A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

“For now, yes. But the frequency of the ads has spiked. Not to mention the desire every night to outdress the other women in the village. It’s only a matter of time until it all boils over. Clive doesn’t seem to understand he’s sitting on top of a volcano that’s about to wipe us out. I keep thinking of Pompeii.”

  “That seems a bit dire.” Josie’s eyes panned the pub, taking in Beatrice as she shamelessly rested her arms on the tabletop in a way to push up her bountiful bosom to nearly spilling out over the top of her shirt. For a woman her age, she still had game. Josie tried to remember the last woman she’d been with, but once she counted back one year, she gave up, disgusted by her lack of sexual activity. While she’d sworn off relationships, she didn’t want to live like a nun, either. What Josie needed was a fuck buddy. Or did Brits say shag buddy? Bed buddies? That sounded too much like bedbugs.

  Noticing her mum watching her, Josie asked, “How long has it been going on?”

  Her mum hefted a shoulder. “Who knows? I think Celia started it last month when she took out a full-page ad with a cartoon drawing of a ginger tomcat, but it may have started sooner. I don’t always have time to read the paper. After that one, though, they exploded. Your uncle thinks it’s funny, not to mention he’s giddy from the huge ego boost.”

  “And so many in the States think gays are the shameless whores.” Josie’s mind kept flitting back to the fact that Clive barely spoke to the women seeking his attention. Right then and there, he was conversing with a table of tourists, his back to Beatrice and her spilling cleavage. Even Josie was enjoying the view. Was Clive playing hard to get? “It’s been a long time since I was in demand, and I don’t think I’d ever reached the point where every available woman in a ten-mile radius wanted me.”

  “It’s not just available women.”

  “Come again?” Josie leaned onto the bar. “Is Clive playing both sides?”

  “What?” Her mum seemed to realize what Josie was implying. “No. Not that. Two married ladies have placed ads. That I know of. That’s the part that really worries me. An angry husband wanting blood.”

  “Any of these married? Mrs. Frost?” Josie whispered, her eyes sweeping the pub once again.

  Her mum shook her head. “Widow.”

  Was Chewford the place where widows went to die?

  William was back for another pint.

  “Doesn’t Agnes look lovely tonight?” Her mum asked while pulling the tap.

  He gave a slight nod, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

  Josie casually glanced over her shoulder to witness Agnes’s interest piqued, although she avoided looking in William’s direction for long, burying her head behind a battered copy of Jane Eyre. Were all village pubs in the Cotswolds like this? Was it just Upper Chewford? Or was The Golden Fleece a hotbed of sex? Josie wiggled on her barstool.

  Her mum, taking note, asked, “You aren’t getting a cold, are you? Should we add more wood to the fire?”

  “Nope. I think someone just walked over my grave.”

  “What?” Josie’s mother handed off William’s pint.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m going to step outside for a minute.”

  Her mum put up a stop right there hand and then made her way around the bar. “Arms up?”

  “What?”

  “Just do as I say.” She motioned for Josie to assume the position.

  Josie raised her arms, and her mum proceeded to pat her down, discovering a pack of smokes in the pocket of the L.L.Bean fleece vest.

  “I thought so.”

  “How did those get in there?” Josie endeavored to sound astonished, like she’d never seen a pack of cigarettes in her life.

  “You probably put them there.”

  “Oh no. I quit smoking five years ago and swore to you I’d never touch another cigarette again.”

  Her mum steadied a motherly gaze on Josie. The one that made Josie feel like she was a mere child caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

  “Okay. I admit it. Since losing my job, I started up again.” Josie’s gaze dropped to the stone floor.

  “How could you? Your father smoked a pack a day, and he didn’t make it past sixty. I forbid you to die young. My heart can’t take it.”

  Josie sucked in a repentant breath. While her father hadn’t died from lung cancer, his habit had contributed to his heart attack. “I’m sorry, Mum. Keep the pack.”

  “I plan to, and I’m tossing your room before I go to bed.”

  “The black bag. You’ll find two more packs.”

  Josie’s mum struck her arm. “What am I going to do with the two of you?”

  Clive approached them. “Why’s Josie in trouble?”

  Her mum held up the green pack of Mayfair menthols.

  “Oh. I’ll take care of those if you want me to. And I don’t even like menthols. Too girly.” He made it seem like he was doing both women a huge favor.

  “But you’ll smoke them anyway?” Her mum didn’t sound impressed by his so-called sacrifice. Quite the opposite.

  “If I must, I must. You can’t just throw out cigarettes. Think of all the poor kids who don’t have any.” Clive did his best to sound sincere.

  “Out of my sight. Both of you.” Her mum made be gone motions with her hands.

  Josie looped her arm through Clive’s. “Let’s take in the full moon.”

  Winston waddled out with them, snorting with each step.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how mad is your mother with me?” Clive blew into his hands before shoving them into his pockets.

  “Thirteen.”

  He nodded. “She doesn’t understand.”

  “What?”

  For a brief moment, Clive looked vulnerable, but it morphed into arrogance. “She’s not like us, Josie. Women—they’re addicting. Like your cigarettes.”

  “You know that’s a bit degrading, right? Comparing women to cigarettes. I’m saying this as your niece and as a woman.”

  “Yes, but you also like women, so you know what it’s like.” He kicked at a broken piece of flagstone, avoiding Josie’s glare.

  “Not sure I do. Not in this regard. I haven’t juggled two women since my college days, and even in my twenties, it nearly killed me. How do you manage?”

  He shrugged, staring off into the distance. “It’s not hard, really. The difficult part is deciding who gets the pleasure of my company each night.”

  Josie’s stomach lurched at the thought. “Seriously, Clive. Mum’s right. You’re asking for trouble.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault I came out this way.” He jutted his chin as if claiming he was some type of Adonis. “The other night, a woman called me the ginger George Clooney.”

  “How are we related?”

  “My dad is also your mum’s father, but we have different mothers,” he explained as if Josie were completely unaware of the family tree.

  Josie stared at Clive wondering if he really was unjaded, a difficult concept for Josie to understand. For as long as she could remember, she was always trying to stay three steps ahead of any type of verbal jab. If Clive was so innocent, what about the ginger ads? Maybe he was the Ginger George and had acting in his blood.

  There were some fireworks off in the distance.

  “It’s not even November, but Chewies are antsy for bonfire night.” He stomped his feet in what seemed like an effort to stave off the cold.

  Josie briefly closed her eyes to conjure the poem her mum used to recite. “‘Remember, remember! The fifth of November…’” She motioned it continued, but that was all she could call forth. Her eyes stared at the brilliant white moon hanging above, its reflection dancing on the river’s surface. “The sky here is so different from what I’m used to. Crisp.”

  Clive looked up. “I don’t know how you survived so long in America. I tried London but only lasted a year or so. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  A lone figure standing on the footbridge caught Josie’s attention. The person stared at the night s
ky in quiet contemplation, as if searching for an answer to life’s riddle. Slowly, the person turned their head, causing a ripple of excitement to swell in Josie’s chest.

  “Who’s that?” Josie asked Clive.

  He squinted. “Harry, I think.”

  “Oh,” Josie said, disappointed that it was a guy. It was probably for the best, though. The last thing Josie needed right then and there was a complication. Her entire life at present was brimming with them. What Josie needed was to be alone to focus on rebooting her life. She was fine with momentarily hitting the pause button, but not for long. Josie had always been eager to get to the next stage: bigger, better, and more prestigious than before. Another reason why the end of the presidential campaign had been such a crushing blow. Josie had been on the pinnacle of the ultimate success, only to have everything swiped away with one ill-timed video.

  But there was something about the individual on the bridge. As if Josie had known the person all her life. Which was a bizarre thing to think, especially when she factored in it was a man. Josie had never found any man all that interesting. She also wasn’t the fanciful type and didn’t believe in the whole soul mate concept. Only fools bought into that. Desperate ones at that.

  Chapter Six

  Harriet’s gaze fell from the stars, and a figure standing next to Clive outside of the pub entrance caught her attention, making Harriet’s heart skip a beat for some inexplicable reason. The light overhead the pair highlighted the woman’s red hair. Next to Clive, she looked tiny, but Harriet had heard more than one villager refer to Clive as the Ginger Giant. Was this Eugenie’s daughter Harriet had heard mentioned just yesterday? The one who returned from America without so much as an advance notice? From the gossip Harriet had heard in the coffee shop earlier in the day, the person in question had been a speechwriter, or spin doctor, for the American candidate who had all but conceded the election even before millions of Americans cast their votes.

  Even from this distance, Harriet could appreciate the woman’s beauty. The way she held her head up high, her shoulders back. The confidence. How very American of her. Admittedly, Harriet had always been attracted to strong women, although Harriet had sworn never again after a short-lived fling with an American woman. While the two had spoken the same language, Harriet soon learned they were never on the same page. Simple miscommunications had led to epic meltdowns. True, the passionate make-up sex had almost made it worthwhile, but even that plus soon entered the negative column. Hot sex could only go so far.

  The two seemed to lock eyes, a sizzle coursing through Harriet, but she chalked it up to a breeze. Never mind that the air was frigid and the feeling Harriet felt was anything but. Thinking otherwise was confusing, because Harriet wasn’t the type to believe in a moment. The notion was utterly absurd.

  It reached the stage when Harriet knew she had to proceed off the bridge or it would become awkward. Or more so, since Clive’s cocked head and expression slowly edged into confusion, at least that was what Harriet imagined. Clive was a simple man, sweet, but not a lot of depth to him.

  Why did the thought of ending the stare down with a woman she’d never met disappoint her? It must be the full moon making the sensible Harriet think crazy thoughts.

  As if in tune with Harriet’s gawkiness, Clive formed a megaphone around his mouth and shouted, “Harry! You coming or going?”

  A blush seemed to creep up all the way from Harriet’s toes to the tippy top of her head, and she imagined steam spouting out of her like a kettle well past the boiling point. She continued her trek to the entrance of The Golden Fleece, trying to conjure up words to explain her action, or inaction, on the bridge.

  Clive’s beaming smile eased the transition. “Harry, allow me to introduce my lovely niece, Josie.”

  They seemed to be the same age, but Harriet recalled hearing that Eugenie and her brother were half siblings. “I’ve heard all about her.” Harriet stuck out her hand for Josie to shake, relieved she didn’t get overly tongue-tied, a typical curse when around strangers.

  “I hope you haven’t heard about me via trashy ads in the Cotswolds rag.” Josie shook Harriet’s hand.

  Clive guffawed.

  Harriet tried to mask a cringe.

  “Harry actually takes part in the ads,” Clive said as if the true meaning behind them were a badge of honor.

  Josie turned to Clive. Then Harriet. And then back to Clive. “Oh, I didn’t…”

  “It’s not what you think.” Clive waved Josie off whatever track her mind was on, and given the context, Harriet didn’t even want to contemplate it too deeply. “Harry’s the publisher of the local red top.”

  Josie jacked up an eyebrow at Clive, her cheeks tinging red. Was it from anger or embarrassment from referring to Harriet’s paper as a sensational rag?

  Clive pressed on. “I don’t know if Americans use that as slang for a tabloid newspaper.”

  “I’ve heard it before. I didn’t know you were responsible for The Cotswolds Chronicles.” Josie’s cutting tone didn’t give Harriet a warm, fuzzy feeling. Somehow, though, the sizzle Harriet experienced on the bridge deepened. Josie was simply the most beautiful woman Harriet had ever laid her eyes on.

  “Guilty as charged, although only the ads are scandalous. The rest consists of local stories, but the ads help keep the paper afloat.” Harriet wanted to kick herself after clarifying the point since the hardening expression on Josie’s face made it crystal clear she was unhappy about the missing ginger ads. Not that Harriet could blame her. They were about Josie’s uncle.

  Another whip of wind kicked up.

  Clive rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go back inside, ladies. Before my privates freeze off, killing off Harry’s lucrative ad business.” He started to laugh, but it cut out with another gust of wind.

  “Charming, Clive.” Josie wheeled about without another word, stepping inside the pub.

  Clive raised a brow at Harriet in the way that conveyed whoops, but from his stiff posture he wasn’t ashamed, something Harriet was never able to comprehend about the gregarious publican.

  Inside, Eugenie flicked her fingers in a bossy way for Harriet to come straight to her station at the bar. Harriet suppressed an oh shit sigh. Just last week, Eugenie had made it clear she wanted Harriet to put a stop to the ads. And the week before. Basically, almost from the beginning, Eugenie had expressed her displeasure.

  Sure enough, after Eugenie poured two pints for a couple of blokes, she started in with, “Please, Harry. No more missing ginger ads.”

  Harriet took a seat at the bar. “I can’t turn away paying customers. What would you say if I asked you not to serve all the drunks in town?”

  “We wouldn’t have any patrons,” Eugenie stated without irony.

  “Exactly.” Harriet nodded to emphasize the point.

  “But, Harry, the ads are going to destroy Clive. He’s too stupid to realize he’s playing with fire.”

  Harriet couldn’t disagree. “He’s not placing the ads, though.”

  “They’re about him!”

  Harriet sucked in a deep breath and decided the only course was to change the topic. “Is it nice having Josie back home? I just met her outside.” Not that Harriet had made a great impression. Had she wanted to? Surely, most wanted to impress the likes of Josie, Harriet even more so since Eugenie was none too pleased with Harriet. Maybe going through Josie would be the way to win over Eugenie.

  Josie returned from wherever she’d stormed to and took the seat next to Harriet, a copy of the newspaper on the bar in front of her.

  Eugenie shook a finger at Harriet. “You’re trying to steer the conversation away from the ads.”

  “Very much so.” Harriet bobbed her head to prove her nervousness.

  “Mum, it’s not Harry’s fault. It’s the nature of her business.” Josie sounded like she meant it, and Harriet had to wonder how Josie’s mood had softened so quickly. Or maybe Harriet had misread her earlier.

  On second thoug
ht, after replaying the comment in her head, Harriet zeroed in on how Josie had said nature of her business. There had been a trace of condemnation in the pronunciation.

  Harriet’s journalistic mind kicked in. Did it have something to do with Josie’s sudden appearance in Upper Chewford? Or did Josie subscribe to the theory that all newspaper people were rabble-rousers? A stereotype Harriet had been battling from the first day on the job. Granted, the missing ginger ads didn’t do much to counter this belief. But Harriet needed to pay her bills like billions of others on the planet. How many had pure jobs that didn’t have a negative impact on anyone? It wasn’t like her company poured toxins into the village’s water supply.

  “I know most right now think the ads are funny…” Eugenie didn’t complete the thought.

  Josie swept up the latest copy and read, “Missing ginger. Mrs. Jones yearns to once again stroke her ginger all night long. If found, please send the naughty boy to 23 Nevern Place.”

  Harriet pinched her eyes shut and steadied her breathing.

  The sweetest laughter tickled Harriet’s ears. She opened her eyes to see Eugenie glaring at Josie, who it turned out was the source of the merriment.

  “I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s kinda funny. Maybe I should advertise my copywriting services to jazz up the ads. I mean, this example proves how just the right pinch of subtlety would have a bigger impact. Sometimes, it’s best to play coy. If a woman placed this ad to lure me back, I would never visit her bed again.”

  Did that mean Josie was gay?

  “Is that right?” Eugenie asked, a hardness in her tone.

  “Not at all. These need someone like me, and I am out of a job.” Josie shrugged.

  “Because of Naked Nora! Do you really think getting into the middle of the ginger ads controversy would be the right course of action?” Eugenie’s steely-eyed stare intimidated Harriet.

  Josie seemed to take it in stride.

  Eugenie stepped away to the end of the bar to take William’s order.

  “Is Josie short for anything?” Harriet asked, unable to come up with another conversation starter.