A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

  Clive shook off the assault and gazed from Eugenie to Josie, a look of defeat creeping into the corners of his green eyes. Josie was willing to bet, by the end of the day, Clive would view it many times over. Because why not? It seemed everyone else on the planet had before taking to social media to tear apart a woman who only wanted to bring back happier days, if that was possible. Too bad it had involved taking off all her clothes and swinging her boobs with cupcake nipple pasties and teal tassels, garnering another moniker: Tasty Nora.

  “I’m shit out of luck,” Josie announced.

  Her mum tutted but didn’t correct her daughter’s language. Instead, she shouted, “Clive! Don’t feed Winnie any more shortbread. The poor bugger won’t be able to walk by the end of the year if everyone keeps feeding him.”

  Winston snorted his contempt for the comment.

  Clive gave the dog a look that implied, What can you do? “He’s not fat. He’s fluffy.”

  “He’s a bulldog. He barely has any hair to speak of.” Her mum turned her attention back to Josie. “What’s your plan now?”

  Josie blew out a breath. “I need a break. I’ve been living on the road for years, it seems, with Nora’s senate run, and then this one. I do know one thing for certain, I’m officially done with politics. If I never write another rousing speech, it’ll be too soon. Good people can’t win anymore. The public and reporters won’t let it happen. All they care about is tearing people apart as if no one should have a past.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe you just need to find a candidate who doesn’t have such a colorful sex life,” Clive said, looking as if he was doing his best to seem helpful.

  Josie leaned back in her seat to stretch the muscles in her lower back, but the action didn’t accomplish much.

  Clive was back on his phone, but his sister swiped it from his hands before he could get past the home screen. “Hey, I need to check my email.”

  “No, you don’t.” Eugenie waggled a finger in his face. “I know you better than you do. Josie came home for us to prop her back up. The least you can do is support her one wish and not check out Naked Nora.”

  “Her stage name was Pussy Pride,” Josie confessed in a tone that suggested she knew exactly how bad that sounded for a presidential candidate.

  Her mum’s arched eyebrow said it all, but she added, “Oh, dear. No wonder it ended her career. She should come to us. This is the perfect place to hide while the dust settles. That is if she could avoid getting caught by a picture-happy tourist. I swear. They’re worse than rats in the New York subway.”

  “You have a high opinion of seventy percent of our patrons,” Clive joked.

  “I love tourists with a mighty thirst and bigger wallets. I just wish there weren’t so many Americans in the bunch.”

  Josie cleared her throat.

  “I don’t mean you, dear. You’re a good one.” Her mum patted Josie’s hand.

  “Oh, thanks. That eases the blow that everyone hates Americans. And this was the trend even before…” Josie waved a useless hand. “No. I’m done with politics. That means no more chatter about it. My life up until this point is over. I’m hitting the reboot button.” Josie pressed her finger onto the tabletop. “Day one of my new life.”

  “How exciting!” Her mum wiggled in her chair, pressing eager palms together. “What’s on the agenda for the first day of your life?”

  “Uh, a nap. The drive here was a bit stressful.”

  “Did you drive all the way from London on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s only a few hours away. Why was it so stressful?” Clive asked.

  “You people drive on the wrong side of the road.”

  “No, we don’t.” He crossed his arms, which had unruly red hairs poking out from the cuffs of his plaid shirt.

  “Literally, Americans drive on the right side of the road. Do I need to say more?” Josie flicked her hands in the air.

  “Just so you know, this is why so many don’t like Americans. Your incessant need for everything to be just like it is back in the States while traveling and experiencing the world. Next, you’ll be saying, Why don’t you speak American?” Her mum laughed.

  “Please. Every time you visited me in the States, you brought special tea bags from England because the Yorkshire Gold available in the US isn’t quite the same as what you get here.”

  Her mum tutted but didn’t mount a defense.

  “I didn’t bring any of my creature comforts from the US. The only thing I want to change is the side of the road you drive on.” Josie mimed holding onto a steering wheel. “The entire way here, I kept chanting in my head, I’m driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “Poor you.” Clive smothered her hand with his. “We’ll fix up one of the rooms upstairs so you can rest. Then, we’ll plot out your new life.”

  “Yes. That’s the plan. Nap and then world domination.” Her mum nodded, taking to the idea. “You know, this might be the time to consider settling down with someone. There’s got to be a woman who—”

  Josie snorted and motioned for her mum to stop right there. “I’m at my lowest. This most definitely isn’t the time to think of that. I need to get my shit together. That’s my focus.”

  Clive attempted to get his phone back, but Eugenie swatted his hand away. “No naked chicks for you.”

  “You’re such a mean lady.” He stuck out his lower lip.

  Josie yawned, her mind and body shutting down. “Trust me, Clive. Naked ladies only cause mayhem.”

  “Oh, he’s aware of that,” her mum said with an ominous tone.

  Clive rolled his eyes. “Why am I the only feminist in this family?”

  “Ogling a stripper doesn’t make you a feminist,” her mum countered in the tone that made it clear the subject had been officially closed. “And for you, my darling daughter, I’ll brainstorm what your first step should be. I leave you alone in the US and look how that turned out.”

  Josie was too tired to tell her mum not to put too much thought into what steps Josie should make. If her mum had it her way, Josie would move permanently to the village and date every available lesbian. The idea made Josie’s blood turn into icy sludge. Long ago, Josie had learned she’d never find the one who’d accept her independence and stubborn streak. The last thing Josie needed was disappointment in the dating department. From her experience, women were ungrateful, soul-sucking creatures who stole Josie’s youth and left a dried-out husk. No, relationships were dead to Josie. Along with her career. Fuck, what did she have?

  Chapter Four

  Harriet placed a pint of Cotswold IPA in front of her cousin and settled into a wood chair, sipping a gin and tonic, which was woefully short on gin. Harriet could only blame herself since she’d asked for a single instead of a double. Her much younger cousin could be difficult to contain even on her best days, meaning Harriet needed her wits about her.

  Camilla sampled the beer, not voicing an opinion either way on the beverage, which Harriet took as a silent victory. Cam had opinions on just about everything under the sun, but oddly, when left to her own devices, Camilla had a habit of ordering cheap beers even though she had a well-paying finance job in Canary Wharf. Harriet believed life was too short to waste on drinks like Stella or Fosters.

  “I don’t know how you survive here.” Camilla’s eyes panned the interior of The Golden Fleece, not seeming to appreciate the traditional feel of the establishment, one of Harriet’s favorite aspects of this place in Upper Chewford instead of the one closer to her cottage.

  “Considering the village is located at the end of the Earth, we’re barely hanging on by our fingertips.” Harriet acted this out, trying not to laugh at Cam, who took two heartbeats longer than necessary to realize Harriet was teasing about Camilla’s snobbish ways.

  “I’m serious, Harry. There’s no theater in this village. Nor a cinema. Not one art museum.” Camilla counted them off with upraised fingers, showcasing her manicured nails
, which was odd given she hated paying for high-end beer but never balked about self-care on this level. “These were the things that got your blood pumping. You were constantly attending events. Going out. Now, I picture you sitting in this sad pub, night after night. Do they even serve food?”

  “Yes, they do.” Harriet glanced about, clocking the original stone floor and walls, fresh flowers in vases on every table, a roaring fire to combat the rather chilly night, and a few pairs of leather wingbacks throughout, but sadly they had already been claimed by the time Harriet and Cam arrived. “The pub closest to me tries too hard to be trendy and doesn’t pay homage to the history pubs had played in society over the centuries. This, on the other hand, is one of the nicest I’ve been in. Much better than my London local that smelled faintly of urine and was populated by even smellier old men griping about the football results.”

  “But, it’s not your scene.” Camilla’s face puckered.

  “How do you know? I like it here. There’s even a pub dog.” Harriet pointed to Winston on his bed, snoozing in front of the fireplace. “It’s quiet. That was my goal when moving here. To slow down. Enjoy the little things in life. See what I’ve been missing hustling about in a soul-crushing environment like London.”

  “Soul-crushing.” Camilla sneered.

  Harriet ignored Cam’s interjection. “You’re forgetting, one of the reasons I was constantly going out was because it was literally my job to review the events I attended.”

  Harriet had always wanted to be a journalist along the lines of Studs Terkel. He had collected reminiscences of over one hundred people involved in World War II in the Pulitzer prize winning book The Good War. She’d always been drawn to stories with heart, much like Mrs. Cavell’s life, but until taking over her uncle’s paper, Harriet had always ended up with frivolous postings. How many times did the musical Cats need to be reviewed?

  “Slow down! How much slower can you go?” Camilla crossed her right leg over her left. “Can you even remember the last time you’ve been shagged?”

  Harriet laughed. “Is that the definition of living life to the fullest? Sex?”

  “It’s an important part, yes.” Camilla’s eyes scouted the interior again. “I imagine it’s harder for your type around here.”

  “Pray tell. What exactly is my type?” Harriet took a fortifying sip of her drink, ruing her decision to go light on the gin.

  “The shy middle-aged lesbian who up and left London after getting divorced and sacked within six months of each other. I mean, you’re even menopausal.”

  “You love to mention that every chance you get.” Harriet leaned back in her seat, needing more space from Camilla. “Sugarcoating has never been your forte, has it?”

  “I don’t see the point to it. The truth is the truth no matter how you coat it.” Camilla hefted one shoulder.

  “Who says the corporate types are heartless?” Harriet stopped her eyes from rolling, not wanting to waste the effort.

  “Since when is being honest, heartless? Do I need to mention that you literally live on Never Street?”

  “It’s Nevern, not Never,” Harriet corrected in her I’m older than you voice to inform Camilla to back off or else.

  “Same thing.” Camilla opted to ignore Harriet’s tone, or had she not picked up on it? “The N at the end doesn’t change the situation. I feel it’s my duty, as your cousin, to point all this out so you’ll realize how much damage you’re doing.”

  Harriet eyed Winston on his bed, wishing she could trade places with the bulldog. “Circling back, there’s honesty, and there’s rip the scab right off.”

  “Is that what I did? Are you not over Alice?” Camilla moved her index finger up and down in the air, her other hand still clutching the pint glass. “Is that the vibe I’m picking up on? Brokenhearted?”

  “Brokenhearted, no. I haven’t given her much thought. On the precipice of another career going tits up. That’s a whole other story.”

  Camilla uncrossed her legs and then recrossed her left over her right. “It’s not like you’ll starve, right? You still have your inheritance from your parents, and Regis won’t kick you out of the cottage.”

  Harriet groaned. “All the same, I’d rather not stumble from one failure to another.”

  “If that’s your goal, maybe you shouldn’t have taken over the paper. The entire business is dying an excruciatingly slow death. News flash, Miss Publisher, no one likes the news anymore. It’s way too depressing.” Camilla let her upper body go limp to make it absolutely clear she found Harriet’s career choice boring. “Why after getting sacked from a much larger operation in London, did you take on a paper in a much smaller region? It’s like you’re a glutton for punishment. Smarten up. Newspapers will never make you happy. You gave it a go. Maybe it’s time to think of a new direction. You aren’t getting any younger.”

  Harriet had heard Mrs. Cavell’s words about not knowing what you can handle until you tried, although it was too soon to bring up the podcast idea to Camilla. Harriet didn’t like to quit, which she knew was a flaw, but she also believed in putting one’s head down and plucking away. Finally, she said, “Easy for you to say. They’re my passion. They have been ever since I saw Citizen Kane.”

  “Citizen Kane!” Camilla shrilled, bouncing back to life. “How that movie is ranked as the best movie of all time baffles me.” She made quote marks in the air with her left hand. “It’s so tedious, and then you find out it was about a sled. Talk about the biggest letdown of all time. Who cares about a sled named Rosebud? Such a con and a waste of two hours of my life I’ll never get back. Can I sue?”

  “Who? Orson Welles? He’s been dead thirty-something years.” Harriet’s body relaxed some knowing Camilla’s antics would keep her mind off the paper, the podcast, and everything in between.

  Camilla’s lips curled. “Making the world’s worst movie probably did him in.”

  Harriet shook her head, knowing it was useless to point out the movie had come out decades before Welles’s death. Nor did she see much point in bringing up how many times she’d watched the movie. It was fitting for Camilla to overlook Harriet’s connection to the film and to zero in on how the movie affected only Cam. Camilla wouldn’t understand, and Harriet was simply too tired to hash it out.

  The pub door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. Camilla shivered, pulling her jacket onto her shoulders. “I still can’t believe you moved to the Cotswolds. It’s much colder here, and I bet you’ll get more snow this winter.”

  “I wanted to be alone,” Harriet said with hopes the sentiment would sink into Cam’s thick skull. Her cousin was a whiz when it came to crunching numbers but wasn’t excellent at picking up on social cues, even if Harriet used that against Camilla at times.

  “That’s right. I remember you saying that when you first told me, and I said you were bonkers. Well, mission accomplished. This is the loneliest place in Britain.”

  “Is that right?” Harriet didn’t mention the significant number of tourists who flocked to the region every year.

  Camilla gazed at her cousin. “Very much so. You seem beyond lonely.”

  The assessment cut to the bone, because while Harriet found the idea of living alone charming, the actuality of it was terrifying. Adding the failure of The Cotswolds Chronicles only made everything so much worse. Harriet was lonely, and she was facing the crushing failure of everything on her own. Everyone in her immediate family had carved out their own successful niche. Harriet’s brother was a brilliant playwright. Her father had been a painter and her mum an Oxford professor before her parents died in a car accident.

  “It’s a good thing I came to visit. I’ll perk you up.” Camilla’s exuberance reminded Harriet of a puppy wanting to cheer up the world all the while being adored.

  Harriet laughed despite herself. While Camilla was self-absorbed, she was the only relative who came to visit. Harriet’s brother hadn’t even bothered to text happy birthday, and not for the first time.
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br />   “Your gift has been ordered, so keep an eye out for it.” Camilla beamed.

  “Can’t wait.” Harriet could. Last year, Camilla had given her a copy of Tipping the Velvet, a book Harriet had read when it came out twenty years ago, and to add insult, Harriet had given her cousin a signed copy after interviewing Sarah Waters at her old newspaper job. The copy Camilla had given Harriet came from a charity shop with the two quid price written in pencil on the inside page. What would this year’s gift be? A scratched Indigo Girls CD? Apparently, Cam’s knowledge of lesbian clichés ended circa 1998. Had she never seen an episode of Orange is the New Black?

  “Well, hello, Harry. Who might this be?” Clive asked.

  “Allow me to introduce my cousin Camilla.” Harriet waved as if Camilla were royalty, but it seemed neither Clive nor Camilla picked up on the attempted sarcasm. No one ever seemed to get Harriet’s jokes.

  Clive took a step back, with a forefinger pressed to his lips. “I’m not seeing much of a resemblance.”

  Camilla smiled. “For years, I’ve been telling Harry that I’m adopted. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Yet, I was there when you were born and the entire time your mum, my aunt, was pregnant with you.” Harriet flourished her drink before taking another tug.

  “Mix-up at the hospital, perhaps,” Camilla said matter-of-factly. “Have a seat.” Camilla waved for Clive to pull up one of the nearby chairs.

  Clive obeyed. “This seems to be the week for family visits. My niece arrived this morning. She has red hair like me.” He leaned closer to Camilla and whispered, “But she has her mum’s bossy tendencies.”

  Harriet had to smile, knowing Eugenie was always lecturing Clive. “Is she here? Your niece?” She scanned the pub, looking for a young woman, her eyes landing on someone roughly eighteen years old but without the red hair.

  He shook his head. “She’s resting upstairs. The poor thing has had a few bad days. We weren’t expecting her at all.” There was some silence, and Clive added, “Loved the missing ginger ads this week.”