Trouble Brewing

by Jane Tara

  She started with marigold flowers, which she soaked in lemon juice and sugar. She grabbed bottles of Boudier Saffron gin, Tanqueray gin, Liquore Strega and Licor 43, and began to mix and strain. The routine of it helped. She hated the way the dream lingered, but would give anything to return to it … with him. She missed Scott again ... yet as she settled back into her body and shook the dream free from her brain, it was Taran who filled the space, who filled her thoughts. There was a crossover period where the two men were almost one in her mind. She had to concentrate to separate them, to remember which one was gone and which one remained.

  And then came the awful realization that they were both gone now. She missed Taran, she wanted him, but she couldn’t call him. It was better this way. She paused and stared at the cocktail.

  “Please work,” she whispered.

  She summoned the force that had always coursed through her so easily, but now nothing happened. She took a sip. It was delicious, crisp and layered. There was nothing wrong with the cocktail. It was her magic that needed fixing. She tried again. Nothing. The gift she’d always taken for granted now required major concentration and effort. She centered herself, focused … acknowledged the guardians of the gates she was about to enter … and then attempted to pass through. And again. And again. And again.

  “Damn it!”

  Calypso smashed the glass and its contents into the sink.

  “Not having a good night?”

  Calypso gave a start and noticed Megan standing in the doorway. “It’s right up there with the night you played in Bristol.”

  Megan chuckled. She’d dragged Calypso to her first gig in Bristol, only to have her hold her hand in the local ER instead, while she got twelve stitches in the side of her head. The guy who threw the beer glass obviously didn’t appreciate her routine. She fingered the scar, still noticeable under her hairline. “I always think back fondly on that night. It was my initiation into stand-up.” She made her way into the room and pulled out a stool. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, you mean apart from the fact that Dad could die and the love of my life already did?”

  “Yeah, life sucks.” Megan thought for a moment. “Out of interest … how do you know Scott was the love of your life?”

  Calypso gave Megan a look of total disdain, and refused to answer.

  Megan, unperturbed, carried on talking. “Seriously. Are you carking it today, or do you think that if you’re going to be around for a few more years, then it is entirely possible that the best is still to come?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “No, it won’t. Not if you keep disappearing on him.” Megan shrugged. “Oh, stop looking at me like that. Simon told me what’s been going on. Taran is devastated. And honestly, Callie, I think you’re crazy not to give it a shot with him. He’s a great guy.”

  “So was Scott.”

  Megan jumped off the stool, stormed over to the bar, and held the side of it as she hissed at her best friend. “You think I don’t know that. I fucking loved Scott. He was like a brother to me. You’re not the only one who lost him. We all lost Scott. Losing him was right up there with losing Mum. But he’s dead, you stupid cow, and you’re not. And your use-by date on the grief is just about up.”

  The two friends eyeballed each other for a moment. To an innocent observer, it was the point of no return. In any other relationship it would be, but to Calypso and Megan, who had been through everything together, and argued all the way, it was simply what was expected. They demanded complete honesty from each other.

  But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

  “If my parents didn’t need you to run the pub, I’d toss you out.”

  “You couldn’t toss lettuce.” Megan matched Callie’s withering stare and one-upped it. “We’re in this together. Your parents raised me too. You’re not the only one suffering. Have you asked after Nell? She can’t wallow. She’s too busy making all the decisions. And as much as I’d love to spend the day crying over Alf, I don’t have time. I have to learn how to run the pub, so he can go into bloody hospital and not worry about it. So let’s not fight and just concentrate on being there for everyone.” Megan paused briefly as she pulled herself together, and then added, “… and each other.”

  Calypso nodded. She’d been so caught up in her own grief that she hadn’t taken Megan’s feelings into consideration. Of course Megan was having a rough time. She’d grown up around the pub, especially once she’d hit puberty. Her baffled father simply couldn’t face conversations about periods and boys. He left all that to Batty. He wasn’t sure how to express his love for his daughter, so left that to Calypso’s parents too. Most of Calypso’s childhood memories had Megan in them, so of course Megan’s own memories, own identity, had been formed around and by Callie’s parents.

  Calypso watched her friend carefully and a thousand images flashed through her mind: Alf hugging Megan; Alf teaching Megan how to play poker, how to fish, how to ride a bike, how to pull a beer; yelling at her for running away once, and then hugging her tightly because he’d been scared something had happened to her; rolling his eyes at each new tattoo, but totally accepting of her all the same. And the day Megan’s mother died … it was Alf who held her while she sobbed. A wave of shame engulfed Calypso for not taking Megan’s feelings into consideration. She smiled at her friend, who looked so incredibly vulnerable behind the punk-pixie camouflage.

  “I’m an arse,” Calypso conceded.

  “Yes, you are,” Megan agreed. “Anything else bothering you?”

  Her friend knew her so well. “Having some weird dreams … about Scott. Nothing major.” Calypso didn’t know how to put her dreams into words, or considering the sand in her bed, even if they were dreams.

  “He’d want you to be happy, Callie. I think he’d like Taran.”

  “That’s not saying much. Scott liked everyone.”

  Megan laughed. “True.”

  “I feel like I never got to say goodbye. There’s always this feeling of Scott and I being … unfinished.”

  “Honey, he’s dead. It’s finished.”

  Calypso and Megan looked at each other for a moment and then cracked up.

  “You’re vile,” Calypso said.

  “I do understand, Callie. But that’s what happens when people die suddenly. It’s why you’ve got to take this chance to spend time with Alf. Just in case. And it’s why you can’t blow what you have with Taran.” Megan ran her fingers through her hair. “What else is wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. I know I’m not psychic like you, but something else is up.”

  “Well, I’m not psychic either.” There. She’d finally admitted it out loud.

  Megan looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t been able to brew for a while.”

  A thousand thoughts clearly crossed Megan’s face. “You’re serious?”

  “Yep.”

  Megan knew what that meant. “Callie, that changes everything.”

  Calypso waved her hand for her friend to stop. “I can’t, Megan. Let’s not go there now. Not tonight.”

  The two friends stared at each other. Megan knew not to speak. They’d discuss it in time.

  Calypso changed the subject. “Want a vodka tonic?”

  “Does the Pope wear a dress?”

  Megan watched as Calypso poured her a drink. “So the pub is busy. Harry has been holding up the bar most nights. He’s worried about Alf.”

  Calypso sliced a lime and dropped a piece into Megan’s drink, then slid it across the bar. “When did you run into Simon?”

  Megan sipped her drink. “When we had sex.”

  Calypso’s eyes widened. “You slept with Simon?”

  “We hardly slept.”

  “When?”

  “Every night since we met.” Megan laughed. “Close your mouth. You look like a goldfish gaping at me like that.”

  Calypso was suddenly in a much better mood than she’d
been all week. “You shagged Simon? Bloody hell! What’s he like?”

  “Quite a surprise package … package and all.”

  Calypso clapped a hand across her mouth. “I had no idea.”

  “You’ve been busy.” Megan fiddled with her straw and then quietly added, “And I wasn’t ready to share it with anyone yet. Even you.”

  “Holy shit … You’re in love!”

  Megan grinned. “Yeah, I am, Callie.”

  Calypso slipped through the gate and embraced her friend. “I am so happy for you, Meg.” She pulled back and stared at her friend. Megan’s eyes shone, her skin glowed.

  Megan blinked back tears. “I never believed all that stuff about soulmates, but I don’t know how else to explain what I feel for him.”

  “And he feels the same?” Calypso had seen Megan get hurt too many times over the years, by men who didn’t value the huge heart underneath the tough exterior.

  “He does. He’s introducing me to his family tomorrow night. Batty said she’d cover the bar for a few hours.” Megan pulled a face. “Fuck, I hope they like me.”

  Calypso threw her arms around Megan. “Like you? They’ll love you. How could they not?”

  *

  Simon and Taran were halfway through a six-pack each and a game of pool.

  “My parents are going to hate her.”

  Taran nodded. “I know. But it’s time you stand up to them.”

  They stared at the pool table silence for a moment, before Taran added, “Or you could run away and live in Fiji.”

  Simon’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s an idea.”

  “You’ve never introduced anyone to them before, have you?”

  “No, they usually introduce women to me.” Simon slugged back some beer. “Remember Ashley Sherringstone?”

  “Was that the horsy looking one?”

  “No, that was Rebecca Jones.”

  “Oh yes, so it was. Ashley … oh, the one with the …?”

  “Yes, gammy leg.”

  The two men laughed.

  “Excellent pedigree, though,” said Simon.

  “Didn’t make up for the stutter.”

  “Yes, that was unfortunate. Especially seeing as she already had the leg thing.”

  The two men were pissing themselves laughing now.

  “That is the type of woman my parents expect me to marry.” Simon sunk three balls in a row in protest.

  “Oh man, your poor kids.”

  “Actually, my mother was vile enough to point out that the gammy leg was the result of an accident and therefore not genetic, and the stutter first showed up after Ashley was caught in the middle of a fox hunt as a child. Once again—”

  “… not hereditary,” they finished together.

  “When are you taking Megan over?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Taran could barely contain his glee. He thought Simon’s family were the biggest bunch of tossers in London. “I’d love to come, just to see how the evening pans out, but I think you should turn up alone with Megan.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It will put an end to your father telling your brothers that he thinks you’re gay.”

  Simon nodded. “Good point.” He paused for a moment. “I’d better get Megan to wear a dress … just to drive that point home.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sage enhances the memory

  Megan didn’t wear a dress, because Simon didn’t ask her to. He liked her just the way she was, and that included the rather inappropriate outfit she wore to meet his parents: tatty jeans and tight black T-shirt with the words One Martini, Two Martini, Three Martini, Floor! plastered across the front.

  Megan chatted all the way to the six-bedroom Mayfair mansion with no awareness of what was about to hit her. Yes, she desperately wanted Simon’s family to like her, but love had made her even more fearless than usual, and she sincerely believed everything was going to go well.

  How wrong she was.

  Her first mistake – apart from her appearance, her inability to bottle her exuberance, her obvious lack of breeding, and the fact that she existed at all – was to hug the butler when he opened the door to them. Simon cringed, only because he realized then and there that he’d failed to properly prepare the love of his life for the onslaught of his family.

  “Simon has told me so much about you,” she lied. Simon rarely talked about his father.

  Fitzpatrick calmly peeled the strange creature from around his neck and raised one judgmental eyebrow. “How kind of Master Simon to mention me.”

  “Actually, Meg, this is Fitzpatrick … our butler.” Simon kicked himself when he saw Megan’s face flood with embarrassment. And then, without thinking, he too threw himself into Fitzpatrick’s arms. “But yes, good ol’ Fitzpatrick is like family and deserves a hug.”

  A startled Fitzpatrick shrugged Simon off and took his coat. “Your parents will receive you in the sitting room.”

  “Thank you, Fitzpatrick.”

  Simon slipped his hand into Megan’s and led her up the hall. Her palms were suddenly sweaty and she was unusually quiet. He’d already discovered that when she was nervous she talked incessantly and made a lot of jokes. But this was a first – total silence. Finally, as she reached the end of the hallway, she whispered: “Your parents receive you?”

  “I know. Dreadfully fucked up, isn’t it.” Simon turned to her and gave a snort that reminded her to not take it too seriously. “Sometimes they even … tolerate me.”

  Megan giggled. “Oh shit, they’re going to hate me aren’t they?”

  Simon decided to be very honest. “Probably. But it doesn’t matter. I love you, and that’s all that counts.”

  Megan noticed the painting behind Simon. “Is that a Monet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Original?”

  “Yes – one of three.”

  “Oh shit, I’m screwed.”

  Five seconds later, Megan was standing in the middle of the Coliseum and the lions had just been released.

  “Mother, Father, this is Megan.”

  Penelope and Charles Apsley did nothing to hide their absolute horror. Penelope did at least have the grace, as she later told her friends, to rise and make her way across the room. In her mind, she did so with regal bearing. To anyone watching, especially Simon, she looked like a well-dressed barracuda swimming toward a minnow.

  “Megan, is it?” she asked as she grabbed Megan’s hand a touch too tightly. There was an audible crack of bones.

  “Yes, lovely to meet you, Mrs Apsley.”

  “Yes,” Penelope drawled. The feeling obviously wasn’t mutual.

  Simon forged on: “Over there is my brother David, and his lovely wife, Annabelle.”

  David and Annabelle glanced at each other in unmasked glee. Dinner here was always a dull affair, but tonight was going to be quite different.

  “Lovely to meet you,” said Annabelle, genuinely thrilled.

  Simon knew that Annabelle really was happy to meet Megan. She’d been trying to please Penelope and Charles for years, to no avail. The answer to her problems had arrived, piercings and all. Next to Megan, Annabelle looked like Princess bloody Diana.

  “Goodness, is that a piercing in your lip?” Annabelle exclaimed, just in case her in-laws had missed it.

  Megan shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Yes.”

  Annabelle’s hand flew to her mouth dramatically. “Didn’t it hurt?”

  “No,” Megan admitted. “I was off my trolley when I had it done.”

  Simon took a deep breath and continued. “And this is Richard.”

  Richard took one look at Megan and made a face like someone had crapped under his nose. Simon felt like punching him, but instead politely added, “Those who know him well call him Dick.”

  Simon regretted the evening already. “Slumped in that chair is the one we all look up to, Thomas … At least we do on the rare occasion that he’s upright.”

  Thomas
was obviously slaughtered and stared straight at Megan’s chest. “Nice tit – T-shirt.”

  Finally, Simon turned to an old gentleman, whose wheelchair had been placed in the corner, facing the wall, with him still in it.

  “And that’s … ah … my grandfather.”

  GeeGee, as everyone called him, stirred. “Turn this bloody thing around.”

  Penelope jumped to attention and turned her father around to face everyone else. GeeGee looked up at Megan. She nodded her greeting, too petrified to talk now.

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “This is Megan, my new girlfriend.”

  “That’s a girl?”

  “Yes, GeeGee.”

  “So you’re not a fag?”

  Megan jumped to her beloved’s defense. “I can assure you he’s not.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with your lip?”

  “Megan has a piercing,” Annabelle explained loudly.

  “What sort of weirdo would get her lip pierced? Are you on drugs?”

  Megan’s eyes narrowed. “No … but if you’re offering …”

  And so the evening went from bad to worse. Megan couldn’t do anything right. Her elbows on the table raised eyebrows, as did her obvious ignorance when it came to which piece of cutlery to use. And there were some audible gasps when she asked for a top-up of beer. As she explained to Simon later, “I thought they’d be impressed, but instead I had to put up with their negativity as well as that crap your family passes off as beer. Although now I know why Thomas is such a drunk. It’s the only way to get through dinner with your parents.”

  Penelope bored everyone senseless with updates on her various charities, and Charles could barely string a sentence together. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to. Annabelle didn’t shut up. She was as transparent as glass and Simon knew exactly what she was up to. She was like an archeologist and Megan was the dig. She kept chipping away for any little piece of history that could be put on show for all to see.

  Thomas fell asleep in his soup, although everyone pretended not to notice. David kept leaving the table to make phone calls and returning with white powder around his nose. And Richard lived up to the shortened version of his name every time he opened his mouth.