One Glass Is Never Enough

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Well, prove me wrong then!” Part of her wanted to break down and beg. Take me to bed now. Love me, hold me, look at me. Give me a baby like Chloe’s got. Listen to me, for God’s sake...

  Instead she ran upstairs. Fetched the shirt still in its carrier bag from the bedroom floor. Brought it downstairs and hurled it at him. “Explain that!”

  He examined it calmly. “What is it?”

  “It’s make-up! Lipstick, foundation. From some bloody woman’s face. That she’s obviously had all over your clothing.”

  Victor looked at her coldly. “No woman has been anywhere. I have no idea what this is or how it got there but I am not having an affair. And perhaps if you were less neurotic and a bit more reliable I’d …”

  “I know there’s something going on. What about that nightclub?”

  “What nightclub?”

  “You had a receipt from it when you’d said you’d been…”

  Victor’s expression was now thoroughly hostile. “Oh, so you’re going through my things now, are you?” he said, with quiet fury.

  “I was looking for some change.” For a moment she faltered, then looked again at the shirt lying between them.

  “There’s something going on, Victor!” She was yelling now. “You don’t want to sleep with me, you’re always away. You’re secretive…”

  “And you’re paranoid.” His voice was low and angry, but he didn’t look at her as he left the room.

  He went upstairs. She heard his footsteps cross the bedroom above. Was he going to sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight, like he did last time they’d had a row? Any excuse to keep away from her!

  She went into the kitchen and got a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge. She poured a glass and breathed deeply. She was shaking all over. So much for staying calm. She’d try again when he came down. Victor, I’m sorry I shouted. But I do feel…

  He appeared in the doorway with an overnight bag.

  She looked up, startled. “Where are you going?”

  “Town. I was leaving at five tomorrow morning anyway. Might as well go now.”

  Gaynor moved towards him. “But I want to talk to you.”

  “I think you’ve said enough.”

  “Victor, look!” She knew she sounded desperate.

  “There’s obviously a problem between us here.”

  He looked at her coldly. “No, Gaynor. Not us. You are the one with the problem.”

  “We need to get an overview. Find out where the problem is.”

  Mr Bradley-Lawrence had pushed the chart across the desk. They’d both looked at it. Gaynor with her usual blankness at anything scientific or vaguely technical. He with the long-suffering expression of the expert dealing with the terminally thick.

  She was to keep a record of her monthly cycle. You filled in the little boxes marked “Flow” – shading in half a box if it was very light, two boxes if it was average, three to four if it was really quite heavy, and the entire six if it had gushed all over the sofa.

  Then there was the pain graph where you noted whether it was a couple of paracetamol, a glass of wine and grit your teeth sort of day or the get paralytic, give up completely and go to bed with a hot water bottle variety. And finally a small white daily space in which one recorded one’s ‘feelings’.

  Gaynor had looked at him questioningly.

  “For example,” he explained, suddenly more cheerful than he’d been for the entire appointment. “Feelings of depression, stress, tearfulness, anxiety…” He smiled for the first time. “That sort of thing…”

  Gaynor curled up on the sofa, wearing pyjamas, her arms around a cushion. She’d tried to phone Sarah but she was ‘very busy’ in the kitchen, Claire had told her. Her best friend Lizzie was still away in India. Gaynor was halfway through the bottle of wine and the house seemed big and empty and lonely. She looked miserably at the chart. Start it today, he’d said. She surveyed the little boxes.

  Flow: none

  Pain: none

  How I feel today…

  Gaynor took a swallow of wine and pulled her dressing gown more closely around her. Victor had gone off to London to stay God-knows-where with God-knows-who. Chloe was pregnant. Gaynor wasn’t.

  How did she feel? She picked up a pen.

  Bloody awful…

  5. Petit Chablis

  A provocative little number with hidden bite.

  “Gaynor! Not like that!” Claire moved rapidly and grabbed at the bottle of San Miguel that Gaynor was pouring into a tall glass. “You need to tip it.”

  “Sorry.” Claire spoke to the guy the other side of the bar, shaking her head at the inches of froth. “Gaynor’s still training.”

  Gaynor laughed. “They can’t get the staff.”

  The guy laughed too, winked at Gaynor. “Oh, I think they can…”

  Claire pulled a square of paper from a small pad and got down a fresh glass. “Take that down to the kitchen, will you?” she asked Gaynor, as she began to pour the beer herself.

  Gaynor ran down the stairs and pushed open the swing door. Greens had been open a week and as usual the kitchen was hot, the air pungent with the smell of garlic. Sarah stood in a blue and white striped apron stirring something at the huge hob. Benjamin, in a white apron, was stacking plates into the dish-washer. Gaynor pinned the paper on the notice board above the stainless steel work tables.

  “One tomato, peppers and mozzarella panini and a bowl of…”

  Sarah swung round, her mouth a tight line of annoyance. “Not more bloody paninis. What’s wrong with these people? Is it national fucking panini day or something? Tell Claire there’ll be a wait – the machine’s so bloody slow.

  Tell her to make them have lasagne – I’ve made all these bloody lasagnes and salads –” She waved an arm to indicate a row of earthenware dishes piled high with ripe tomatoes, onions, crisp green lettuce, couscous and coleslaw. “Why can’t they order something I can put in the microwave?”

  Gaynor stepped back, momentarily thrown by the fury in Sarah’s voice. Benjamin, she noticed, had his head well down. He was a strange boy in some ways – obviously terribly intelligent with an old-fashioned, almost formal way of speaking. She’d already asked herself why he wanted to be working in a kitchen; now she wondered how he would cope with one so volatile and full of hormones. She tried to lighten things and laughed. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, anyway.”

  Sarah glared. “It’s OK for you, hanging over the bar up there with all the blokes admiring your cleavage.”

  Gaynor turned away. She’d taken ages to get ready, choosing her clothes carefully, trying to find an outfit that was sexy yet sophisticated, pretty but practical. She thought she’d hit it just right with the low-cut stretchy top and hipster jeans, hair off her face in a clip, chunky silver jewellery. Then Victor had told her she looked like Bet Lynch.

  “I’m sorry!” Sarah walked through to the cellar and her handbag. “I’ve got a splitting headache.” She pulled out a foil card of pain-killers and popped two into her hand. “And I feel dreadful. You couldn’t check on the children could you?”

  “Sure.” Gaynor saw no point in telling her that Charlie and Bel had been down three times already and – seeing Claire’s growing irritation – she’d loaded them up with crisps and after-dinner mints to keep them from doing it again. “Shall I bring you a drink?”

  “Just a lemonade or something. And, Gaynor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you drink too much either.”

  * * *

  Why ever not? Upstairs, Gaynor smiled at Mr San Miguel who’d already bought her a glass of Chablis. If customers wanted to get her drinks, what was wrong with that? More money in the till, which should please everyone, and she was a much better barmaid is she wasn’t too sober.

  Mildly inebriated, she forgot about Victor being horrible and Chloe having a baby and was sparkling and welcoming, making the punters feel this was the place
they most wanted to be. A lot of those walking through the door were down to her.

  She’d invited everyone she could think of to the first night and since then had put cards through the door of every business, shop and des. res. property in Broadstairs. By the time they’d bought Greens there were only two customers left and one of those was the owner, Fergal, a drunken Scouser with a gammy leg and a good line in belching and falling over.

  The other one was here now. A man of fifty or so with thinning hair, unbuttoned shirt and patchy chest, he’d first put in an appearance the day before the opening-night party. Gaynor remembered the way he’d winked at her with the sort of half-leer that suggested he might be in mid-circuit around the town’s full range of hostelries, and then headed determinedly towards the bar, lurching slightly as he skirted a bar stool, laid down his paper and rested his elbows on the counter. He’d smiled lopsidedly and leant his red face over the bar to Sarah.

  “Open yet?”

  “Seven tomorrow.” Sarah had turned on a smile, clearly longing to ask if he really thought she’d be serving in a paint-splattered man’s shirt and rubber gloves, to the backdrop of frenzied hammering from below.

  “Ah yes.” He paused. “I thought I should come and introduce myself.” He held out a meaty hand. “Neville Norton at your service.”

  Sarah had removed a Marigold and pressed the damp palm. “Pleased to meet you.”

  He nodded. “I’m one of your regulars you know…”

  “Lovely.” Sarah’s face was a picture of polite interest. “Well, we look forward to welcoming you later.”

  “I am,” he enunciated with care. “A bit of a character around here…”

  Gaynor had clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling but Sarah’s smile did not falter. “I’m sure you are.”

  He stopped, looking at her, eyes rolling. “Fergal and I,” he said, trying to slide a buttock on to the stool and managing at his third attempt. “Go back a long way…”

  Gaynor, snorting, had disappeared round the corner where Claire was securing invoices with a bulldog clip. “Who the hell is that?”

  Claire had shut down the lid of her lap-top. “That,” she said, snapping an elastic band around the cash books in front of her, “is fifteen grand’s worth of goodwill.”

  He was a little more sober this time. “You’re looking very lovely this evening,” he told Gaynor, almost without slurring. “I would like a glass of your very finest house red, and a black coffee.”

  Grrr. Gaynor had so far avoided mastering the coffee machine – it looked far too complicated – so she smiled and took his money and waited for Claire to come back from serving the Panini Eaters who were sat in the restaurant area. It looked lovely back there – half a dozen heavy wooden tables along the walls with bench seats and smaller tables in the middle. All had flickering candles and a small spray of freesias. It looked relaxed yet intimate – the sort of place she’d have chosen to go and eat herself if she wasn’t the owner of the joint. The thought still gave her a warm glow.

  Claire slapped a pile of menus back on the shelf under the bar. “OK, they’ve all got drinks, let’s teach you how to use this thing.”

  Hmm. Gaynor would have preferred Claire to just do it for her but Claire was in full staff-training mode. Twenty minutes later, Gaynor delivered two cappuccinos to the kitchen.

  “She made me keep doing it till I got the froth right,” she complained to Sarah. “Too much head on the beer, not enough on the coffee. Ever get the feeling I’m not a natural?”

  Sarah was smiling again. “You’re fine,” she said. “What you lack in froth-levels you make up for with innate charm. And a great cleavage,” she added with a wink. They both laughed.

  “Sorry Benjamin – does that embarrass you?” Sarah nudged at him as he stood chopping onions. “That’s the trouble with female bosses.”

  “We’ll be sending you out for tampons next.” Gaynor giggled. “You know I always thought it would be so nice to be a hot-shot businesswoman with a male secretary I could send out on little errands. Would it make you squirm, Benjamin? Could you go to Ann Summers for me?”

  Sarah laughed. “Don’t! Poor Benjamin. Don’t you go giving in your notice now will you? I need you! I’ll protect you from her. Hey, though, talking of Ann Summers – did I tell you what Suzie bought me as a flat-warming present?”

  She rummaged in a cupboard, producing a pink cardboard box. She pulled off the lid.

  Gaynor looked at the contraption inside and grinned. “Why’s it down here? Are you going to beat the eggs with it or something?”

  Sarah laughed. “Or the double cream. I don’t want the kids getting hold of it, do I? Charlie would take it apart, Bel might do something unspeakable to the cat.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  They both examined the strangely-shaped mauve plastic. “I’m not entirely sure,” said Sarah, “but Suzie says it was last year’s top seller.”

  Benjamin coughed. “This is quite surreal,” he said, beginning to snap the stalks from a pile of mushrooms.

  Sarah shrieked with laughter. “Sorry Benjamin! This happens when you share a kitchen with a bunch of frustrated crones.”

  “Oh, it’s absolutely fine. I’m not embarrassed at all,” he said, in his precise way. “I’ve got an older sister,” he added solemnly.

  “I might need to borrow this.” Gaynor was still twisting the vibrator in her hands. It might be her only chance of a sex life the way things were going.

  “Gaynor!” Claire’s voice resounded down the stairwell.

  Gaynor thrust the box back at Sarah. “Whoops – stand by your beds!”

  The bar was filling up. A group of girls came in and bought champagne. Gaynor recognised one of them as an ex-customer of La Bonne Femme – the boutique where she used to work. She couldn’t remember her name but knew she always spent a lot. She made a point of going over to their table for a chat. They were happy and giggly.

  “The guys are joining us in a minute.” The girl from the boutique rolled her eyes in mock martyrdom. “It’s Alistair’s birthday!”

  Gaynor had no idea who Alistair was but he clearly knew how to enjoy himself. He arrived minutes later, a tall red-haired Scotsman, who ordered three more bottles of Bollinger, paid cash and told her to keep the change.

  “Come and have a wee glass with us!” he called as Gaynor collected empties from the next table. She was about to when Claire came past her, expertly balancing several plates of pasta.

  She jerked her head. “You’ve got a customer.”

  Gaynor turned her head. Sam the sign-writer was sat at the bar.

  “A coffee, please,” he said, barely meeting Gaynor’s eyes. Claire stopped on her way back through with a tray of used glasses and went over to him. “The hanging sign’s brilliant – thank you very much.”

  He nodded. He looked younger tonight, Gaynor thought. Bigger, somehow, more muscular. She imagined that, with his piercing blue eyes, thick fair hair and square jaw, he must have been quite striking once. Cheered by the attentions of the Birthday Boy, she felt suddenly flirty and frivolous.

  “What sort of coffee would you like?” She leant forward a little and smiled. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Latte? I’ve been given the full low-down tonight. Or do you want to be my first customer for the double chocolate mocha surprise?” She winked at him. “The surprise is, I don’t know how to make it!”

  Further along the bar, Mr San Miguel laughed appreciatively. “I’ll have two of them then, darlin`” He’d got a bit more vocal with each beer and was now looking rather red. He’d been joined by Neville Norton who’d bought a bottle of Cote de Rhone and asked for two glasses. Neville guffawed too, pouring his new pal a drink and swaying slightly.

  Sam regarded her impassively. “Just a coffee.”

  “Black? White?” She wondered why he disliked her so much. Was she losing her charms? Her husband stayed away to avoid her, and this guy who she’d hardly met wouldn’t even l
ook at her. Was she destined now only to be attractive to the Neville Nortons of this world?

  And why was it that when someone didn’t like her – even someone she couldn’t give a stuff about – she still felt the need to keep trying for approval? She knew it was stupid but couldn’t help herself. She made a fuss of piling sugar and biscuits into the saucer and laying the coffee before him solicitously, with her hugest, most beguiling smile. “Hope that’s OK for you.”

  He returned her gaze without a flicker. “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to get a smile out of him if it kills me,” she said to Sarah who had taken her apron off and come upstairs. “You done down there?”

  “Leave the poor bloke alone.” Sarah poured herself a glass of Frascati. “Yeah, more or less. I’ve left Benjamin to finish off and do the floor.”

  “Richard’s here.”

  Sarah’s face brightened. “Is he?” She smiled at Gaynor. “I am sorry about earlier – it gets a bit fraught in the kitchen sometimes.”

  “No problem. I popped up to the flat. Luke’s watching a video but the other two are asleep.”

  Sarah gave her arm a squeeze. “Thanks.”

  Claire was serving now so Gaynor went back to see the birthday group and the nice blonde girl who she’d remembered was called Terrie, and Alistair who was now singing along to Best of the Nineties and who held his arms out as Gaynor started to gather the empty bottles.

  “It’s my birthday – who’s gonna dance with me?” He leapt to his feet and swung her round by the waist. “Come on baby…”

  Gaynor laughed and twirled with him, feeling suddenly light-hearted again. They did a jerky, giggly circuit of the bar, almost knocking over a stool. Mr San Miguel clapped. Gaynor came to a breathless halt by Sam. “Want to dance with me?”

  He shook his head.

  “I will!”

  Gaynor turned to see Danny grinning at her. He put a hand on her hip and drew her towards him. She wriggled away. “Got to clear up, really,” she said.

  “Boring!” he called after her. He leant on the bar and turned the full force of his smile on Claire. “A glass of champagne please, gorgeous.”