Will is the guy Scarlett told me about on the plane, the one Claire has had a hopeless crush on for years. I’ve tried to look at him objectively as I’ve waited for my drinks tonight, but I genuinely can’t see it. He’s nice looking enough, but wouldn’t turn any heads, although I’m not sure Jasper would either if I look at him like other people must. Will’s got a nice smile and seems laid back, but he doesn’t have a ton of charisma. Plus, his accent is odd. He sounds a bit like he’s talking out the side of his mouth, but I’ve watched his mouth as he’s talked, trying to understand him better and he’s definitely not.
“What’ll you be having?” Will asks.
“Angela Fisher would like another Prosecco. Do you think we could set up an IV drip?” I ask.
“Take the bottle. Save you running your feet off a bit.” Will grabs a wine stand and brings it around the front of the bar, taking the bucket part back with him to fill with ice. Then he leans down for a bottle of Prosecco from a fridge underneath the bar and shoves it into the ice. “There you go.”
He hands me the ice bucket with the bottle and I take it. “Thanks. We should have thought of this three rounds ago.”
“Ah, better late than never, love. But at least it saves your running for cocktails and they do seem to be drinking them slower.”
I nod and hoist the stand onto my hip. It’s cold and wet, but it’s the only way I can balance it, because it’s also damn heavy. When I get to the table, I set it beside Angela Fisher and say, “I brought you a bottle in case you want more.”
Angela Fisher looks at me with the same disdain as if I said I brought her a pot of decaf coffee instead. She raises her arched eyebrows at me. “I haven’t said I want a bottle. I assume this is on the house then?”
“Um, I’m not sure of the policy on that.” I wipe my wet hands on my apron, which is also wet.
“Well, I’d guess you should find out since, again, I haven’t asked for this.” She snaps her fingers and tilts her head. “Excuse me, young man, you work here, do you not?”
Jasper comes up beside me. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
“This young lady,” Angela Fisher points at me with a perfectly-manicured French tip. “Has brought me a bottle of Prosecco, which I have not requested. I asked her if it was complementary and she seems incapable of making that decision.”
Jasper gives me a perfunctory glance and turns away, but not before I see the corner of his mouth quirk up. However, his tone is serious when he says, “Bea has come to Castle Calder from the U.S. where, I’m sure you know, the restaurant industry is very different. The restaurant where Bea works has a pay-for-what-you-drink system, which we’re piloting here. As you know from your many visits to Castle Calder, we prefer an informal atmosphere and this idea goes along nicely with that.”
Jasper finishes with a smile, leaving both Angela Fisher and me gaping at him. Angela recovers first, clearing her throat. “Well, if it’s the thing in America, then by all means.” Then she gives me a withering look and says, “Why you couldn’t have explained that is beyond me.”
Jasper opens his mouth, no doubt to rescue me again, but this time he doesn’t need to. I say, “I suppose I assumed you knew. My apologies.”
Angela narrows her eyes, unsure whether she’s been insulted or not. Before she can come to any conclusions, I excuse myself and head to the service station behind the partition on the far end of the dining room. I barely keep a straight face as I pass by the rest of the party and once I’m out of sight, I let out a loud cough to disguise my laughter.
Jasper comes up behind me and puts a hand on my arm, whispering, “Ssshhh. She’s going to hear you and then your credibility is out the window.”
“Credibility? I think it’s your credibility that’s in question. Anyone who’s ever set foot in a restaurant can tell I’m not a waitress,” I whisper. “Even if the American system is, quote, unquote, very different.”
“I thought that was quite good.” Jasper smiles and drops his hand from my arm. “May as well use it to your advantage.”
“My ineptitude?” I roll my eyes. “I’m giving Americans a bad name.”
“Au contraire. Vive le difference.”
Holy French accent. I think one of my ovaries exploded because Jasper speaking French is s-e-x-y. Times ten. I’m glad we’re whispering because I’m pretty sure I sound a bit breathy when I speak. “I didn’t know you could speak French.”
“Oui.” He takes a step closer. He smells like sunshine with a hint of mint. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Are you? Like what?” I bite my lip. Unintentionally at first, but then I suck gently at my bottom lip with my teeth. Theo used to call it my sexy schoolgirl expression – the one he thought I should wear if I was ever called to the principal’s office. Granted, getting called to the principal’s office as a teacher is a whole different thing, but the idea of it still worked.
Jasper’s eyes widen enough for me to think maybe he and Theo have at least that in common, and I kind of hope their comparisons stop there. “Hmm. Like, I like pineapple on my pizza. I prefer villains to superheroes. And there’s an attic room in the castle, which I’ve always thought would be perfect for a tryst on a rainy afternoon.”
It’s not an invitation. Not an invitation. But my, oh my, Jasper’s words feel awfully deliberate. I give myself a mental high five for keeping my voice steady as I say, “Oh? Perfect how?”
“It’s small, so the bed is right next to the window, and it feels like you’re completely alone looking over the world when you’re up there.” Jasper leans in and his lips barely brush my ear. “Plus, it’s far away from the guestrooms. You don’t have to worry about being quiet.”
You.
My heart sings the word, even as my mind insists he means it in the generic sense. He’s not talking about me – even if one of the tidbits we talked about during our infamous weekend was how vocal we liked our partners to be in bed.
Are you promising to make me scream?
It’s the perfect opportunity to make this about us, but I chicken out as I say, “Sounds like you’ve spent a good amount of time there already.”
“I go up there sometimes when I need some space.”
Alone?
Again, I take the chicken-shit route. “I don’t blame you. I imagine living where you work is intense.”
“Very.” Jasper steps back and peers behind the partition. When he faces me again, his expression is different. The smolder I didn’t even realize was in his eyes is gone, as is the hint of a grin from his mouth. His come-hither look has been replaced by not quite cool detachment, but close. “The Fishers are done with their soup. Scarlett’s clearing, so we should probably check on the mains.”
Shit. Between yesterday at the tennis court and now, I’m sending all the wrong signals. Jasper turns away and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Maybe one day I can see your attic room?”
Jasper stops and turns around slowly. “Maybe,” he says. Then he shrugs and walks away.
And I let him.
Chapter Eight
By the time dinner and clean up are done, I’ve worked myself into the kind of shit mood usually only shopping for clothes inspires. So I explode when Scarlett comes into the kitchen where I’m helping Claire and Mrs. St Julien put away serving dishes and says, “Bea, Angela Fisher is asking to see you. Something about a bottle of Prosecco?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that woman have anything better to do?”
“Whoa. I’m kidding.” Scarlett crosses the floor and peers down at me. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about her, of all people.”
“No. You shouldn’t.” I rattle the bowls I’m stacking for emphasis.
Scarlett puts her hand on my arm. It’s the same spot Jasper reached for earlier in the dining room, but my reaction is totally different. This time I yank my arm away. She takes the bowls out of my hands and, when I glare at her, says, “What’s wrong?”
Scarlett asks this in a way th
at makes me want to sit down and actually tell her. Well, see, I had this little fling with your brother and I think he’s flirting with me, but I keep blowing it and I don’t know why. Instead, I feel my eyes fill and shake my head, turning away.
“Oh my God, Bea, what’s wrong?” Claire asks.
“You were fab tonight, darling. Don’t let a witch like Angela Fisher upset you,” Mrs. St Julien says.
I shake my head again. “I’m tired. Sorry. I don’t mean to get upset. I’m not even that bothered by her. I swear.”
I don’t have to look at her to know Scarlett’s eyes are still trained on me, trying to decide what to believe. I won’t look at her for fear her gaze will pry the truth from me and make a bad night even worse. When she speaks, her voice is bright. “She’s not worth tears, that’s for sure. I say we make an Angela Fisher voodoo doll, just for kicks.”
This gets a smile out of me. Scarlett’s solution to people who piss her off is to make crude voodoo dolls and stick a pin straight through their eye. The dolls don’t work – at least not that I know of – but there’s no denying it’s therapeutic.
Claire laughs. “You still do that? God, I totally forgot about you and your voodoo.”
Mrs. St Julien says, “I’m almost tempted to join you.”
“You should,” Scarlett says. Then to me she says, “If you get a bottle of red from the bar, we’ll take it up to my room and see if we can make one that actually works.”
I smile for the first time in hours. “Did you actually bring your stuff with you?”
“I didn’t, but I have a stash here too.” Scarlett grins. “My first ever doll was inspired by a guest much like Angela Fisher, in fact.”
“Victoria Edmonson,” says Mrs. St Julien. “If ever there was a woman I wanted to push down the stairs, it was her.”
Scarlett puts on her best proper British accent. “Oh, Hannah, be a dear and bring my tea to my room at four o’clock. I expect one biscuit, not two, and please be sure to warm my teacup.”
Mrs. St Julien laughs, followed immediately by a grimace. “All that false politeness. I ran my arse off for that woman, and then she had the nerve to dispute her bill. I remember Paul couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t take any further bookings from her.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t here then,” Claire says. “I feel like I’ve been scarred badly enough by the Fishers to last a lifetime.”
“The Fishers aren’t so bad, aside from Angela,” Mrs. St Julien says. “Which is why we keep taking their bookings.”
“Well, it doesn’t mean we have to like her,” Scarlett says. Then she turns to me. “So? Wine, voodoo dolls, general merriment? Are you in?”
I nod because otherwise I’ll end up going back to my room and sulking. “Yep. I’ll get the wine and meet you upstairs.”
I turn out the door as Scarlett calls, “Get four glasses in case Mum fancies some, would you?”
I smile a little and try to imagine my mom making voodoo dolls with Scarlett and me. She’d be appalled, at least partly because her Southern manners don’t allow her to actually say she dislikes someone outright. She’d more likely narrow her eyes and clutch at her purse, but keep a smile on her face.
Being nice to someone you dislike doesn’t mean you’re fake. It means you’re mature enough to tolerate your dislike towards them.
I head into the bar as that gem of my mom’s hits home and I give myself a mental high five. Chalk one up for maturity on my part. I deserve a damn Oscar for the way I’ve dealt with Angela Fisher all night.
It makes me put on a big smile for Will, who’s still behind the bar pulling pints for some of the Fisher gentlemen. “Hi. I’d like a bottle of red and four glasses, if I could, please?”
Will nods. “Sure thing. Who’s drinking?”
“Scarlett, Claire, and me. Maybe Hannah.” Mrs. St Julien’s first name sounds weird coming from my mouth, but not impossible, which feels a lot like progress.
“Malbec then. Hannah’s favorite. Claire’s too,” Will says.
My ears perk up. Will knows Claire’s favorite wine? Surely that’s a good sign? “Sounds perfect.”
“You want me to open it?” Will asks.
“No. The last thing I need is to be carrying an open bottle of wine up those stairs.” I wonder if there’s a way to steer the conversation back to Claire, but I can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound completely obvious. So I lean over the bar and, keeping my voice low, say, “Good luck with these guys.”
Will grins and says, “They’ll be fine. They’re just blowing off some steam.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” I say, brandishing the bottle of wine.
Will’s laugh follows me out of the bar until I reach the stairs leading up to the family apartment. I didn’t see Jasper in the bar and I’m really hoping to avoid him upstairs, too. Not because our interactions since my failed attempt at flirting were awkward, but because they were nonexistent and I don’t want to face another blow off tonight or worse, a stilted conversation in front of Scarlett.
The powers that be must have decided I’ve paid in full waiting on Angela Fisher tonight because I don’t pass anyone on my way upstairs and, even once I enter the family apartment, the rooms are blessedly empty. I slip my shoes off inside the door and pad through the living room and down the small hallway to Scarlett’s room. She and Claire aren’t here yet, so I plonk down on her bed, lying back on the pile of white eyelet pillows.
Scarlett’s room here is very different from her room in our Atlanta apartment. Here, everything is white and airy with hints of pale blue. There are a few photos tacked up around the edge of her mirror, but there’s no art apart from a drawing of a bird beside a lake. It’s one of Scarlett’s; her signature is visible in the bottom corner. But it’s so different from what she draws now, it makes me wonder what changed and why. I asked her when I first came up here yesterday, but she didn’t answer, even though I know she heard me, so I let it go.
I close my eyes and when I hear voices in the living room, I’m not sure if a few minutes have passed or an hour. Either way, I’m groggy, not waking fully until Scarlett and Claire barge in laughing.
“Are you sleeping?” Scarlett asks, standing over me with her hands on her hips.
“I guess.” I push myself up until I’m more vertical. “What took you guys so long?”
“We had to rescue Will,” Scarlett says. “One of the guys started talking trash on his football team, so Claire and I got Jasper to take over before there was a brawl.”
“Jasper’s a Liverpool fan, but he’s not rabid about it like Will is,” Claire says. “We sent Will to cool off in the cabin. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head.
“And Claire, being the love she is, is giving him some breathing room, but she’s going to check on him momentarily,” says Scarlett. “So it’s only you and me for voodoo tonight, I’m afraid.”
I sit up straighter and raise my eyebrows. Claire hasn’t said a word about any feelings for Will and I don’t know her well enough to ask. But I’m relaxed enough to tease and say, “Do you want to leave a sock on the door handle or something if I’m not supposed to come in?”
“If you’re not supposed…” Claire’s face reddens. “Will and me? Oh, I don’t think we’ll be… I mean, we’re not…”
Scarlett laughs. “Yet. Bea can stay here anyway.”
“Honestly, it’s not like that,” Claire says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
She looks so uncomfortable, I have to say, “I’m teasing. Really. Go and have fun, and if I end up crashing here it’s because Scarlett’s bed has claimed me as one of its own and refuses to let go.”
Claire laughs, but it’s still strained. “After today, I think it’s a definite possibility. Especially after you have a little of that red wine.”
I reach for the bottle I put on the bedside table. “Speaking of, the sooner we crack this open, the sooner I can go back to slee
p.”
“Uh, uh. We have an Angela Fisher voodoo doll to make first,” Scarlett says.
“And on that note, I’m off,” Claire says. She shuffles her feet and looks at me. “Please don’t worry about coming back. Really.”
“I’ll be back unless I’ve had enough wine to ignore Scarlett’s snoring.”
Claire laughs and shuts the door behind her as she walks out. Scarlett shimmies her skirt over her hips and peels her tights off before flopping down on her bed beside me. “Better. God, tonight was murder.”
“Well, luckily not, but I felt like I came close a few times. It’s a good thing there wasn’t any meat on the menu requiring actual knives.”
“You with the steak knives and Angela Fisher in the dining room? Sounds like a game of Cluedo.” Scarlett smiles, but then her face turns serious. “I’m sorry your first few days have been so manic. I feel like you’ve been thrown in to the deep end a bit.”
“No, it’s not your fault. Tonight I was feeling incompetent. You know how that bugs me.”
“I know, but you’re doing fab. You know that, right?” Scarlett asks. Her expression is so earnest I feel like I’ll end up in tears if I don’t break the tension, recounting all the ways Angela Fisher was a bitch tonight. Even though I know damn well Angela Fisher isn’t the thing bothering me.
Well, not the only thing.
But it’s the easier thing to talk about, by a landslide. “I’ll get the hang of it, don’t worry. Angela Fisher is like one of those parents who come in at the start of every school year saying, ‘Just so you understand, little Johnny is gifted and I need to know how you’re going to cultivate his brilliance.’ When, in reality, little Johnny is dealing his ADD meds and Snapchatting pics of his privates while Mommy Dearest is too busy fucking her husband’s business partner to notice.”
Scarlett whoops with laughter. “There’s the Bea Gillespie I know and love.”
“I like to call it like I see it.” I grin, but let it fade. “In all seriousness, I don’t want to be a detriment. I mean, I know Angela Fisher’s horrible, but she’s paying your parents a shit ton of money for this weekend and I don’t want to blow it so badly she demands a refund or something.”
A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) Page 6
