One Glass Is Never Enough

by Jane Wenham-Jones

Within five minutes, Danny had joined the birthday group and was sitting very close to the blonde with the tiniest dress. Sarah, it seemed, had made progress too. She was sitting on a bar stool at the side near the door, her glass on the narrow ledge that ran the length of the room, perched next to the elusive Richard who did actually appear to be talking to her.

  Gaynor, who had had too much of Alistair’s champagne, grinned across at her and raised a thumb in approval. Sarah pretended she hadn’t seen but Gaynor saw her mouth twitch as she sipped demurely at her wine and listened attentively to whatever Richard was explaining so earnestly.

  “Glasses, Gaynor?” Claire handed her a freshly-washed ashtray to put back on a table. “Check the others, will you?”

  Gaynor cleared the wine goblets around Sam and made a display of emptying his ashtray. She noticed he smoked tiny roll-ups. She picked up his tin of tobacco and wiped a cloth underneath it. As she put it back, she draped a friendly hand on his arm. “OK there?”

  He stiffened under her touch. “Yes, thank you.”

  And then, knowing it was madness, but carried away on an alcohol-induced wave of who-cares, she said:

  “Have you got a problem with me?”

  He looked up. “No. Why should I have? I don’t know you.”

  “But you don’t like what you see.”

  His blue eyes bored into hers. “I don’t have feelings either way.” He swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and jerked his cup back into its saucer. Then he stood up, picked up his tobacco, lighter and book.

  She stepped back. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “You haven’t.”

  Gaynor could see Claire looking over and frowning. “Stay then,” she said desperately to Sam. “Stay and I’ll buy you another drink.”

  “No, thank you, I have to go.”

  “Go on.” She took hold of his arm.

  “No!” He shook himself free.

  Gaynor dropped her hands to her sides, feeling as if

  she’d been slapped. Sam’s voice was curt as he headed for the door. “Goodnight!”

  * * *

  Gaynor sat on a box in the cellar blinking back the ridiculous tears that had sprung to her eyes.

  “Come on,” said Sarah. “Every other bloke in the place would give their right arm for you. Why are you getting upset over one odd hermit? What’s really wrong? “

  “Everything.” Gaynor put her head in her hands.

  Sarah sat down on a beer crate next to her. “Look, things always seem worse when you’re drunk or tired.” Sarah looked exhausted herself. “Is it Victor? What’s happening?”

  “God knows. He’s still away all the time.”

  “But in fairness,” said Sarah, running a hand through her mop of hair, “he always has been away. He works in London – he’s stayed away ever since I’ve known you.”

  “This is a different sort of staying away.” Gaynor knew she sounded childish and petulant. “He won’t talk to me and I know there’s something going on.”

  “I keep telling you to talk to him.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

  “Is he home tonight?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Can one of you come and help?” Claire appeared with a tea towel in her hand.

  Sarah sprang to her feet. “Oh God, sorry.”

  “Come on,” she said to Gaynor. “We’ve got to clear up.”

  Gaynor emptied the last of a bottle of Pinot Grigio into her glass. It was hardly worth saving. The last customer had gone and just the three of them were left. She’d been given the pumping to do which involved a lot of thrusting with a device like a balloon pump that extracted all the air from half-filled bottles. “Keep going till your arm hurts,” said Claire by way of instruction.

  “How did you get on with Richard, then?” Gaynor picked up the last bottle of red and raised her eyebrows at Sarah. “You looked pretty cosy from here.”

  Sarah busied herself rinsing the filters from the coffee machine. “He asked me when my night off was, actually.”

  “And?”

  “And I said we’re closed Mondays and he said, perhaps we could go for a drink…”

  “Hey!”

  “You know,” said Claire, coming up behind them with a tray of mixers. “I was thinking, we’ll have to stay open on the Monday of Folk Week. The town will be heaving. Can’t turn down an opportunity like that. Though it’s going to be a real marathon if we’re to do these breakfasts and lunches …”

  “Breakfasts?” Gaynor raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes, it’s all they had left and we want to be on the programme. We get a free ad then, too. So we’re Poetry Breakfasts. As far as I can tell, we just have to do some scrambled eggs or something while various Folksy types stand up and spout their stuff.”

  She shrugged as Gaynor pulled a face. “Well, I think we need to be part of it if we can. Digger from the Nickleby says he takes more during Folk Week than he usually does in a month.” She leant down and began to slot bottles into the rack beneath the bar. “So, if you can manage some shifts, Gaynor… I’ve made a chart on the computer for the whole eight days. I’ll be putting it up shortly.”

  “It’s going to be a nightmare,” said Sarah. “We’ll be open from eight a.m. till midnight. Don’t know when we’re meant to do anything else.”

  Gaynor looked at her. “What about the kids?”

  “They’re staying with Mum. My poor Dad will be hiding down the garden again.”

  “I think,” said Claire, fixing her eyes on Sarah and not looking at Gaynor at all, “that we ought to draw up some staff guidelines. You know things like time-keeping and not drinking behind the bar.”

  Gaynor gave the Rioja a last pumping and rubbed her arm. “Is that directed at me, by any chance?” she asked, taking a swallow from her glass and forcing a smile.

  “No, no, not at all,” said Claire hastily, “though I do think we need to set a good example. I mean I don’t think it gives a good impression if staff are swigging away behind the bar, and the till is always the first thing to go. That’s when the wrong change gets given out and…”

  Gaynor leant down and got a fresh bottle of white from the fridge. “OK,” she said, “I’ve got the message.”

  She walked across the little square opposite the bar and up the winding path to the esplanade. She felt tired and heavy and chilled. As she closed her denim jacket across her chest her breasts felt tender. She looked at the moon, thought about howling at it and did a little mental calculation. Maybe that was why she was a bit doo-lally today. Her cycle! She suddenly remembered she hadn’t filled in Mr BradleyLawrence’s chart for days.

  She walked past the dark bulk of Bleak House, its turrets black against the night sky. Funny to think of Charles Dickens beavering away there at David Copperfield. Another book she’d never read. They’d done Great Expectations at school – she’d liked that – but somehow most of the classics had passed her by. When Victor wanted to be nasty he would jibe at her lack of education. He’d pick up whatever she was reading and say “What’s this?” as if it were the worst sort of transgression to be reading romance.

  “Perhaps if I got some at home…” she thought sourly. She walked past the two fisherman’s cottages and the old wooden shelter overlooking the sea. Then her heart jerked in fear. A tall figure appeared out of the darkness of the shelter and blocked her path. She gave a small scream, the sound coming out of her mouth before her brain had registered who it was.

  “Jesus – you frightened me!”

  Danny laughed. “Bit jumpy, aren’t we! Thought I’d give you a lift home.”

  “Didn’t you score then?”

  “Didn’t want to. I only have eyes for you!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I wanted to save you a walk.”

  “It’s OK, thanks – I need the exercise.”

  His eyes shone in the street light as he regarded her with amusement. “You look cold to me. You’re shiv
ering. Come on, the car’s just over there.”

  “I’d better not. Victor…”

  “It’s just a lift – I won’t drive you to Joss Bay car park and jump on you.” This dark area on the top of the cliff just past where she lived was a hot spot for groping couples. Danny looked Gaynor up and down and grinned. “Much as I’d like to.”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, as he started the engine of his red Porsche Boxter. He’d had a black one last time, she was sure. “I used to like our little chats.”

  Gaynor didn’t reply. She fastened her seatbelt and sat with her handbag on her lap, grateful to be driven the rest of the mile home but slightly apprehensive.

  “How’s the bar going?” he said conversationally.

  She glanced sideways at him. He was attractive and good company, had a bob or two. No wonder women fell at his feet. But now – he would always make her feel uncomfortable.

  “Do you want a coffee at my place on the way?” he asked hopefully as he got to the end of the seafront and headed towards North Foreland .

  “I’d better not. Victor will be waiting for me.”

  “Mmm, if I was him, I certainly would be.”

  “Can you stop here?” She sat up straighter as he prepared to swing round into her road. She didn’t know if Victor would really be up, but if he was, the last thing she needed was to roll up in Danny’s car.

  “Sure thing.” He pulled into the side of the road. “You know where I am if you ever want to pop round,” he said, leaning out and putting a hand on her knee. “If you want to take up where we left off…”

  She wandered along the grass verge opposite the inky sea and turned into her driveway. She’d already seen that the bedroom light was still on. She looked up at it now in hope. Victor awake and waiting for her? She crunched her way over the gravel. Perhaps that would put right the shameful embarrassment of what she’d put herself through with Sam this evening. Danny might want her but then he was hardly choosy. The expression on Sam’s face was still burned hotly on her memory. She cringed as she thought about it.

  But perhaps Victor would have come back to her. Perhaps tonight when she got into bed…

  She could see Mr Bradley-Lawrence’s chart now:

  Tits – sore

  Ego – bruised

  Marriage…?

  The light above her was abruptly switched off as she got her key out.

  Marriage – no change there then…

  6. Cabernet Sauvignon

  Intense flavours with surprising bursts of fruit.

  There was a queue at the gift shop entrance outside Bleak House. Women fanned themselves, children grizzled, a couple of red-faced men in shorts guffawed loudly. It was hot! The beach was packed. Gaynor had walked along the jetty, looked at the screaming kids and hordes of summer Saturday chip and ice-cream eaters and dived into the relative calm and coolness of the wine bar. It was quiet in here – a couple sat in the window eating Greek salads, two or three more sat around the bar. Including, Gaynor noticed, Richard, who was reading his paper and studiously ignoring Sarah who stood behind the bar with a tea towel in her hand. “I didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow,” Sarah said, surprised.

  “Just passing. Victor’s still away.” Gaynor shrugged. “Where is everyone?”

  “Enjoying the sunshine, where I should be.” Sarah sighed and looked at her watch. “I’m going to take Bel and Charlie to the beach as soon as we close. You OK?”

  “Sure.”

  Down in the kitchen, Claire was instructing Benjamin on the art of portion control. “About this much,” she said, wielding a large knife above the cheeseboard. “Fully booked for food tonight!” she said to Gaynor over her shoulder.

  “That’s good.” Gaynor waited until Benjamin was artfully arranging grapes on the wooden platter. “It’s all going well, then?”

  She felt a bit guilty at how hard Claire and Sarah were working. The hours were endless and though the deal had been that they would run everything and Gaynor need only help out when she wanted to, she felt she should be doing more.

  “Shall I come down and help this evening?”

  Claire flashed her a sudden smile. “That would be great, actually. I didn’t realise quite how many staff we would need. Really – anything you can do…”

  “I’d love to.”

  She might as well. It was either that or another night alone in front of the TV. For a brief moment she thought of offering her services right now but the washing up loomed over Benjamin’s shoulder and, knowing Claire, she’d have her in Marigolds in no time. Gaynor went back upstairs. “Can I do anything?” she asked Sarah.

  Sarah looked around. “Not really,” she said.

  Gaynor thought of the children waiting upstairs. “I’ll finish off if you like,” she said. “You can take the kids to the beach now.”

  Sarah held out her arms. “You’re a life-saver.”

  Gaynor kissed the top of Bel’s head as she came through the back of the bar, carrying a bucket. Charlie puckered his own lips.

  “I’m going to dive off the end of the jetty,” he told Gaynor proudly.

  “Goodness,” she said. “Don’t bang your head on a rock.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t say that or he probably will. We’ve practically got our own chair at A & E as it is.” She smiled at Gaynor. “Thanks again for this.”

  “No problem.” Gaynor waved them goodbye and bent to stack more glasses into the washer. And it really wasn’t, she thought, straightening again as the Greek salad couple approached to pay their bill. In here, working behind the bar, she felt as though she had a role and a purpose. She was useful and wanted. Neither of which seemed true at home.

  “Thank you,” she said as she handed back a credit card and acknowledged the tip with a smile. “Thank you very much.”

  She said goodbye to Claire, crossed the road and wandered up the path towards the clifftop. As she reached the top and the two white cottages just past Bleak House, she slowed and looked. The garden of the nearest one was fantastic. Usually she walked straight past, but today Gaynor stopped. She didn’t know the names of all the flowers but it was the sort of garden she loved best: banks of hollyhocks and delphiniums, a hotchpotch of lavender bushes and lupins, sweet peas, and a tangle of honeysuckle and ivy growing up the wall. The sort of garden that looked as if it just happened and which probably took three times the work of the tulipsin-rows creations. She remembered going to the Royal Horticultural Society gardens at Wisley and seeing the meadow with its long grasses and wild flowers. “Can’t we do that at the bottom of the garden?” she’d asked Victor. “Get some wild flower seeds and just sort of scatter them?” He’d looked at her pityingly.

  A large grey cat leapt up on to the wall beside her making her jump. She felt a jolt of recognition. She reached out a hand to stroke him and he arched his back, lifting his head for her to caress his throat as he purred deeply. “You’re beautiful,” she said.

  “He’s a rascal.”

  She hadn’t heard the speaker come up and this time the feeling of recognition was far less pleasant. Sam the sign-writer was standing a yard or two away, wearing faded shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, bare brown feet in worn leather sandals. Oh God. Gaynor’s insides shrivelled into an immediate cringe. She’d had no idea he lived here – she’d have walked round the roads behind if she’d known.

  Her toes curled as she remembered draping an arm around him. How bloody embarrassing. What could she say? I don’t usually behave like that? (Even if patently untrue) Sorry to have brought my revolting self into your line of

  vision again so soon? (His look of horror the other night would stay with her forever.) Thank you, my ego is suitably wilted so excuse me while I sprint home and put a Tesco bag on my head? (My husband would no doubt approve.)

  Or what?

  In the end, she heard herself say, in a high, false voice sounding like the wife of the Chairman of the Rotary Club when Victor had been called upon to give
an after-dinner talk on the power of advertising, “He’s lovely. Burmese isn’t he?”

  Sam nodded. “He is.”

  “My God-mother had one when I was a child.” Gaynor gave a silly little laugh. “Exactly the same colour. Blue, is it? He was called Sidney,” she added, feeling stupid.

  “This is Brutus,” said Sam. Brutus rubbed himself against Gaynor’s arm. They both looked at him in silence.

  “Your garden’s lovely, too.” Well done, Gaynor, Oh Queen of the adjectives. Why didn’t she just say goodbye and walk off?

  He looked around at it. Leant out and plucked a deadhead from a fuchsia bush.

  “I love forget-me-nots,” she said desperately. He nodded.

  “We’ve got a gardener but we call him Dig-`em-up. Dig-’em-up Don. He worked for the council for years and that’s all he knows. He used to put in all the plants in rows and then three months later...”

  “He dug ’em up again,” Sam finished for her and suddenly smiled. He looked completely different.

  “Yes, that’s right.” If Victor could hear her, he would tell her she was twittering. “He put in a load of forget-menots once. They were gorgeous – they’d just started to look really good – you know, spread out – and I came home and found them on the compost heap. He said they always did that in June.”

  Sam’s smile had gone. “It’s a mentality,” he said. “There are a lot of people like that.” He nodded at a cloud of blue. “They self-seed if you leave them. Why don’t you do the garden yourself?”

  “I’d be no good at it. I’m too impatient. And you have to keep doing it, don’t you? It’s like housework. The moment you’ve finished, it’s time to do it again. Very tedious.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Do you have someone to do that, too?”

  “Yes. I’m a spoilt, rich bitch.” She gave another self-conscious laugh.

  He didn’t reply – just looked at her.

  She felt uncomfortable. “Look,” she said, stroking Brutus, studying the back of his collar, feeling her face heat up. “I’m sorry about the other night. I was drunk and I was… I’m sorry.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “What?”