by Kate Russo
That smell—stale beer, musky cologne, cheese and onion crisps. Memories of William flood her mind as the familiar perfume of the pub fills her nostrils. Suddenly every guy in the bar looks just like him. She glances at the ledge where they used to sit, staring out into the market.
“My sister thinks you’re too quiet,” William once told her on that ledge. “You’re too passive.”
She took a sip of her beer and shrugged.
“Like right now: Why aren’t you standing up for yourself?” he wanted to know, shaking her shoulder.
“What’s the point?” she mumbled. “Your sister’s not here.”
“You’re a pushover,” he continued. “It’s okay to have opinions.” His opinions, of course. Kiera had opinions, lots of them. He disagreed, loudly, with every single one.
“Maybe.”
Before unfriending him on Facebook, Alicia saw that he’d recently purchased a microbrewery in North London, which meant he’d have no reason to come to the Rose anymore. It had been his dream to own a brewery. He’s the only person she’s ever known that always gets every single fucking thing he wants.
She’s behind a group of three businessmen and one female colleague waiting to be served. They’re teasing the woman, encouraging her to flirt with the bartender to get better service. Alicia watches them, envious. This woman is the type Alicia has always imagined becoming. During graduate school, she pictured her life would be a steady stream of pub-quizzes, curry nights, and karaoke weekends. She’d be the kind of girl that could keep up with the boys. They’d tease her and she’d hit back at them with her quick wit, but they’d be “her boys.” They would love and respect her. “Her boys” would protect her. There’s certainly none of this camaraderie at her offices in Brooklyn. Most of the employees at her pay grade are family people. No one goes for drinks after work. Everyone rushes home for dinner or to a school play or to daddy-daughter yoga.
“Go on, Val!” a handsome, grey-suited man says. His hair and beard are straight out of a box of Just for Men. “Get up there!” he adds, giving his coworker a shove on the small of her back, pushing her up to the bar.
“Undo a button, Val! I’m thirsty,” a clean-shaven, blue-suited guy adds, to the laughter of his mates.
Val shoots him a dirty look. But not a really dirty look. Val is playing her cards carefully, Alicia concludes. Her dirty look suggests not that he’s an asshole, but that he’s naughty.
Blue Suit understands the game. “Steady on, love. We’ve got all night.”
A third, Black Suit, gives him a congratulatory shove and they share a nod.
The male bartender finally turns his attention to Val and the three suits cheer. She orders everyone’s drinks, flipping back her long, bleach-blond hair, and feeling, for a moment, like their hero.
Alicia finds she’s smiling at the whole exchange. Yes, it’s sexist, but she wants to believe that Val is really the one in charge. It’s possible she has these three guys wrapped around her little finger. Maybe Val gets shit done, even if her methods are a little unorthodox. Maybe she just wants to have a laugh. What’s so wrong with that? Women should get to be one of the boys. How can women expect to win “the game” if they don’t play it?
“‘The game’ is rigged,” she remembers Kiera saying in class. “We can’t succeed when the aim of the game is to devalue women. To win is to beat ourselves.”
The suits and Val vacate with three pints and a large glass of white wine. Blue Suit and Grey Suit each have a hand on the small of Val’s back. Black Suit, staring at her tits, shouts loudly, “Alright, Val, put ’em away! Do you want us to take you seriously or not?” They all laugh, settling into a table at the rear of the pub.
“You’re back.”
The smell of cigarettes and fruity cologne wafts over her shoulder. She doesn’t even need to turn around; he’s right behind her. Not wanting to appear eager, she ignores him and moves up to the bar, tapping her fingers on the ledge while reading the labels on the beer taps.
“London Pride, please,” she tells the barman.
“Pint or half?” he asks, his eyes wandering to the leering man behind her. He gives the guy a nod of familiarity.
“Pint,” she says, pulling out her wallet.
“Good girl,” the drunk says, coming around to her side and leaning on the bar.
Alicia looks at him now. Not with a smile exactly, but an acknowledgment of his existence.
He smiles back like he’s won a bet. “You can put your money away, doll.” Turning his attention to the barman: “I got this, Toby.”
Alicia looks at the barman, hoping he might give her a sign as to whether or not her companion is safe, but apparently Toby can only concentrate on one thing at a time. Right now, he’s pouring a pint.
She keeps her wallet out, still prepared to pay.
“Make that two, Toby,” he adds. “And two shots of . . . What’s the one I like?”
“Lagavulin,” Toby says, pausing mid-pour for a moment to look up, then resuming.
“Laaa-gavooolin,” the drunk says, trying to sound either smart or sexy, Alicia isn’t sure.
It takes a moment to register that the second shot is for her. “Oh,” she says, words failing her after that. She watches him, paralyzed, as he takes her wallet from her hands and drops it back into her large leather purse, which is hanging open.
“You should zip that up, love. Thieves operate in this neighborhood,” he says in his best Underground-announcer voice. Chuckling at his own impression, he pulls his own wallet from his back pocket, opening the billfold wide.
There’s a lot of cash in there. He can see that she can see it.
“I got it covered.” He smiles down at what looks like a thousand pounds in bills.
She glances again at the hair growing on his neck. Surely, he can afford a barber.
The barman pushes the pints and shots in front of them. Alicia tries again to make eye contact, but Toby has his eyes on the computer screen. “Uhhhh . . . twenty-four pounds eighty, Paulie.”
Paulie? Seriously? Is this guy in the mob?
Paulie takes out thirty pounds. “Keep the change,” he says, proudly, pulling Alicia closer to him by the collar of her coat to make space for the men gathering behind her to order. His disregard for personal space is so brazen it seems pointless to protest. Reaching across her, he pulls her pint closer, too, and she catches a whiff of sweat that his strong cologne is meant to cover up; a nervous sweat that smells more bitter than sweet.
She acknowledges the pint she’s been given, but she’s not ready to pick it up just yet. Once she drinks from the glass, she’ll owe him something.
“People usually say ‘thank you,’” Paulie says.
She runs her index finger down the condensation on the glass, stopping when she sees he’s watching. “Thanks.”
He licks his crusty lips. “I’m Paulie,” he says, as though instructing her on basic politeness. “And your name is?”
“Alicia.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He tries a little bow with his pint glass in hand and beer splashes onto the front of his shirt. “Oops,” he says, his tone suggesting very little embarrassment. “I guess you’ll have to come back to mine tonight.” He winks, adding in case his point isn’t clear, “I can’t wear this shirt to work tomorrow.”
“Please, let me pay you for these drinks.” Her voice cracks, but finally she manages a full sentence.
“Why can’t a fella buy a woman a drink anymore?” he shouts, so that everyone in the vicinity can hear him. A rotund man in a cable-knit sweater, standing next to Alicia, turns and rolls his eyes at Paulie. Paulie glares back, challenging, until the man turns back to his group. “I’m trying to be chivalrous,” he adds at a lower volume. It comes out “shrivelroos.”
“It would make me feel better to pay for my own.”
&nbs
p; Fishing her wallet out of her bag, Alicia accidentally elbows the man in the cable-knit sweater. To her surprise, he elbows her back.
Paulie reacts immediately, shoving the guy. “Give her some space, you fat fuck.”
“Lousy drunks,” the man barks back.
“We’re all in a pub!” Paulie shouts.
Instinctively, Alicia slides in between them, putting her hand on Paulie’s chest like she’s stopped more than one bar fight in her time (she hasn’t). “Don’t!” she pleads with what feels something like intimacy. Despite knowing him for barely five minutes, she can’t help feeling she understands the stupidity this man is capable of, and that she can stop him.
Instead, the larger man concedes first, but not without saying, “Real winner you got there,” to Alicia before turning around and resting his pint on his large gut.
Paulie puts his hand on hers, so that they both rest on his chest. He visibly softens. He strokes her fingertips with his own. She wants to pull away, but this seems to be keeping him calm. He smiles down on her, clearly happy with this result.
“The drinks are a kindness . . .” He lingers on that word and leans in. Releasing her hand, he slips his own through her open jacket, resting it on her hip. She can feel his thumb, wrapped in the belt loop of her jeans.
“I’d feel more comfortable if you would let me pay you.”
“I’m making you uncomfortable?” He steps in closer, so close, she can taste the beer-flavored spittle flying from his lips.
“Maybe a little,” she says, apprehensively.
He removes his hand, agitated. “Alright. It’s no big deal to me, love.” He looks around the pub, trying to appear aloof. “I just thought you looked lonely.” Then, just that quickly, he changes tactic again. “Is that what you want? To drink your pint all alone?”
She glances at the pint, full and sweating on the bar. She doesn’t want to drink it all alone. She came back to the pub to have a drink with him and here he is. He even just defended her with that jerk in the preppy sweater. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers. Alicia takes what she’s given. She should be thankful he’s here. No need to expect or hope for more. She picks up the glass and takes a big gulp, like she’s quaffing milk.
“We’re gonna have a good night, you and I,” he says, smiling ear to ear now. Once again, he steps in close, putting his hand on her face this time. His fingers caress her cheek, going up her scalp, until he has a hand on the top of her ponytail. “You should let your hair down,” he whispers in her ear. His scruffy, unshaven face smells like toenail clippings. “You’re prettier that way.” He tugs on the elastic band.
“Leave it,” she whispers, barely audible, looking down at the pint she’s holding, her compensation for his advances.
He moves his hand down to the back of her neck. She flinches, thinking he might clench it, but instead, he slides his middle and index fingers under her tied-up hair, pulling off the band and redirecting her hair over her shoulder. He runs his fingers through it, root to tip, smiling. He smells the elastic band, before pocketing it.
“Souvenir,” he teases.
She reaches out to reclaim it but stops just short, aware that in order to get it back, she’d have to put her hand in his pocket. He takes her extended hand as an invitation, clasping it and pulling her in. Their bodies are now flush, except for her pint sandwiched in between their torsos. He removes it with his other hand, setting it on the bar before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her in completely.
“Let’s drink our whiskey and get out of here,” he coos, swaying her slightly, as though they’re dancing. She can feel his erection, the shock of which inadvertently causes her to clench his hand tight. “Steady on, love.”
This is the exact phrase the blue-suited man said to his colleague, Val, earlier. At the time, Alicia had found it absolutely charming. Now she tries to pull away from Paulie, who grips her harder.
“Someone’s eager.” He reaches for the whiskeys. “Let’s knock these back and then we can go.”
“I’m not such a fan of scotch.”
She glances over at the bar in a last-ditch attempt to make eye contact with Toby. No chance. He’s captivated by the pint glass he’s holding as it fills with copper beer.
With the same middle and index fingers that he just ran through her hair, Paulie pushes her chin up to make her face him. “Don’t be rude. I bought it for you.”
“I should go,” she says hastily. “I’m meeting a friend and I’m running late.” The statement is so plausible and yet everything in her voice betrays it. She doesn’t even have anyone to call. The only British phone number she has is Bennett’s.
Paulie leans in to reveal a secret: “People don’t really like me, either,” he says, while looking into her eyes to see if she understands. “I don’t know why people don’t like you, but I’m not going to judge you.”
She thinks about her now friendless Facebook profile. Whatever friends she might have had, they’re gone. Her closest friend in London, maybe even in the world, is this guy standing right in front of her.
He takes her hand and guides it to the bar, wrapping her fingers around the shot glass.
She smiles back at him, a half-cocked smile. It’s just some company, and it’s in a busy pub. She can leave when she wants to. It’s fine.
“Ready?” Paulie asks, looking genuinely happy to have someone to drink with. “One, two, three . . .”
They both shoot back the whiskey. The glasses clink on the bar simultaneously.
“You’ve done that before,” he says, impressed.
“You thought I came here straight from the convent?”
“Whiskey makes her frisky,” he says, proud of his rhyme. “Alright, I like that.” He flashes two fingers at Toby, signaling he wants another round.
Alicia leans in on the bar now. That wasn’t so bad, she tells herself. They’re building up a rapport. She’s feeling warmer, more comfortable. She looks at Paulie and smiles. For real this time. When the shots arrive they knock them back.
“How are you still standing?” she asks him.
He smirks, eyebrow raised and pulls out a little vile of white powder from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Got plenty.”
William and his mates liked coke, but Alicia could never bring herself to partake. Back when she was a kid, there were these assemblies at school, where they packed all the students into the hot, stale gymnasium and a cop would present a suitcase full of drugs. He would hold up the different powders and pills and then tell the children all the horrible things that would happen if they took them. A Christian cop no less, who went to the same church as her father, and he wanted the kids to know that if the police didn’t catch drug users, God would. The only thing scarier was the other assembly where a different guy brought in all the poisonous snakes. Alicia can still conjure the mixture of sadness and sheer terror she felt at seeing a rattler in a tiny Perspex box, fiercely shaking its rattle at foolish little boys knocking on the plastic. Every school year, it was the snake assembly first then the drug one. Naturally, when it came time for the drug assembly and the God Cop preached “take drugs and your worst nightmares will come true,” Alicia’s mind went straight to that snake. To this day, despite prevailing evidence to the contrary, taking drugs means coming face-to-face with a rattlesnake minus the protective Perspex box.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Let’s get out of here.” He pulls a twenty out of his wallet and lays it on the bar, then grabs Alicia’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Her palms are sweaty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He leads her out the door and into the cold.
The smokers who were previously leaning on the ledge are gone, their pint glasses, a little left in each, still perched on the windowsill. Alicia can hear people in the distance, but there’s no one in sight. The fog is so thick now that she can barely see Paulie in fron
t of her.
“Where are we going?” she asks. She leans back toward the pub, hoping to pull him back in.
“Depends, where’s home tonight, American Alicia?”
She thinks about Bennett, about the quiet smile they shared at the window last night before he retired to his studio. She doesn’t want to bring Paulie back to his house. All she’d meant to do was make a friend in a pub, have a laugh, maybe a snog at a push. Paulie, now leering at her, with both hands on her ass, only has one thing in mind. She remembers the fantasy she had this morning, the one where she and Bennett curled up on the couch and binged on Sherlock. Paulie doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you can do that with. He’s neither a Sherlock nor a Watson. It occurs to her she’s been drinking with Moriarty.
“I need the loo,” she says, not a lie. Her Starbucks coffee and that pint of beer have gone straight through her. “I’ll just be a second,” she assures him, trying to break away.
He tightens his grip. “You can hold it.”
Leading her around the side of the pub, he stops in between two streetlamps, one dim, the other blown out. On the other side there’s nothing but dark, shuttered market stalls. He stops in one spot, abruptly, like it’s marked with an X. Pulling her in, he kisses her, his hand on the back of her neck like a shackle.
