A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

  Harriet fortified herself with a deep breath. “I’m sure you did.” This was a source of contention with Eugenie, and Harriet was convinced the publican wanted to throttle Harriet.

  “What’s this?” Camilla perked up in her seat.

  “Oh, nothing.” Clive exaggerated a wink at Harriet.

  “It’s Harry’s birthday,” Camilla said, much to Harriet’s surprise. Usually Camilla highjacked conversations to focus on herself, leading Harriet to think Camilla couldn’t come up with anything else to say. “I drove all the way here to help her celebrate. Otherwise, she’d be drinking alone, and what kind of cousin would I be to let that happen?”

  Ah, that was more like Camilla.

  Clive nodded. “Family is the cornerstone of society. I own this pub with my sister.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Camilla turned to Harriet. “If you left the newspaper biz, we could start a business together.”

  “What are you envisioning?” Harriet asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. But we should consider a business that actually turns a profit.”

  Go ahead, Camilla. Twist the screw a bit more.

  If Harriet started a podcast, what should she call it? Life Stories? Or something more along the lines to make listeners envision a quilt, each square telling a person’s story and the compilation adding to oral history, like Studs Terkel? Was Camilla right? And Mrs. Cavell?

  “There are a lot of opportunities in the area. The tourists can’t get enough of what the Cotswolds has to offer.” Clive ogled Camilla’s ample bosom, and Harriet was sure he was attempting to speak in code, but the obviousness of Clive’s intentions made it difficult for Harriet to believe it would work on anyone.

  However, Camilla gobbled up Clive’s attention, motioning for him to scoot his chair closer. “That’s good for you. Happy tourists are good for business, I imagine.”

  “I’m all about making people happy. Especially my new favorite clientele, like Harry here. Speaking of Harry, to celebrate your birthday, can I buy you two a drink of your choice?” Clive rose to his feet.

  “One drink to share?” Camilla batted her eyelashes, looking foolish.

  Clive grinned at the joke. “Of course not. A drink each.”

  “I’d love to taste your whisky.” Camilla gave Clive a come-hither look.

  He cleared his throat and then asked, “Harry?”

  “Uh, I’m a bit knackered.” Harriet yawned.

  “Come on. One birthday drink,” Camilla encouraged. “Don’t be a party pooper.”

  “A gin and tonic, then,” Harriet acquiesced.

  “Coming right up.” Clive strode behind the bar.

  “I’m pretty sure he wants to shag you tonight,” Harriet warned.

  “I’m banking on it. Unlike you, I’m not living like a nun after my divorce.”

  “No one would ever accuse you of that.”

  “I’m the opposite of you. When down, I seek the company of those who can cheer me up.” Camilla eyed Clive behind the bar. “He’s just the type to help me recover from Neil.”

  “Who’s Neil?”

  “The guy I broke things off with yesterday.”

  “You’ve only been divorced for three months, and you were already seeing someone seriously enough to have to end it?”

  Camilla shrugged. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  Another not-so-veiled dig at Harriet’s age.

  “Here you go, ladies.” Clive set down their drinks, including a pint for himself. “Harry, how old are you today?”

  “Forty-five.” Camilla added, her fingers splayed on her low-cut shirt. “I’m ten years younger.”

  “I’m only two years older than you.” Clive moved even closer to Camilla, resting his arm on the back of her chair.

  “Has anyone ever mentioned you look like the ginger version of George Clooney?” Camilla practically purred.

  Harriet nearly choked on her drink, causing her nose to burn.

  “Is that right?” Clive rubbed his chin as if he thought this feature and his jawline were where the resemblance resided. “I think you’re the first to mention the similarity.”

  “I speak the truth. Turn your head so I can see your profile.” Camilla nudged his chin with a delicate finger. “Yes. Most definitely. You’re the ginger George. That’s what I’m going to call you.”

  Clive sat up straighter in his seat, seeming to suck in his gut.

  Harriet yawned again. “I think it’s time I call it a night.”

  Both looked in her direction, not saying a word to encourage her to stay.

  “You do look tired,” Camilla said.

  “I made a birthday pledge to be kind to myself.” Harriet picked up on Camilla’s conflicted expression, which was odd, and quickly added, “No need for you to leave, though. Enjoy your… whisky.”

  “Are you sure?” Camilla latched onto the tumbler as if giving it up would rip a hole in her heart.

  “I am. Do you know how to find your way home?”

  “No worries about that. I’ll take good care of her. I promise.” Clive placed two strong hands over his heart.

  Harriet was sure he would, but not in the way the words implied.

  Harriet said goodbye and exited the pub. A slap of cold wind whipped across her face. She tightened her jacket around her and placed a bobble hat onto her head. A swirl of unease danced inside her stomach, but Harriet had long given up lecturing Camilla about anything, including who she shagged. Two acrimonious divorces wouldn’t change her cousin. Camilla worked hard, and she played even harder.

  Harriet walked across the stone footbridge and then ambled along the pavement, following the flow of the river to the old stone and now defunct mill, where she turned right onto Nevern Place, remembering Cam calling it Never. The nearly full moon shone overhead, and Harriet paused to study it, failing to see a face. Fitting. Even the man on the moon dodged Harriet on her birthday.

  Chapter Five

  On the second night after Josie’s return, she sat at the bar, leafing through the latest weekly edition of The Cotswolds Chronicles, which had been printed two days prior and had seen much wear and tear.

  She looked up to her mum, who was pulling a pint for a ruddy-faced man on Josie’s left. “Who’s Mrs. Frost?” Josie asked.

  “Beatrice?” Her mum scooted the pint toward the man who paid with exact change, stacking the pound coins on the counter.

  An attractive, older woman on Josie’s right, chuckled quietly to herself. Josie didn’t know why Beatrice Frost warranted a snicker, but perhaps the woman was thinking of something else.

  Josie shrugged. “It just says Mrs. Frost is missing her ginger, making the nights cold and lonely.” Josie glanced up. “That’s kinda weird. I’ve never known cats to be super snuggly. Not on their owner’s terms, at least. I do hope she finds her cat. Dogs are more faithful.”

  “Not in this case,” her mum said.

  The blonde woman laughed into her shoulder again.

  Her mum, who had started pouring another ale, nudged the tap back up, even though she was only halfway done. “Where’s Clive?”

  “Dunno.” Josie turned the page, her eyes back on the newsprint, staring at a profile of a ninety-nine-year-old woman who’d lived in the same village her entire life. Josie was drawn to a photo of the woman in a nursing uniform standing next to a World War II ambulance.

  “Beatrice Frost!” Her mum harrumphed, topping off a pint of Doom Bar for the older gentleman on Josie’s right. “Here you go, William.”

  His thanks was garbled, as if he’d never mastered the art of carrying out a conversation, but there was something in his manner, hopeful perhaps, that snared Josie’s attention. The stooped-over gentleman looked to be in his mid-seventies. He wore a gray Harris Tweed jacket, canary-yellow vest, scarlet tie, striped blue and white shirt, and threadbare wool trousers. The man ambled to a chair by the fireplace. Winston raised his head briefly from his bed as a way of saying, “What food do you have?�
�� Once the dog figured out no food was in the offering, he settled back down.

  The woman who’d chuckled earlier ordered a gin and tonic.

  “I’ll bring it over to you, Helen.”

  The woman said thanks and deposited herself at a table in the front.

  Josie’s mum leaned over the bar and whispered, “She’s like you.”

  “Beatrice?”

  “What? No. Helen. She’s gay and not dating anyone.”

  Josie casually glanced over her shoulder. “That surprises me. She’s stunning.”

  “She does the monthly pub quiz. You love random facts.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  Her mum rolled her eyes. “Go ask her out.”

  “How old fashioned, aside from the girl asking a girl out part.” Josie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you have back issues of the paper? Do they all have stories like this?” She tapped the photo of the World War II nurse. “This is the type of journalism I respect. Not hit pieces.”

  “I’m sure I can find some,” her mum said with little enthusiasm. “Back to Helen. Do you want me to set you up?” Her mum’s eyes widened with hope.

  “Mum. We’ve talked about this. I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  Her mum made a grunting sound, waved to Olivia, one of the kitchen staff, and instructed her to deliver the drink to Helen.

  A few more customers ordered drinks, the noise inside the pub rising, the aroma of fish and chips permeating the air.

  Josie’s eyes fell back to the paper. “Oh, this is interesting. There’s another missing ginger ad. Is Upper Chewford a black hole for ginger pussies? You should have warned me.” Josie laughed at her own joke, fluffing her red locks like a Hollywood starlet.

  “You have nothing to fear. Your uncle, on the other hand, he’s asking for it.” Her mum’s eyes sought out her brother.

  Josie regarded her mum to judge if she was serious or not. “What’d Clive do? Does he not understand the meaning of cat burglar? I can explain to him it doesn’t actually involve stealing cats from old ladies. That’s just mean.”

  William was back at the bar, pointing with a shaky finger. “Crisps.”

  “We have lightly salted or salt and vinegar. Unfortunately, we’re fresh out of your favorite: cheese and onion.”

  “The first,” he said, seeming put out having to answer a simple question.

  “Check you out, William. Got a hot date?” Clive sidled up to the older man and gave him an attaboy look.

  A slight blush tinged William’s pasty-white cheeks, but he took his bag of crisps back to his seat by the fire. William’s rheumy eyes were glued to the pub entrance, but Josie couldn’t tell if the man was waiting for someone or just staring in an old person way.

  Clive whispered behind his hand to Josie, “His tie is the color of a hooker’s bedspread.”

  Josie chuckled silently and whispered back, “Do hookers use their own beds when turning tricks?”

  “How would I know?” Clive put a hand to his chest, making him look guilty as hell.

  Eugenie took the paper from Josie, rolled it up, leaned over the bar and swatted Clive with it three times in quick succession.

  He rubbed his arm. “What was that for?”

  “You agreed!” She walloped him again, this time on the head.

  “To be beaten by my own sister?” He stepped back from Eugenie.

  “To stop sleeping around. At least not with every widow and divorcee within our village.”

  “For the record, I never agreed. You demanded I stop, and I didn’t say anything. Meaning there was no agreement set in stone.” Clive planted his feet in preparation for another assault.

  “Your silence was you agreeing!” she whispered in an angry tone.

  “It was me ignoring you,” he whispered back.

  “There are three pubs in this village. You can’t sleep with every woman without threatening our business.”

  The door opened, and a gush of cold air whooshed in. Josie glanced over her shoulder and spied a white-haired woman, who gave a tentative head tilt to William before making her way to the bar. Removing her jacket, Josie spied a royal blue pleated wool skirt, with matching knit cardigan, a polka-dot blouse, blue-tinted tights, and chunky black shoes that brought to mind the queen.

  “Good evening, Agnes. What can I get you?” Josie’s mum offered a welcoming smile, disguising the fire still in the corners of her eyes.

  “Gin and tonic, please.”

  “Single or double?”

  “Make it a double, or what’s the point?” Agnes tittered in the way old ladies did when making a joke they’d probably said a zillion times over the decades.

  Josie eyed her mum while she added the gin over three measly ice cubes, woefully short on ice from what Josie would expect in an American establishment. Her mum twisted the cap of a tiny tonic bottle and placed it next to the glass. Agnes handed over a ten-pound note, and Josie’s mum gave Agnes the change. Agnes settled on the opposite side of the pub within view of William. Josie had to wonder if Agnes was the reason behind William’s flashy tie. The thought made Josie smile, even if the image of two people in their dotage having sex wasn’t the most pleasing thought. That was taking the thought of bumping uglies to a whole new level.

  “I hope when I’m that age, I’m still drinking gin and tonics,” Josie said.

  “A great life ambition, darling daughter.” Her mother’s grin muted her sarcasm. “If you’d settle down, perhaps you wouldn’t be drinking them alone.”

  “Is Agnes an old maid?” Josie asked in a soft tone.

  “Widow,” her mum mouthed.

  Josie was about to comment that her mum’s theory was flawed, but the door opened again, revealing a woman in her mid-fifties. “Yoo-hoo, Clive!” She flicked her fingers in a girlish way, making her appear more like a lovestruck teen, not a middle-aged woman hoping for whoopee.

  “Beatrice.” Clive seemed to psych himself up before rounding the bar and whisking the woman to the back of the pub.

  Was this Mrs. Frost of the missing ginger ad? She didn’t seem too bent out of shape about her cat.

  Josie’s mum looked like she wanted to shove bamboo shoots under her brother’s fingernails.

  Within five minutes, another woman in her fifties breezed in, dressed to the nines and wearing enough perfume to asphyxiate an elephant. “Oh, Clive!”

  Clive forced a grin, keeping his cool under Beatrice’s glare at the competition.

  Josie’s mum groaned.

  “Margaret,” Clive said, making his way to the second woman—so far. “A white wine?”

  “You know me so well.” The woman made eyes at Clive.

  The sexual vibe from Margaret made Josie squirm on the barstool as she tucked her head down to avoid witnessing more. How did Clive handle it? Surely, he wasn’t taken by the overt desperation, although he was a single man. On the other hand, just yesterday morning he’d made a comment that older women should only be naked when it was dark. Which really didn’t negate the possibility Clive was sleeping with either woman.

  Clive measured the wine, appearing to purposefully ignore his sister’s glaring and snorting. “Let’s get you settled over here.” Clive steered Margaret through the arch leading to the other side of the pub and away from Beatrice. Josie wondered if Clive had mapped out the different parts of the pub before he and Mum purchased this one. He was putting the nooks and crannies to good use.

  “How does he keep so cool?” Josie whispered to her mum.

  “Because he’s a man.”

  “Who has the energy for two women?”

  “Two? Try twenty.”

  “There’s no way it’s twenty.”

  “If it isn’t, it’s not far off the mark, given the evidence. This village is filled with horny middle-aged women, and Clive thinks he’s the modern-day Marquis de Sade.”

  “You know he was a sadist, meaning he derived sexual pleasure via violence. That’s how the term originated.�
�

  Her mum’s purplish-red face was proof enough she was in no mood to debate whether or not that was the correct historical reference regarding her brother.

  Josie steered the conversation back to Clive. “How do you know this?”

  Her mum tapped one of the missing ginger ads.

  “I’m sorry, what’s the connection between missing cats and Uncle Clive?” Josie bit down on a hangnail, deep in contemplation. “Something tells me I’m missing the obvious. Is this an example of British and American miscommunication?”

  Her mum leaned over the bar. “Clive is the missing ginger.”

  Josie’s eyes sought out her uncle, who was now engaging Agnes in chitchat, surprised he was talking to the oldest woman in the pub, not either of the recent arrivals who clearly desired Clive’s undivided attention. “But he’s not missing. He’s right there.” She pointed at him as if needing to reassure herself.

  Her mum yanked Josie’s hand down. “I know! Your uncle is a womanizer.”

  Josie blinked as if the impact of the words sank into her brain. “Wait. Are you telling me these ads are placed by women who want Clive in their beds?”

  “Yes. This is their way of staking claim on his time.”

  “Oh, wow. This is…” Josie made a mind blown motion with her hand. “And here I thought village life would be simple. Not brimming over with sex scandals involving my own family. This is what I ran away from.” Josie sat ramrod straight on the stool, remembering Helen’s laughter. “Wait. Does everyone know the true meaning behind these ads?”

  “It’s become quite the village joke.”

  “I don’t understand. If everyone is in on the joke, how does Clive hold it all together? In my experience, women don’t like to know there’s competition for… attention.” Josie said the last word in a hushed tone.

  “That’s exactly my point. Clive is such a man. He has no idea the danger that’s brewing under the surface. Both of our livelihoods depend on this pub.”

  Another woman entered the pub, clearly on the hunt for Clive.

  Josie scratched her head. “From what I’ve seen tonight, they all seem pretty content with things as is. Like it’s all good fun.”