Juliet watched Steve climb into the ring and she hurt for him. He loved wrestling so much. He would have been in his element, had he been born into its heyday in Britain. But he wasn’t and could only perform in front of a few die-hard fans and some golden oldies.
‘Go, Steve!’ yelled Floz. Then clamped her hand over her mouth. She’d gotten quite carried away then. The old man next to her was looking at her and she felt as if she should apologize.
‘Sorry about shouting. Hope I didn’t deafen you,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ he said. She couldn’t work out if he was from Yorkshire or America – he had a very odd accent.
‘It’s just that I know him – the Angel,’ Floz went on. ‘He’s marrying my friend next month. He’s such a sweet man.’
‘He’s a very good wrestler,’ said the old man.
‘He lives and breathes it,’ said Floz, while Juliet stood and issued a few choice expletives as Jeff Leppard got her lover in a head-lock. Floz added with a whisper, ‘Mind you, I think I’d rather face Steve in a ring than his missus.’
The old man laughed. ‘What’s his day job?’ he asked.
‘He’s a plasterer,’ said Floz. ‘And a very good one. He’s a damned hard worker.’
‘Bastard!’ yelled Juliet at Jeff.
‘They’re friends really,’ explained Floz. ‘Jeff Leppard is coming out for a drink afterwards with all the other lads, to celebrate Steve and Juliet’s engagement. You’d be welcome to join us. It’s not a private party.’
‘Ah, that’s nice.’ The old man folded his arms. ‘Where are you all going?’
‘The pub just across the road. The Lamp,’ said Floz. ‘They’re putting on some sandwiches and nibbles, I heard.’
Floz was not to know what repercussions that conversation would cause.
There was no way the lads were going to let Steve have just a little wrestlers’ engagement party. Behind Steve and Juliet’s back they had clubbed together and arranged a feast ‘for a Feast’. There was more food than at a Roman orgy, and a few bottles of fizz for the ladies, although the men stuck to their pints. And Guy, who was unfortunately having to work in Burgerov that night, had made and sent over an enormous cake of a wrestling ring, complete with a fondant-Steve with his wings on and Juliet dressed as a sexy demon.
‘Wonder how odd Guy felt, modelling his sister’s tits out of icing,’ laughed Juliet. She was so touched by the warmth in the room. And during Steve’s speech, in which he praised his good mates and praised the wrestling, Floz noticed that the old man who had been sitting next to her had come over to the pub and was watching the proceedings. He was almost squashed by the door flying open when Chianti Parkin entered like a storm-cloud, her dad and uncle at her heels.
It was the first time Floz had seen the legend that was Chianti. She was tall with long swishy hair that she kept ruffling with her hand and tossing back over her shoulders. She had a fatless body, nipped-in waist and thin legs which looked six foot long in the pin-heeled thigh-length boots she wore. But Floz was mostly fascinated by her face. It should have been pretty, since it had all the elements beauty needed – almond-shaped eyes, tiny nose, cheekbones that could have sliced metal, but her mouth was thin and puckered up like a tightly closed drawstring bag. Instead of pretty, she looked hard and characterless, and her true soul showed in that mouth. Her beauty, it was obvious to Floz, was a very thin veneer. Especially when she looked across at the lovely, bouncy Juliet at the other side of the room, grinning with her plump full lips, light dancing in her grey eyes and pulsing out joy and happy vibes as she talked to Alberto Masserati and the Pogmoor Brothers – Kerry and Hilary – who had learned to fight from an early age because they were called Kerry and Hilary, Juliet had told her.
Chianti swept up a glass of wine and sank it with such speed it was as if she were punishing her throat. Then she reached for another. Whilst her father and uncle were mingling, Chianti was staring malignantly at Steve, and slightly tottering on her heels. Then, when Steve threw back his head and laughed, it seemed to trigger off something in her. She strode purposefully over to Steve, and before he could register what was happening, she threw a full glass of the fizz in his face.
‘And you know what that’s for, don’t you?’ she smiled smugly. ‘If anyone does the dumping, it’s me.’
Steve didn’t react in any other way than to wipe the wine from his face with his large hand, which seemed to infuriate Chianti more. She wanted a fight, not some dignified show of indifference from this stupid, thick idiot who had dared to end a date to go and meet with someone else. And what a someone!
‘So where’s your big, fat, ugly fiancée then?’ sniggered Chianti.
‘If you mean me, I’m here,’ said Juliet from behind her. Then she grabbed Chianti’s brassy hair, pulled back her head and poured a full pint of beer straight onto her face.
‘Me extensions!’ yelled Chianti. A few of them, which hadn’t been glued on properly, came away in Juliet’s hand.
‘Juliet!’ yelled Steve. But his formidable fiancée would not be silenced and no one – not even Alberto Masserati – was brave enough to wade in.
‘How dare you and your fake hair come in here and ruin our party,’ Juliet was snarling as she propelled Chianti towards the door. ‘Don’t you ever attack my man again or the next time I’ll pull your fake fingernails out and stick them in your fake knockers!’
Chianti gave a startled yelp as her butt landed on the pavement outside and Juliet brushed her hands.
She bounced back into the pub just in time to see Little Derek lift his finger to Steve.
‘Don’t you ever ask me for work again, lad,’ he growled before slamming his unfinished pint down on the table. Then he marched out of the pub, followed by his brother.
‘Oh, flaming great,’ said Steve with a massive sigh. ‘What the heck did you have to wade in for, Ju?’ Had he been alone he thought he might have cried. Little Derek was the only promoter he knew. He wouldn’t be able to wrestle in shows any more if Little Derek didn’t give him a job.
‘He’ll come round, lad,’ said Fred Zeppelin, giving Steve a squeeze on the shoulder, but the tone of his voice said anything but, because they all knew that Little Derek was a right nasty beggar when he wanted to be, and no one upset his precious girl and got away with it.
‘Oh God,’ said Steve, dropping his eyes to look at his boots. When he lifted his head, the old man with the strange accent was in front of him and smiling. And holding out his hand.
‘May I introduce myself,’ he said. ‘My name is Patrick Milburn. You might know my son, at least by name – William Milburn.’
Steve shook the old man’s hand, out of courtesy.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your—’
Patrick Milburn reached into his pocket and handed over a business card. Steve read it. Then he read it again and he felt little cells in his brain explode. The card had Patrick’s name on it, below three large letters in white and red – GWE. Global Wrestling Enterprises. William – Will – Milburn. The billionaire head of GWE. And this was his dad.
‘I’m on a talent-scouting mission,’ said Patrick Milburn. ‘Son, how would you like to come over to America in the next couple of weeks and talk contracts?’
Chapter 81
Steve was severely hungover the next morning, as were Jeff Leppard, Fred Zeppelin, Tarzan and the enormous and hirsute Apeman, Klondyke Kevin and Big Bad Davy. The Pogmoor Brothers had to take turns in carrying each other home. The party that followed Patrick Milburn’s announcement put the party before Chianti’s entrance fifty miles into the shade.
But now, as Steve lay in bed, his headache wearing off thanks to the tablets and water that Juliet had given him, reality was intruding on his dream.
‘Nice to be asked,’ he said, putting his arm around Juliet. ‘But I can’t go. Not really.’
Juliet shrugged him off. ‘What do you mean, you can’t go?’
‘I wouldn’t go without yo
u. And I wouldn’t ask you to leave your family.’
‘You are going, Steven Feast. And I’m coming with you.’
‘What about the baby? It will kill your mum and dad if they can’t see the baby grow up.’
Juliet fell back against him. ‘Steve, I don’t know how all this will play out. All I know is that you’ve wanted this chance all your life and you are going to take it. I imagine you’ll be on the road quite often; I’ll come home then and stay with Mum and Dad. And when I’m away from them – and you – there’s always Skype. We’ll work it out. Somehow. Other people do.’
‘I’d love to do it, Ju. Just for a few years.’
‘You are going to. Don’t argue with me. You’re always telling Guy to go for it, and now it’s your time to shine, honey.’
‘You are so deliciously bossy, Juliet Miller. I love you more than wrestling, do you know that? So what do you have to say to that then?’ Steve kissed her softly on her lovely, bossy mouth.
And for once, Juliet Miller, who knew that if Steve Feast loved her more than wrestling, he loved her a hell of a lot, didn’t want to say anything.
Floz drove to the newsagent’s to get the Sunday papers, but didn’t drive straight home. Instead she took a long detour out into the country, through Maltstone and out on the Higher Hoppleton Road. It was a farm-heavy area and some of the fields still had huge rolls of harvested hay in them. Scarlet poppies were out in force, standing tall, reverently still and silent. She passed a trio of old ladies picking the last of the fat blackberries from the hedgerows to make lovely apple and blackberry pies with, so she imagined. Floz wasn’t sure where the cottage was so drove quite slowly, but then she spotted the For Sale notice cancelled out with a diagonal Sold sticker. She pulled in, curious to see why Hallow’s had gotten under Guy’s skin so much.
She pushed open the gate and had to walk down the drive for a while before the house came fully into view, as the grasses in the garden were thick and huge. But as soon as her eyes closed on the house, she could see exactly why Guy Miller had coveted this cottage since he was a child.
Like Guy, she didn’t see the peeling paintwork on the windows, and when she looked through the glass, the crumbling plaster and awful carpet didn’t register. She saw a roaring fire in the huge inglenook, she saw herself reading and sprawled out on a huge squashy sofa with an old black friendly cat like lovely Stripies purring on her knee. She saw Guy Miller in his chef’s whites, bringing out a big tray of cheese and bread and pâté for them to share. Floz gasped. Where had that thought come from? Why was she thinking about sharing a house with Guy Miller of all people?
Floz felt quite wobbly as she walked back to the car.
Chapter 82
First thing Monday morning, Guy got a call from his solicitor to say that all the paperwork on the restaurant was now complete. Burgerov was officially his to close up, gut, fumigate and raise magnificently like a Phoenix from the ashes. He walked into work early with renewed vigour, ready to do battle. And because he walked in early, he found Varto sliding a bottle of vodka from the bar into his locker.
‘Good morning, Varto,’ smiled Guy. ‘Whilst you’re in that locker, get your coat and all your belongings and leave my restaurant. You’re sacked.’
Varto turned to him with a cocky sneer on his face. ‘You know you can’t sack me,’ he said. ‘It’s not your restaurant. It’s Mr Moulding’s restaurant and I think he have something to say if you try to sack me. He very friendly with my mama, you understand.’
Guy was stunned. Varto really had no idea that the ownership of Burgerov had been transferred. He thought some gossip might have leaked out, but Varto appeared to know nothing. Mentally Guy clapped his hands together, and prepared to enjoy himself.
‘So you didn’t know that I’m the new boss? Kenny never told “your mama” that he’s sold Burgerov to me – and as your new boss, I’m sacking you for stealing that vodka?’
‘Ees lies,’ said Varto. ‘You are not the owner.’ Guy noted that he never mentioned it was lies that he was caught nicking the vodka.
‘You go and ask Kenny then. Oh, sorry you can’t. You see, I’m presuming that by now Kenny will be on a flight to Spain. With Mrs Moulding. Goodbye, Varto. I’ll have your P45 sent on.’
Varto started spouting very dramatic East European at Antonin; the latter returned it, then addressed Guy with the same arrogant mask on his face.
‘If Varto go, I go.’
‘Burgerov then,’ said Guy calmly, but with a giggle in his head.
‘And Igor and Stanislav will come as well. You will have no one to run your stinking restaurant.’
Well, if that was a blackmail technique, it didn’t work. Guy stood with his arms folded and a grin of high amusement.
‘I’ll take that as your formal resignation, shall I?’ he said. ‘Gina, you’ll be a witness to that?’
‘I will,’ said Gina, who was delighted to hear that Guy was taking over and welcomed the new regime with her whole heart.
After much slamming of locker doors and presumably swearing, Igor, Stanislav, Varto and Antonin stormed out of the restaurant, pausing by the gate to give Guy a chance to calm down and call them back, offer them a pay rise and apologize on bended knee. They didn’t expect to see Gina stick a handwritten note in the window announcing that Burgerov would be closed until further notice.
The morning was spent cancelling the few reservations that had been made and ringing the builders to ask if they were able to come any sooner than they were booked to do. Since all Guy’s staff had walked out, he might as well start the transformation before the end of the month. Obviously he would keep Gina on, and Sandra the accounts lady and old Glenys the cleaner, and pay them whilst they were off. It couldn’t have worked out better for him. Kenny hadn’t bothered to ring him and let him know that the transaction had been completed far earlier than anticipated, but then Kenny had been mentally free of the restaurant and all its worries since the morning when Guy had offered to take it off his hands. Now Burgerov was no more. In a couple of months’ time, it would be called by another name, have keen and clean staff and a menu that would call people like a siren.
The King was dead. Long live the King.
Chapter 83
Floz was on Guy’s mind. He wasn’t stupid – he’d realized, of course, that Floz had been talking about her husband when she told him the story about the man with the self-destruct button. Then he thought of her beautiful letters to the fictitious Nick, and how much love she obviously had inside to give. She must have a harvest of it, great store cupboards of it saved for someone very special. He wished he could have been its recipient. He’d return that love ten-fold to her.
Her lovely face was in his head constantly, seared on his frontal lobe. He knew he just had to come right out with it and ask her to dinner – no messing. He didn’t want to give fate a chance to screw things up for him again. He went to bed that night with a very simple plan formed in his brain.
The next morning Guy stood by the outside doors of Blackberry Court. He had rehearsed at least a million times what he was going to say, and a million times he had stuttered and given a more rubbish variation of what he had said before. It was a beautiful day, crisp and bright, with just enough breeze to nudge the bronze leaves that still clung stubbornly to the trees.
‘Come on, Guy,’ he egged himself on. His arm came out and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened for an eternity. Ironic, he laughed, that he had found the guts to take this one step further and she wasn’t in. Then he heard her sweet voice: ‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hi, it’s Guy. Floz, can I ask you a favour?’
‘Come up,’ she said and buzzed the lock open.
Stage one complete. He took the stairs three at a time. She was just opening the door. She was wearing jeans and a red top and her hair was loose and messy around her shoulders.
‘Come in, Guy,’ she said, feeling ever so slightly shivery. He was wearing a blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and
dark chest hairs were just visible at the base of his throat.
‘Hi Floz,’ he said. ‘Look, er . . .’ Go for it, Guy. ‘I wonder if you could spare me half an hour. I need to go over to Hallow’s and . . .’ Shite, he couldn’t remember what he’d thought of as an excuse to get her there. ‘I could really do with someone’s opinion on . . .’ think, think, you berk ‘the best layout before the builders start knocking walls down.’ Phew.
‘Course,’ smiled Floz. ‘I’d love to see inside anyway. Not sure I’ll be much help, but happy to have a nosy. I’ll get my coat.’
Stage two accomplished.
Guy’s leg was doing a nervous shake on the clutch. He could have done a formidable Elvis impression from the waist down. He kangaroo-ed round the corner and apologized.
‘Sorry, I’ve only been driving for twenty-three years,’ he said.
‘It’s the extra weight you’re carrying today,’ said Floz. ‘It’s obviously affected something technical under the bonnet that I couldn’t possibly know the name of.’
They drove on in silence. Guy felt he should really say something sparkling and witty. ‘Lovely weather today.’ Oh FFS, Guy!
‘I love autumn,’ said Floz as they passed a field bursting with red poppies. ‘It’s such a beautiful season.’
‘All the best conker trees were round here when I was a lad,’ smiled Guy. One day he’d help his own children land the prickly cases. Then they would open them, pull out the brown shiny conkers, take them home and soak them in vinegar to harden them up for contests at school, just as Perry had done with him.
Guy pulled onto the land of Hallow’s Cottage. The owner had no qualms about lending Guy the keys for the house so he could measure up and invite his builder friends in. Guy pushed open the creaky door and they walked into the stale, slightly damp air of the cottage.
An Autumn Crush Page 29
