew up a little bit. He was very immature in book one, Perry. Is that what you want this time round? More of the same? I was thinking about it in bed last night.’
‘Don't think, Liam. Just write. You work best when you don't think.’
‘But will Slinger still visit lap-dancing clubs when he's lonely for a woman's company? And tell his personal troubles to the falsely sympathetic bartender?’
‘Yes, he will.’
‘Before getting slaughtered drunk and throwing up in some old lady's prize flower bed on the way home? While she watches in disgust from behind the net curtains?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes! It's perfect! It's wonderfully immature. It's a fantasy, Liam. You know Slinger Magee is only a character in your book. He's not a real person. He's not you.’
‘I know that,’ Liam said uncomfortably. In reality, Slinger
and Liam had a lot in common. They both thought that vomiting on other people's property was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.
‘You grow up and be a big mature guy if you like, Liam. But Slinger is a hedonistic idiot and that's why millions of guys wanted to read about him. He has no responsibilities whatsoever. If he falls in love all that will have to change. The magic will be gone. The sense of devil-may-care, that the readers want. Come on, Liam. What do you say?’
‘Okay. I'll do it.’ Liam sighed. ‘I'll sell my soul to the devil. Again.’
‘That's my boy! Our hero can have one crazy night of passion with this green-eyed woman –’
‘Emerald green with blue flecks.’
‘– but I want him gone from her bed before the sun comes up. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Liam, thinking of Lily Beaumont's long dark hair spread across a linen pillowcase.
‘Splendid. Now, when do you think you'll have a few chapters ready to show me?’
‘Give me a month?’ Liam sounded rather depressed.
‘A month? Surely you'll have the entire book written in a month?’
‘Perry! Are you insane?’
‘Haven't you had four years to rest? Now, get cracking right away. I'm counting the days, Liam. And remember: don't go all arty on this. Plenty of smutty jokes, that's what we want. And I love the period-costume idea. Put that in, won't you? I'll contact the main publishers right away and suggest something along those lines for the front cover. Slinger smouldering in a frilly shirt and the mysterious landlady just behind him in a tight satin corset?’
‘Yeah, whatever. Thanks a lot. Bye, Perry.’ Liam sighed again and wondered if he had any cigarettes left.
‘Bye, Liam,’ Perry said brightly and he hung up.
‘You greedy hack,’ Liam said aloud in the empty kitchen, thinking of Perry's percentage.
‘You talent-less jerk.’ Perry, alone in his London office, thought of his precious son on active duty in the Middle East. ‘My boy is a better writer than you could ever be in your wildest dreams, Liam Bradley. But nobody wants his book of war poetry because it's written too sensitively for today's male market. Why does life have to be so unfair?’ Then he pulled himself together and began drawing up a plan of campaign for launching Liam's new book.
‘We're going to retire on the back of Boom, Boom, as God is my witness,’ he told his wife over the phone that afternoon. ‘l'll raise my fee to 20 per cent. I'll get more merchandise deals on the table and I'll get Limo on every TV show in the Western world to promote it. We'll make a fortune. Shaw Stories rides again!’
7. The Great Aubergine Brainwave
Lily and Jack were enjoying an early night. It was midnight and they usually sat up until one o'clock in the morning, but it was freezing and anyway Bridget had fully commandeered the sitting room. Lily was afraid to even open the door and look inside in case Bridget had broken or damaged anything else. She'd recently found out about the lilac carpet being ruined and since the room was thirty feet long it was going to take all of the craft-class profits to replace it. Lily was close to tears when she heard the estimate from the carpet showroom. And she was fed up with the state of the kitchen larder too. It had never looked so empty and neglected. Bridget had even soaked a four-year-old salt-dough decoration in hot milk and eaten it, thinking it was a stale bagel. She'd given herself killer cramps, which pleased Lily a little bit. But the murderous cramps didn't keep Bridget down for long. She'd eaten an entire jar of pickled onions for breakfast the next day as well as two packets of trifle sponge fingers.
So, Lily and Jack decided to go to bed early with a couple of mugs of hot chocolate, and forget about their lodger for a while. The light outside the bedroom window had long since faded to an indigo blanket. There was talk of snow on the evening forecast. Lily had piled three extra blankets on the bed and they were listening to a compilation CD of old 1980s tunes. ‘This Is The Day’ by the Cranberries was softly echoing around the pink walls.
‘I can't believe not a single one of our relatives has been in touch,’ said Jack suddenly as he sipped his chocolate. ‘You'd think they'd be curious about the proposed closure.’
‘Mmm. I wondered about that myself. There was a picture of the tavern on the news this afternoon. And I was raging when they said we'd been offered a quarter of a million pounds to sell it. How did the press find out?’
‘Must be a leak in Halloran's camp,’ Jack offered.
‘Or more blackmail tactics, probably. Nobody will feel sorry for us now.’ Lily sighed. ‘Even though it's far more than we expected, I didn't want the details broadcast. Now the whole country will know our private business.’
‘I know. I think privacy has been made illegal nowadays.’
‘Maybe the thought of us being offered all that money for a place we inherited is just too much for our families to cope with? I can't believe it's been so long since we all got together. Ernest's funeral must be the last time I sat down for a meal with my own parents. You don't want to take the money and run, do you, Jack?’
‘I haven't thought about it, darling.’
‘Oh. You must have. Tell me,’ she said.
‘Okay. I might have been tempted. A little bit. We could certainly afford a detached house in a nice area. But we'd still need to work to pay the running costs. We'd have a lovely home but we'd be out of it all day long. Just like everybody else in the developed world. And then you have the starving millions with no homes at all to live in. It doesn't make any sense.’
‘That's what I've been saying for years,’ Lily agreed. ‘I knew you'd come round to my way of thinking eventually.’
‘We'd be no better off than we are now.’
‘So? What do you think?’
‘It's up to you, my darling. I can't deny I'm contented here. And the thought of everything changing overnight is scary, yeah. But the decision to stay or go is up to you.’
‘Okay. We'll go ahead with the parties, seeing as they're already booked and paid for,’ she said. ‘And we'll decide what to do at the end of February. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ He drained his cup and snuggled down under the blankets. His strong arms went out and found Lily's neat waist under the warmth of the eiderdown. ‘Come here, you gorgeous thing.’ But Lily wasn't in the mood for romance that night. She was worrying about Trudy and her various obsessions.
‘Do you know something, Jack? I think Trudy has a little issue with hand-washing,’ said Lily, still propped up against the pillows. ‘I noticed her hands were very rough and dry today.’
‘I saw that too.’ He sighed as he withdrew his own hands. ‘I was going to say something to her about it but I thought I'd ask your advice first. You'd think the lemon allergy and the button thing were enough to be going on with.’
‘She told me at the interview that she was born in England and that her parents sold up and moved back there a couple of years ago. They made a big profit on their house, apparently, and wanted to downsize.’
‘Why didn't Trudy go with them?’
‘They've bought only a tiny town-centre apartment. There's no room for Trudy. Anyway, she still has a few months of her geography degree left to do. She's lodging with a couple of professors in Stranmillas but they're always out at some lecture or festival. And they don't believe in central heating.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Do you think it could be because she's lonely? All these hang-ups?’
‘I'm no expert on these things, darling. She said she's always had them but they do seem to be getting worse. I might ask her if she'd like to move in with us for a while. There's plenty of room for another bed in there.’ She nodded down towards Bridget's room. ‘Massive, that room is. Far too big for one person and Bridget is so small she could live in a matchbox.’
‘You've no chance! Ask Princess Bridget to share her sacred bedchamber? Oh, Lily, you're a gag.’
‘It's worth a try. Bridget needs to learn how to cooperate. Plus, it's a mess in there. She's ma
king herself far too cosy. She hung all her clothes on the curtain rail and it fell off the wall. Then she hung them on the picture rail and damaged the wallpaper.’
‘But I thought all this upheaval was only for a few weeks?’
‘Trudy only needs a home in Belfast for a few weeks, Jack. She'll be finished college soon.’ Lily switched off the bedside lamp and lay down.
‘Well, I'm staying out of it. It's your project. Now, where were we?’ He held her hand in the darkness and began to delicately rub her shoulder.
‘How can you still have the energy for this after the crowd of people we had in the bar tonight?’ she whispered. ‘My feet are killing me. And don't make any noise! Bridget will hear us.’
‘She won't. She's snoring like a tractor.’ He pulled Lily towards him and began to unbutton her pyjama top. ‘I don't like this fabric,’ he teased. ‘It's as thick as a blanket. I think I'll bring out my own range of see-through PJs for women. Made of the finest lace. What do you think, Lily?’
‘I think I'm going to paint the tavern aubergine!’ cried Lily, and she sat up and switched on the lamp again.
‘What's going on?’ asked Jack, blinking rapidly and scratching his head. ‘And what kind of a colour is aubergine?’
‘It's a deep dark shade of purplish-black. It's gorgeous. Look at this.’ She showed him a brochure from the DIY store that she had slipped under her pillow.
‘But you always said white walls made the pub seem bigger.’
‘Yes, but see how well the gold accessories look against such a dark colour?’
‘Not as good as you look with those PJs off,’ he sulked. ‘Please?’
‘In a minute. I need to think first.’
‘I can't do it in a minute. I'm a man of impulse, my love. Oh, never mind. I'm going to sleep. You artists are all crazy.’
‘Goodnight, darling. I'll be back soon.’ She grabbed her warm robe and slippers and hurried down the stairs. The bar was empty and dark except for the dying embers of the fire. Lily flicked on the bright overhead lights, which were hardly ever used, and looked at the room as if she had never seen it before. It was too long and plain, she decided. The walls, which were brilliant white only a few months ago, were now yellowing again and smudged with stains. A heavy blanket of cigarette smoke had turned the ceiling a nasty shade of brown, and the mirrors behind the bar were far too small. Lily thought the branded coasters everywhere looked messy and too masculine. She sighed and continued with her critical assessment. The lopsided stack of boxes of crisps and bar snacks in that corner was hardly the height of sophistication either, and crisp sales were down anyway. Everyone said that crisps nowadays were far too hard: it was like eating razor blades. The stone floor and the mahogany booths and glossy bar counter were lovely but the overall effect in the tavern was cold and cheerless. The old plastic Christmas tree they'd assembled on the first day of the month was leaning slightly to the left. It was only when the fire was lit that the bar looked warm and cosy. A total makeover was required.
