In the dark, it was hard to breathe; it was damp and stuffy, but the material muffled the crying. I choked out the tears, raw and painful and never-ending, until I thought I might be sick. I hiccupped, holding my breath as I blinked, my eyes red and sore. I made a tiny air hole in the folds of the soft fabric, sucking down the cool air, and returned to my cocoon.
I focused on my breathing, solid and steady as the tears slowed and then eventually stopped. My breath caught a few times, whenever I thought of Rob’s face, or Leah’s ring, or the words of that fucking song that never left my mind for more than a few months, like it was the lift music of my subconscious, always waiting to pop up. Why at that moment? Why, kicked and low, ashamed and embarrassed, did that bloody song have to play? The most recent horrible moment in my life bookended by the original horrible moment in my life. The defining one, in fact. When the people you love leave you, and tell you it was your fault for wanting them around in the first place. Both Rob and that song, they both seemed to say, matter-of-factly, You should have known better.
Sometime later, I became aware of voices outside my door, dark, deep whispers.
‘What happened?’
That was Jen.
‘Rob’s engaged. And the paparazzi got Sav when she found out,’ Mia said dully.
‘WHAT? That slimy git!’
That was Dad.
‘Oh God, the papers? Did she give a quote?’ Jen asked.
‘No, someone just saw her and took a picture. Look.’ Mia must have been giving them her phone to look at, as they were quiet for a moment, reading together.
‘Ugh, that horrible bastard,’ Jen said, and I could imagine her physically bristling with the injustice of it all. ‘So, he cheated?’
‘Who knows – it’s all for some TV show. I have trouble telling which bits of those are true or false.’
‘So were you there?’ my dad asked Mia, who must have been shaking her head, as she didn’t say anything for a while.
‘We met at the pub, I showed her the article. Then… that song came on.’
‘That bloody song!’ my dad huffed, and I could visualize him ruffling his feathers like a distraught little owl. ‘That woman is one of the most selfish creatures… does she know what sending that song did to her? It’s not even a good song! And in the live recording she’s completely off key!’
I snorted to myself, curling up into the warmth and listening as their voices merged into one.
‘She’s going to be okay though, right?’
‘She’s going to be more than okay, sweetheart,’ Jen said, and I heard the click of the door as she pulled it closed, and that final muffled sentence before blissful nothingness. ‘She’s going to be fabulous.’
* * *
Sometimes, as Jen used to say, all you needed was a good cry to feel right as rain. When I woke the next day, I didn’t feel right as rain… but I felt less wrong, somehow. Like something had passed, or lifted. I felt like if I blinked too much a whole desert would flutter down the bridge of my nose, and my face was red and blotchy when I looked in the mirror, but I definitely felt lighter. My chest didn’t want to cave in every time I thought of his face, kneeling before her on the floor.
I stretched fully, looking around my pink polka-dot room, the old posters still on the wall, and wondered if I should change it. Was I going to be here a long time? Did it matter? Perhaps it was time to clear all that teenage drama away anyway, moving on from the posters of bands I didn’t like any more, and glow-in-the-dark stars (which never really glowed in the dark anyway) blu-tacked to the ceiling. Fresh coat of paint. New starts.
I slumped slowly down the stairs, not really sure what I was going to be faced with. In the end, it was just what I should have expected. The radio was on, playing something from a long-forgotten era. Jen was dancing by the kettle, waiting for the tea to stew in that ridiculous teapot that looked like a cabbage, and Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, awkwardly nodding his head. Next to him sat Mia, chin resting on her hand as she stared at her book, frowning.
I leaned on the door frame and smiled. ‘Well, good morning.’
They turned to me, and I caught the looks of concern before they masked them. Dad immediately looked relieved, smiling at me, and Mia closed her book, clenched her hands to stop her from launching herself at me, and then launched herself at me anyway.
‘Had me worried there, petal,’ she whispered, her dark curls covering my face as she tightened her arms around me. We’d gone through a phase of calling each other that; when we’d worked in the cafe in the park as teenagers, there’d been an old man who always called us both ‘petal’ and always left a couple of quid tip. I told her it made me feel cherished, and we’d used it ever since. When she talked about her mum dying, she was petal. When my mum got married again. When her dad got remarried, and then got sick. It was the language of being loved. I squeezed her close.
‘I’m fine. Was just overdue a meltdown, don’t you think?’ I whispered back and she nodded and released me.
I stood there whilst Jen surveyed me, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, like she was looking at that poor old wonky willow tree in the garden that never quite managed to grow the right way. She finally nodded, smiled and winked at me. ‘You know it’s actually “good afternoon”, lazy bones.’
She brought the teapot to the table and Dad grabbed the cups, along with a plate covered by a tea towel. He lifted the towel with a flourish, watching for my reaction.
‘If it’s the afternoon, then why have you made tree-shaped pancakes with chocolate spread?’ I asked, smiling, feeling those muscles ache with disuse.
Jen rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘Because, darling, girls with broken hearts get pancakes, no matter how old they are.’ She kissed my cheek as she sat down. ‘Now come on, tuck in.’
‘You know, actually, Jen… I think I’d quite like to have a green juice.’
She turned to me, eyes wide. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah!’ I laughed. ‘But I’m gonna have the pancakes too.’
As Jen enthusiastically poured me a glass of green sludge, I realized how truly lucky I was to have my weird, mismatched family and that, as annoying as it had continually sounded, maybe this was the best thing to ever happen to me. I would have stayed with Rob forever. Even if we didn’t get along any more, even if I wasn’t happy, or satisfied or in any way passionate about him any more. Because the scariest thing was change. Except the scary thing had happened, and here I was. Sure, I still didn’t know what the heck I was going to do, and it still hurt to be lied to, walked all over and, quite frankly, to be the girl you spend nine years with before you marry someone else, but this was my adventure now.
‘So, I’ve been thinking about a new look,’ I said to Mia, watching as her eyes lit up with possibility.
‘What kind of new look?’
‘Something so brilliant that no one could ever call me mousy or invisible again,’ I said. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Only about a thousand,’ she grinned. ‘This is going to be great.’
* * *
You know how in those movies, the girl takes off her glasses and changes out of her dungarees and puts on a dress and has a stunning figure and all of a sudden, ‘Wow, she’s beautiful’? That is not what happens when you dye your hair. It doesn’t magically fix all the problems in your life, and quite frankly, if I’d been wearing dungarees, Mia would have had words with me by now. But that magic feeling, that power that comes with feeling really damn good, it’s maybe a tiny percentage of that ‘wow’ moment. I felt invincible. My long hair had been cut shorter, the golden colour replaced with an iced blonde, with vibrant pink tips. Mia had done my make-up, so that I looked like the other girls at the Martini Club, sleek with liquid eyeliner and perfectly matched purple-red lipstick. She’d also helped me find some chunky boots to go with my black work jeans, so that I didn’t feel so short any more. I wanted to tower over people. Or at least not have to use the step behind the bar for the high shelf. I felt mo
re like myself, like I was ready to be seen, not shocked and alone as I was in that photograph, standing on the outside. I was ready to smile at the camera and have everyone know I was all right.
It helped that the minute I walked into the Martini Club for my shift, the girls immediately cornered me.
‘Your hair!’ Taya grinned. ‘You look fabulous! You should be on stage with us tonight!’
‘I’m going to come up with a burlesque name for you. Something ice-cool,’ Charlotte added, fingering the dark pink tips of my now white-blonde waves. I shook my head and watched as the pink ends swished.
‘Are we having a moment of rebellion, darling?’ Arabella stalked over and jutted her hip as she surveyed me. ‘It’s a good look for you. A little bit of rebellion is exactly what you needed. Now, I’m going to need to take the special off the cocktails menu, because we’re out of mescal. Let everyone know, okay?’
As she started walking off, I caught her. ‘Wait, uh, Bel, I’ve been working on this new cocktail, and it would use up the extra rum we got from that mix-up with the order last week. What do you think? Can I have a go?’
‘Can you have a go?’ She snorted, rolling her eyes. ‘You can make me a cocktail that makes me want to fall in love with you and sells up that bastarding rum, yes. Let me taste it before opening, though.’
It was pathetic to feel that excited about being able to add my own concoction to the menu, but I was. I flittered my fingers and collected the ingredients. I’d been working on it in my head on the way into work, imagining the flavours on the train. I’d take what Milo told me about his Mule, but I’d twist it, make it richer, warmer.
I switched out the vodka for the traditional rum, added a little honey to the ginger beer, taking away the need for the brown sugar. I left the ginger beer to go a little flat before I used it. Switched the lime for lemon, topped up with a little sparkling wine.
I tasted it. It still had those memories, the same depth that Milo’s drink had, but whilst his was summer evenings, the smokiness of bonfires and the fizz of excitement, mine was winter evenings. The lemon and honey with the rum made it feel slightly medicinal, in a good way. It was hardy. The ginger lightened it, made it playful, like nights sitting around with your friends, huddled in the living room, drinking before a night out, lit up with anticipation.
I served it to Arabella in a short, square glass, two perfectly sharp-edged cubes of ice and a slice of candied lemon. She pursed her lips, took a sip and closed her eyes. I waited, grasping the edge of the bar, hoping desperately.
She smiled, licked her lip slowly, and her brow creased, as if she was asking herself a question. She took another sip without opening her eyes.
‘2014,’ she said, blinking her eyes open hazily, the smile still there.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘2014. I was in the Caribbean with an artist called Angelo. I’d met him the week before. We flew to the Caribbean and spent the week on the beach, dreaming and professing our love. Watching the sun rise and set. I was drunk most of the time.’ She snorted, shaking her head. ‘That’s what this tastes like. How did you do that?’
‘Science.’ I shrugged, then held my fingers up. ‘And maybe a teensy pinch of flair.’
‘It’s special. And it’ll get rid of that bloody rum. What’s it called?’
I made a face. ‘It’s originally based on a Spicy Mule, which comes from a Moscow Mule…’
Arabella got a mischievous look on her face, dimples appearing as she clapped her hands. ‘I’ve got it. In honour of you, obviously.’
She walked over to the chalkboard at the end of the bar, and after a few seconds scribbling, she clapped her hands, releasing chalk dust into the air, and turned the board around:
The Martini Club Stubborn Mule.
I snorted. ‘Cheers.’
‘I consider stubbornness one of the best traits in people. Good work, Sav. I’m glad you’re finally showing us what you can do. And you took my advice about the lipstick!’
I shrugged, smiling as she walked off. I had never felt less invisible in my life.
The restaurant filled gradually, anticipation building as the tables were seated. A few people came in during happy hour, seating themselves at the bar, and the Stubborn Mule was selling well. People’s faces told a story as they drank it, and I couldn’t help but watch them, giddy and excited as they sipped and talked and blinked and smiled.
I was reaching down to grab another bottle of champagne from the fridge when I heard his voice. ‘One of those famous Stubborn Mules, if you please.’
I looked up in surprise, and Milo blinked back at me.
‘You’re the Stubborn Mule?’ he asked.
‘Um, no. That’s a drink. You want one?’
He nodded, sliding onto a bar stool. ‘I barely recognize you. You on the run from the cops or something?’
‘That’s the point of the Martini Club. We get to be who we really are, or who we wished we were.’ I fluttered my eyelashes and smiled.
‘And is this who you really are?’ He leaned in, chin resting on his hand, staring at me. ‘A bartender with a Restaurateur Club membership?’
‘People can be complicated. I work here because I like it. The Restaurateur thing is… a family thing. It’s complicated.’
‘Family stuff always is.’
‘So… what are you doing here?’
He threw up his hands dramatically. ‘Well, I was trying to be all impressive with this excellent cocktail I made, and someone tells me I need to come here for the best cocktails in town. So I worry I’m losing my edge. And then I arrive to find a twist on my Mule. Obviously, my first thought is that girl from Razamataz stole my recipe.’
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, grinning.
‘This is nothing like that! I took what you taught me and I –’
‘Improved it?’
‘Adapted it,’ I corrected, shoving the glass in front of him. ‘Look, try it and see. If you still think I’ve stolen instead of being inspired by you, I’ll take it off the menu. I mean, you’ll have to deal with Arabella freaking out about what to do with all that rum, but by all means…’
He took the glass, sniffing the drink with suspicion first.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! You think I’m going to drug you so I can use your top-secret cocktail recipe? Drink the damn thing.’
I was surprising myself with how feisty I was. I was on a high, feeling beautiful and bold and talented. And here was this man who made something in my stomach feel like it was alight, pretending to be mad at me.
He sipped, staring intently at the back of the bar, his brow furrowed. He nodded, sipped again and shook his head slowly, a smile emerging as if against his will.
‘How do you do that?’ he asked, finally meeting my eyes.
‘What?’
‘Make them taste like memories.’ His voice was throaty and low, repeating my words, and I couldn’t look away.
‘Pure flair.’ I managed to breathe after a second, laughing and leaning away, putting as much space as I could between us. ‘Absolutely no science at all.’
He laughed fully then, loud and booming, only softened by the music in the background.
Milo stood, putting his money on the bar, ‘Well, thank you for the lesson in mixology, and for thoroughly burying my ego. I’m gonna have to stop using the line about the best cocktails in London.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, and the orders for the tables were building up, so I shrugged helplessly, smiling.
‘I’m working at Soraya next week – it’s a bar in Kensington. Will be on your list. Come by sometime soon,’ Milo said as he backed away from the bar. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some other recipes you can improve on and make me look bad.’
‘Hey! Do you really think that?’
‘Nope,’ he grinned, hands in his pockets, bouncing on his heels. ‘I’m still the master. But you’re someone to look out for. See ya around, kid.’
He disappeared up
the stairs into the daylight, and I found myself bristling and shivering deliciously at the same time.
‘Kid!’ Arabella rolled her eyes. ‘Americans! The man has an accent and a decent pair of pressed trousers and he thinks he’s Humphrey Bogart! For shame!’
I blinked. ‘Okay.’
‘Tell Monika how to make the special, and Jacques is going to jump behind the bar. Your assistance is needed,’ Arabella said simply, nodding at the other bartender who was just starting her shift. Jacques widened his eyes at me from across the room.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked Bel as I followed her through the restaurant, out to the back.
‘You could say that.’ She opened the kitchen door and gestured inside.
Ricardo sat on a stool with a leg in plaster, two crutches resting either side of him. His right hand was wrapped in a bandage. I strode in.
‘What the bloody hell happened? Are you okay?’
Ricardo rolled his eyes, huffing. ‘It’s no big deal, seriously, everyone’s such a drama queen.’
Arabella sighed deeply, ‘The sous-chef called in sick, Armando just cut the tip of his finger off and went off to the hospital, and… what’s the little one called again?’
‘Damien,’ Ricardo supplied, his lips curling around the name with distaste.
‘Damien is too scared to work under the big angry chef with no one else around, so he’s locked himself in the chiller unit.’ She pointed across the kitchen.
‘Shouldn’t someone get him out?’
‘Give him half an hour to realize he’s a snivelling little weasel missing his cojones, and then he can go home. All I told him to do was grate the cheese! What does the moron do? Starts trying to grate mozzarella! Mozzarella! You ever try to grate mozzarella, Africa?’
‘No.’
‘No! Exactly!’
I turned back to Bel. ‘So… why am I here?’
‘You’re the only one Ricardo will work with. He’s fun like that.’ Her lips quirked up in an impersonation of a smile but her eyes were deadly.
Cocktails and Dreams Page 8
