Cocktails and Dreams

by A. L. Michael

  ‘Find old shit and explain why it’s important?’

  ‘Exactly!’ She waved a hand. ‘Ex-actly! I need to be fulfilling my purpose, babe! I’ve got a primary function and it’s not engaged!’

  ‘Why are you talking like you’re a character from Star Trek? So go and do these things! Fulfil your function! Or let’s both go! I’ll go to some cookery school in Athens and you can find a pot or a vase or a jug or something and we’ll both be super-important!’

  ‘Greece! Yassas!’ Mia grinned and raised her glass, waiting for me to smash mine against it, rather too forcibly.

  ‘Yassas!’

  The night passed in a perfect disarray of drunkenness and dancing, from the vodka shots to the chips at two a.m. We did it in style, seated in an all-night brasserie eating parmesan truffle fries, jalapeno chicken wings and Oreo milkshakes. Then we finished the night with Espresso Martinis and stumbled home, satiated, half sober and in awe of our own decadence.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until I was snuggled up in bed, make-up smeared across my face, teetering on the edge of consciousness, that I realized I had seen a pair of worn daisy cowboy boots in the hallway.

  Chapter Nine

  She was sitting at the kitchen table like it was the most normal thing in the world. Her blonde hair flowing down her back, a few more strands of grey than there used to be. I’d seen her more these last few days than I had since I was a child, and each time it still shocked me. Like she was just some famous person I’d seen at a distance, and now she was here in the flesh. There were dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled brightly at me, leaning back in her chair.

  ‘Hey there, baby!’ Her voice croaked a little but that spark of mischief in her eyes pissed me off, exactly as it was meant to.

  I ignored her, turning to Jen, who had her head in the fridge. All I could see was her fingers tightly clenched around the handle, so that her knuckles were white.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Oh, very hospitable, nice,’ my mother laughed, clapping her hands.

  ‘Jen?’ I asked, desperate for the coffee pot but not going near it until I had answers. My head was spinning and I felt like I’d been punched in the face. Hangovers were not my forte. And every experience with my mother seemed to feel a bit like a hangover.

  ‘Clare has got some news she wanted to discuss with us.’ Jen’s voice was measured, and when she met my eyes, there was a silent apology. I could tell she was furious. It was the same look she had all those years I’d made terribly drunken decisions and gotten in trouble, trying to get back at a mother who wasn’t there. Jen’s jaw was set and her lips barely moved as she spoke. She was pissed off. And yet, she’d let my mother in the house. She was still here, sitting at the table like she belonged.

  ‘Ugh,’ my mother whined. ‘No one calls me Clare any more.’

  ‘Well, maybe someone should, before you start believing you’re the mystical character you’ve created on stage,’ Jen said sharply, handing me a mug of coffee.

  ‘Go on then.’ I shrugged. ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘It’s not a big deal…’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Good old Jenny being dramatic again. I just need to have a think about my career. The label are being difficult, and the typical money-grabber-no-talent slimesters they sent to work with me, well, it’s just not good enough.’ She seemed to forget that she wasn’t on the radio, or moaning to her agent, and suddenly shook herself out of that train of thought. ‘They’re pushing for some new songs, and everything they’ve suggested is crap, so I’m refusing to fulfil my contract. What do they know, right?’

  ‘About the surgery, Clare.’ Jen seemed to be clasping the kitchen counter to stop herself from launching at my mother and bludgeoning her with the Bettie Boop cookie jar. ‘Tell your daughter about the surgery.’

  My mother ignored her. ‘I’ve got some thinking to do, and, well, here seemed as good a place as any! When you shouted yesterday about having a family, I thought, she’s right! I have a family! You can always go home again, can’t you?’

  ‘That’s not the saying –’

  I was cut off as she ploughed on in a wave of enthusiasm, eyes shining and ever beautiful, even as she aged.

  ‘Good going on the rant by the way, babe – the papers had that in an instant. Some great drama. My name’s been out of circulation for a while, too tired to cause any trouble, so I really appreciate it. The only press I’ve had these days is that I’m too quiet, losing my edge. A good bit of drama was really what I needed.’

  I felt my lips twitch in surprise. ‘Shockingly, Clare, that wasn’t really the point.’

  ‘I gathered that, but I’ll take what I can get.’

  ‘So glad I could be of service.’ I turned to Jen. ‘When will she be going?’

  Jen brought her mug to the table and sat down, already exhausted. ‘Your mother needs to be here for now. She has to decide whether to have an operation on her vocal cords. I am hoping she will realize that it’s the smart move. As opposed to continuing to choke on blood in between her live shows.’

  I looked at my mother, who rolled her eyes and shrugged, ever the teenager. ‘It’s an option. I might lose my voice. And then where I would be? I’d be a nothing, a nobody.’

  ‘Just stardust,’ I said with some satisfaction as I left the room without a backwards glance.

  * * *

  I called him immediately. ‘I don’t suppose you have a day off today?’

  His voice was warm and I could hear the smile.

  ‘Well, in fact I do. Want me to go undercover and find out where some superstar is having their eyebrows waxed today?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed. ‘I want to make you lunch.’

  ‘I thought I’d offered to cook for you?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t exactly invite myself around for that, can I?’ I said, pressing my lips together in hope. ‘So, do you have plans?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be cancelled.’ He yawned. ‘Give me some time to make myself pretty, though. I worked late last night.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt my stomach drop in disappointment. ‘Well, no, I don’t want to… don’t worry about it, another time.’

  ‘No, I can’t think of anything better than spending a lazy Sunday with you.’ The sound of his smile was like a tonic, and I felt my cheeks ache as I grinned. ‘But… I live with two blokes and this place is a mess. Give me an hour or so.’

  He lived in Mile End, which was not the easiest place for me to get to, but the Sunday Tubes were quiet and lazy, with hungover partiers on their gentle way home, families out for a day of museums and ice cream. I read my book and relaxed, putting my mother’s mocking face from my mind, how her lips curled at the hilarity of my outburst, how she thanked me for putting her back in the newspapers. No remorse, no apology. No awareness of my feelings at all. I didn’t matter. We were the little people, just dust, waiting for our star to grace us with her presence.

  There were a couple of looks on the Tube, when I was in central London, and I was wary about returning the gaze. I had been out of the limelight for a while, and I wasn’t ready to reappear. Besides the odd appearance in a glossy mag with Rob, I had been left alone for most of my adult life. I had worked hard to ensure that. But now, with the story of a bust-up between Persephone Black and her estranged daughter, the same daughter who had been dumped by a reality TV star/mediocre DJ in the weeks before, I was getting a little attention. Luckily, in London, most people realize it’s not polite to make eye contact. It was the tourists who were more of an issue. By the time I reached Mile End, the looks had stopped, and I was just another face leaving a crowded carriage.

  I stopped at the shop, picking things up with a careful choosiness, considering the sweetness of the tomatoes, grabbing rocket, then switching it for spinach. Tapas, I thought, tapas. What could I show him, what could I impress with? In the end, I couldn’t bear to think about it much longer. The hangover, whilst softening, had not receded, though I couldn
’t tell if maybe that was just Clare’s after-effects. I grabbed some potatoes, eggs and a bottle of red wine.

  Also, Milo was right. He’d offered to cook for me and I didn’t have anything to prove. Except my gratitude in finding out where my mother was. He’d broken the rules for me, no doubt, and I owed him. And I needed to escape.

  His home was on a beautiful street of small white terraced Victorian houses, the final house on the street topped with a bright blue canoe at an angle.

  When I knocked, a tall, thin man answered the door, staring at me from behind owlish glasses, his brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘You’re the pretty bartender,’ he said, no question, judgement or tone in his voice beyond asserting a fact.

  ‘I… guess so?’

  ‘You’re here for Milo.’

  Again, no question.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And what are your intentions?’ His brown eyes showed no humour, no anything, and I was taken aback.

  Milo appeared suddenly, patting his friend on the chest. ‘Charlie, you think we could let the girl into the house before we send her off screaming?’

  Charlie nodded seriously, stepping back and gesturing for me to enter.

  ‘Hey,’ Milo grinned, kissing me on the cheek easily, before stepping back. I tried to slow my heartbeat after the closeness, the smell of his aftershave and his wet hair slicked back. He wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans, and walked barefoot. I followed him through the corridor to the living room, Charlie closing the door behind us.

  It was a beautiful home, hardwood floors and natural light streaming from long back windows. There was a football table in the living room and an old-school pinball machine in the corner. I handed Milo the bag and he grinned, shaking his head.

  ‘Always in control, are we, Savannah?’

  ‘I wanted to say thank you. For helping me.’ I took a deep breath, watching as his large brown eyes softened. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. And you did it anyway. Having chatted to me three times.’

  ‘Four,’ he grinned. ‘And no, you shouldn’t have asked. But. sometimes there’s a good reason to break the rules.’

  ‘How did you find out where she was?’

  He laughed, shaking his head, ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Everyone’s a Persephone Black fan. From the cleaner changing the sheets in the suite to the girl booking in her dinner reservation. I hung outside, chatted with a few people over a cigarette, found out some information. Then I flirted with the girl at the spa. I’m thinking of becoming a PI.’

  ‘Do you even smoke?’

  ‘I do not,’ he grinned at me. ‘See the levels of dedication?’

  ‘I’m incredibly impressed. And grateful.’

  ‘So, did you get to say everything you wanted to say?’

  He looked strong and broad, standing in the streaming light and checking I was okay.

  ‘I did… and then she turned up at my house last night and didn’t seem to have heard a word.’

  ‘Ah, so being here, was that wanting to see me, or wanting to escape her?’

  His face was open, questioning, but I saw the doubt there.

  ‘About 70–30,’ I replied. ‘That okay?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he smiled, turning into the kitchen, and I followed him. It was a gorgeous little space, with bright blue tiles and wooden surfaces. Pots hung from the ceiling and herbs grew on the windowsill.

  ‘This place is amazing!’ I took in the turquoise ceiling, the spice rack on the side.

  ‘It’s decent,’ he shrugged, unpacking the bag on the side. ‘It’s Charlie’s place. His parents bought it for him, and I rent a room. Dan sleeps on the couch at the moment, just until his poor wife decides to take him back again.’

  ‘It’s a regular occurrence?’

  ‘At least twice a month. I suggested they consider living separately, but apparently that was ridiculous,’ he snorted.

  ‘Is he a bad husband?’

  ‘He’s… not a bad person.’ Milo dodged the question, then shook his head. ‘But no, he’s probably not a great husband. And he’s a pain in the ass to live with. Messy as hell.’

  ‘Doesn’t look it.’

  ‘That’s because he’s gone home to Maggie. And Charlie, as you could probably guess, is a neat freak.’

  I looked around. ‘How’d you meet?’

  ‘In a pub. I’d just got off the plane, wondering what my next move would be. I think I’d just been in… Malta? No, Morocco? Something with an M, anyway, and I’m sitting in this pub and this guy bets me a hundred bucks that I can’t beat him at pool.’

  I blinked and Milo grinned. ‘I know. I needed the money, no place to sleep that night, and I beat him. He’s a terrible pool player.’

  ‘Then why did he bet?’

  ‘Said he’d seen it in a movie and it was a good way to interact with people. I said I’d take 30 bucks for a hostel for the night, and he said I could have his spare room. I stayed for a week, found a job, paid him rent and I just… kind of stayed.’

  ‘How long?’

  He twitched his lips, doing the maths, and shook his head. ‘About a year and a half now, I think. Jeez. Longer than I expected.’

  I leaned against the worktop, fingers tracing the grooves in the wood. ‘Where were you meant to go next?’

  ‘Spain, I think? I hadn’t decided. I just was jumping from place to place, and here… it felt comfortable. And I relaxed.’

  He shrugged, filling up the kettle, and I couldn’t help but smile at the slight look of embarrassment.

  ‘Relaxed suits you. This place suits you.’

  ‘Messy and a bit strange?’

  ‘Bright, and warm and… gorgeous.’ I blushed as I said it, but met his eyes, defiant. He stepped closer, smiling, stroking a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb tracing my cheek before we heard a noise.

  ‘Hi,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve got work to do, so I’m going to be up in my room with headphones on. Don’t knock if you need me. Text.’

  He walked off and I blinked. ‘What does he do?’

  Milo sighed, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Honestly, no idea. Something between analyst, data security and hacker? For all I know he could be watching porn for eight hours straight, but I just know when he says not to interrupt, I don’t interrupt.’

  ‘Smart move.’ I laughed, trying to shake the image from my head.

  ‘So, what are we cooking?’ His eyes roved over the random offerings, and I waited for the laughter.

  ‘I… don’t know. I thought about what you were saying about tapas… but I thought I’d give you something to work with. You’re cooking, after all, aren’t you?’ I looked at him expectantly, and he nodded, laughing.

  ‘But you’re going to keep me entertained, I suppose? And make little suggestions about how I can make it better.’ He pulled a stool over from the corner of the room and patted it, before pouring me a glass of wine. ‘Your throne, my lady.’

  I sat, accepting the glass. ‘Thank you. Didn’t think I could face another drink after last night, but actually, this is perfect.’

  ‘Big night last night?’

  ‘I needed to celebrate finally ending my doormat ways.’ I held my glass up in a toast to myself, and he clinked his glass against mine.

  ‘Hear hear,’ he laughed. ‘And what piece of homeware are you instead?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’d like to be something completely useless that brings joy.’

  ‘Like a lava lamp?’ Milo smiled, emptying the items out of the bag and looking at them, brow creased in thoughtfulness.

  I snorted. ‘I like that. Or a bird bath.’

  ‘A bird bath!’ It exploded from him, brown eyes warm as he snickered.

  ‘Well, what would you be?’

  ‘A wobbly three-legged stool, or a table with one leg shorter than the other.’

  ‘I was gonna mention you seemed a bit uneven…’

  I pressed my lips together as we just smiled at each other, s
aying nothing. It was like a secret language, one I hadn’t spoken in so long that everything was new. This was… a choice. Rob had picked me, and I’d been flattered, and we kind of fell into a pattern. He’d been fun and loud and everything I wasn’t, and I felt safe. This didn’t feel safe – my stomach fizzed with the delicious risk and newness of it. I had chosen him, or the possibility of him, as much as he had picked me.

  ‘So, what’s the tapas bar gonna be called?’ I said, searching for something to stop him looking at me like he saw straight into the centre of me. I swirled the wine around in my glass.

  ‘Something meaningful,’ he shrugged, ‘like Freedom, or Adventure.’

  ‘… Integrity, Morality…’

  ‘Oh yeah, sounds like a hip party place, where everyone is really having a good time!’

  ‘Hip? What are you, a hundred?’ I snorted.

  ‘I am. I am actually a hundred. I am an old crotchety man, who works in a bar five nights a week, and really just wants to sit drinking wine and eating tapas with a beautiful girl in the garden.’

  ‘There’s a beautiful girl in the garden?’ I laughed, and Milo shook his head.

  ‘Funny.’

  I grinned, shrugging. ‘Sorry.’

  He shook his head and gestured at the chopping board. ‘Come on then, up and at ’em. There’s no way I’m sitting here with you watching me. We’ll do it together.’

  It was fun, just standing next to him chopping whilst he added things to the frying pan, throwing each ingredient in with a flick of his wrist, loving the flair of it all. The smell of frying garlic and potatoes filled the room, and I sipped on my wine as Milo set the table in the garden. Every time he placed his hands on my hips to move me slightly, to get to a pan or a cupboard, I felt jumpy, feeling his breath on the back of my neck, hearing him whistle, a slight blush on his cheeks as he shrugged and said, ‘Sorry! Just need to grab this!’

  We took the dishes out to the table. Patatas bravas, tortilla, salad, oven-toasted bruschetta with avocado-tomato salsa, oven-roasted red peppers with feta cheese. Milo brought out the remainder of the bottle of wine, and a jug of water.