A Bicycle Made For Two

by Mary Jayne Baker

  His puzzled expression lifted into a smile. ‘No, I like you. You’re kind of weird and funny.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t be offended: attractive qualities in a tavern wench. They lend her that air of sophisticated unpredictability that always leaves you checking for your wallet.’

  I laughed. ‘If that was a chat-up line, it needs work.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  I blushed, wondering if I’d misjudged the flirting. ‘I know. Just a joke.’

  ‘This one’s going to be though. Fancy grabbing a drink sometime?’

  The blush deepened, with a more pleasant sensation this time. ‘Er, yeah. That sounds nice.’

  ‘When are you free? Next week?’

  ‘Thursday’s good. That’s our quiet night so I can get off early.’

  ‘Pick you up at eight then?’

  ‘Yep, perfect.’

  ‘You know, for the first time tonight I’m glad I let Harper talk me into coming out.’ Stewart sighed theatrically. ‘Suppose I’d better join him, before Legs 11 over there smothers him to death. See you, Lana.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Ow,’ I said when I felt a punch on my arm 15 minutes later.

  ‘So what happened while I was in the kitchen?’ Tom asked.

  I nodded at Stewart, who’d grabbed himself a seat at Harper’s table. ‘First I humiliated a famous actor-stroke-sauce playboy, then your man there was so impressed he asked me for a date. Stewart, his cousin.’

  ‘Bloody hell, really?’ Tom said. ‘What for?’

  ‘Maybe, just maybe – impossible as it is for my own dear brother to believe – he fancies me.’

  ‘Nah. Must be on drugs.’ He looked more closely at Stewart. ‘Yep, deffo. Face of a twenty-a-day ketamine guzzler if I ever saw one.’

  ‘You’re just jealous. When does anyone ever ask you out?’

  He drew himself up. ‘I’ll have you know I got chatted up just before you started your shift. Six-foot-five fireman with abs like a griddle pan and one of those weird bum chin things that make you look hot and chiselled.’

  ‘Right. And where is he?’

  ‘Oh, I turned him down. I can’t be expected to throw all this—’ he gestured down his lanky frame— ‘away on just any old scrubber.’ He nodded to Harper. ‘So what’s Mr Squeezy Sauce like then?’

  ‘Humble. Modest. A pleasure to talk to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nope. He’s an arse.’

  ‘Who’s the collagen job with him?’

  ‘Dunno, she was at the bar when he came in,’ I said. ‘He mentioned something about his agent.’

  Tom snorted. ‘If she’s his agent, I’m his bloody stunt double.’

  ‘She is a bit heavy on the silicone for a theatrical agent, isn’t she?’ I watched the woman drape herself over Harper as she purred into his ear. ‘And kind of… gropey.’

  Tom’s smartphone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out and swiped at the screen.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he hissed, staring in disbelief at the screen. ‘That… bastard!’

  ‘Eh? Who?’ I tried to get a peek at the screen over his shoulder.

  ‘Harper Brady!’ He thrust the phone at me. ‘He’s only gone and given us a one-star TripAdvisor review! I just got a Google alert.’

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ I glared at Harper. ‘When did he do that? He hasn’t had that woman’s tongue out of his ear since he got here.’

  ‘He must’ve done it on his phone while she was licking him.’ Tom scanned the review. ‘“Long wait, rude staff, historically inaccurate decor. Food mediocre at best. Don’t waste your time.” He hasn’t even had his bloody food yet! Ooooh. Right, I’m responding.’

  I put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t, Tommy. Wait till you’ve calmed down. It’ll only make things worse if you do it while he’s here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be firm but fair.’ He started tapping at his phone. ‘Wait – “running jump” isn’t hyphenated, is it?’

  ‘Seriously, Tom! Leave it.’

  ‘Ok, ok, I’m kidding,’ he said, putting the phone down. ‘I’ll wait till tomorrow. See if I can fob him off with a voucher or something. He won’t take it, but it’ll show anyone who sees his review we made the effort.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s better. That’s what Dad would want us to do.’

  Someone tapped my elbow and I turned to find a worried-looking Jasmine, shuffling nervously.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ I said. ‘Deano picking on you again?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Harper’s table. ‘It’s those people. The man says he’s a vegan.’

  Tom groaned. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Well, did you read him the vegan options?’ I asked. ‘Not that he isn’t perfectly capable of doing that himself, but he seems far too busy not getting a room.’

  ‘Yes.’ She shuffled again in embarrassment. ‘I read them, but…’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jaz, stop fidgeting, you look like you need the loo. Get it out, can you?’

  ‘He says he’s a special kind of vegan. Something called a living foodist.’

  Tom’s eyes saucered. ‘A what?’

  ‘A living foodist. They only eat organic veg or something. And when I told him I didn’t know if we had anything for that, he said he wanted to speak to the manager.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ I muttered. ‘Why tonight, Tom? Why did it have to be tonight? The first time I’ve pulled in over a year and he comes in with the fad dieter from hell.’

  ‘You want me to go?’

  ‘No, you’ll only end up shouting at him over that review.’ I looked at Harper, who was giving me smug side-eyes from his table. ‘Anyway, I get the impression I’m the one he wants.’

  I marched over to Harper’s table.

  ‘Is there a problem, sir?’ I said from behind a fixed smile.

  ‘I’ll say there’s a problem,’ Harper snapped. ‘Your menu’s – Claudia, can you leave my ear alone a sec? – your menu’s the bloody problem. Is this stuff really not organic?’

  ‘Some of it might be. It’s locally sourced, at least. We get it from farms in the area.’

  ‘I didn’t ask if it was local, I asked if it was organic.’ He folded his arms. ‘I can’t eat anything non-organic. It raises my blood pressure.’

  I shot a look at his almost-empty bottle of champagne. Apparently that didn’t have any effect on his blood pressure.

  ‘Look, we do our best to cater for special diets but for something that niche you really should’ve phoned ahead,’ I said with forced patience.

  ‘It never occurred to me I needed to phone ahead just for organic veg. I thought all restaurants were using it now by default.’ He curled his lip. ‘All proper restaurants.’

  ‘This isn’t the big city, Mr Brady. We provide wholesome food with a twist, which is what our customers want.’

  ‘Well it’s not what this customer wants, darling, so sort it.’

  Stewart shook his head. ‘For God’s sake, Harper, just have the soup. She said it’s locally sourced. That’s ethical, isn’t it?’

  ‘It might be ethical but it’s not healthy,’ said the ketchup millionaire. ‘I don’t want my veins poisoned with fertiliser, thanks very much.’

  Stewart sent me an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about this, Lana. He’ll have the soup.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll have something organic or I’ll leave.’

  ‘You’ll have the soup,’ Stewart said firmly. ‘Or you can research your own bloody role.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I managed a bright smile. ‘It’s fine, I’m sure we can sort something. I’ll speak to the chef.’

  ***

  In the brushed aluminium of the kitchen, Deano was stirring a pot of rabbit stew, his
spiky scarlet-dyed hair looking almost demonic in the glow of neon. He was giggling to himself and humming snatches of Christmas tunes – in May – just one of the odd habits that made us wonder if he wasn’t faintly insane.

  He looked round when he heard me come in. ‘Hey, Lana-banana! Always a pleasure, never a chore.’

  Then he lifted me up by the hips and planted a massive smacker on my lips.

  ‘Bleurghh,’ I gagged when he put me down. ‘Don’t do that, Deano! How many times: not appropriate to snog the boss. You remember that little chat we had?’

  He shrugged, turning back to his stew. ‘You’re Italian, aren’t you? I thought you were a passionate and demonstrative people.’

  ‘I’m half Italian. The other half’s English, which means I’m a reserved and sexually repressed people who save the passion for a spot of missionary on a Saturday night.’

  ‘You speak for yourself, love.’

  I curled my toes inside my boots, preparing for what I knew was coming.

  ‘Deano…’ I said in my most wheedling, persuasive voice.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Think you can manage a special request?’

  He turned to face me, frowning. ‘No I can’t. I’m finishing in an hour.’

  ‘Please. As a favour. You can have all my tips for the night if you do it.’

  ‘Hmm. What is it?’

  I scrunched my eyes closed so I didn’t have to look at his face.

  ‘Living foodist,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What the what?’

  ‘Living foodist. Organic vegan. We’ve got one in.’

  I risked opening one eye. As expected, Deano’s face was the perfect storm of horror and disgust.

  ‘But… but why?’ he faltered. He gestured helplessly over his hand-selected ingredients and bubbling pots, as if the idea of someone rejecting all that lovely food was culinary blasphemy.

  ‘I don’t know, some bollocks about fertiliser and blood pressure.’

  ‘But… the venison! I did it in red wine. Red wine, Lana!’

  I put a soothing hand on his arm. ‘I know you did,’ I said in the special softly-softly tone I saved for when he was going off on one. ‘But there’ll always be those who don’t appreciate great artists. You’re like the Vincent van Gogh of the kitchen, that’s all. I bet after you’re dead your rabbit stew recipe’ll be worth buckets.’

  ‘And there’s honey-roasted oxen steaks, and the turnip and rosemary pottage, I spent hours on that,’ he went on, ignoring me. ‘What’s wrong with the pottage? It’s vegan and it’s delicious and I spent hours on it.’

  ‘Is it organic?’

  ‘Well I don’t bloody know, do I? It’s delicious, that’s all I know.’

  ‘You said that already.’ I sighed. ‘Look, isn’t there anything you can do? It’s that sauce guy, Harper Brady. He’s already given us a one-star review. One tweet could do for us.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s the bloody pope!’ Deano said, his voice getting more high-pitched by the second. ‘He can come in here and explain what the problem is with my delicious vegan pottage or he can bugger the buggery off.’

  ‘Come on, Deano, you’re not a comedy French chef in a Looney Tunes cartoon,’ I snapped, abandoning the soothing tone. ‘You haven’t got the moustache for it. You’ve got one job: to keep those knobheads out there in pulled hog and pottage. So drop the attitude, ok?’

  ‘This isn’t attitude, it’s commitment to a craft.’

  ‘Two years of catering college and he’s Marco Pierre White,’ I muttered. ‘Look, will you do it for me? I’m having a shit night. Brady’s been nothing but ball-ache, and I was exhausted before I even started my shift.’

  His expression softened. ‘Phil worse, is he?’

  ‘Yeah. I was up most of last night.’

  Deano scrutinised my face. ‘You do look tired.’ He rolled up his sleeves. ‘All right, Lana, because I love you. I’ll send the kid to the farm shop for supplies, it’ll only take her five minutes on the scooter. Sure I can whip up a quinoa surprise or something.’

  I exhaled with relief. ‘You’re a star. I’ll let Jasmine know she needs to pop out.’

  ‘Am I allowed to snog you then?’

  ‘No. But you can slap my backside every second Saturday for the next three months.’

  He grinned and held out a hand for me to shake. ‘Deal.’

  ***

  Harper guzzled the bean casserole Deano made him with every sign of relish, although it must’ve been a little dry judging by the rate he knocked back the fizz. By eleven, every diner except the Brady party had paid up and gone.

  The blonde woman was still draped over Harper, giggling, and – I strongly suspected from the look on his face – quite possibly copping a feel under the table. Stewart, giving up all pretence at being sociable, had taken out a book. Stifling a yawn, I came out from behind the bar and approached Harper’s table.

  ‘Can I get you the bill?’

  ‘No. Just another bottle of champagne,’ Harper said without looking up. His voice was thick and heavy. More champagne sounded like the last thing he needed.

  ‘I’m afraid the bar’s closed. I can bring you some coffees if you like.’ I scanned his droopy expression. ‘Some black coffees.’

  Harper opened his mouth to object, but Stewart jumped in first.

  ‘Thanks, Lana. Just the bill.’ He looked at Harper. “Don’t forget you’re filming tomorrow.”

  I rang their orders through then brought the bill to them on a little tray. Customers usually got an After Eight as well, but I’d decided Harper didn’t deserve an After Eight. I might not have the power or influence of a Harper Brady but in this restaurant I was queen of the bloody After Eights and damned if I’d let him forget it.

  ‘Right, come on then,’ Harper said when they’d paid, standing up.

  ‘See you next week, Lana?’ Stewart said as he tucked his book away.

  I smiled. ‘Looking forward to it.’

  Harper stared at his cousin. ‘You’re not serious, Stew. You fixed up a date with the waitress?’ He looked me up and down. ‘You could at least have gone for the fit one.’

  ‘The “fit one” is 16, Mr Brady.’

  ‘Shit, she’s not, is she?’ he said. ‘Dodged a bullet there. They should make these kids show ID before they let them buy make-up.’

  Claudia laughed and nuzzled his neck. ‘You’re funny,’ I heard her whisper.

  ‘It’s waitress-owner to you anyway.’ I walked to the door and held it open. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ I shot him a sarcastic thumbs-up. ‘Oh, and thanks so much for the review.’

  When they’d gone, I locked up and dragged my exhausted frame upstairs. Harper’s table was still a mess, strewn with empty wine bottles and dirty goblets, but that could wait until morning. Mentally I added it to my list of chores, right after waxing the ornamental lute and taking the Brasso to the suit of armour.

  The first room on the left was Dad’s. I knocked softly, and a second later Tom’s head poked out.

  ‘He awake?’ I whispered.

  ‘Barely. I just gave him the last of his drugs.’

  I opened the door gently. Dad was propped against a stack of pillows, his eyes heavy. The book Tom had been reading to him was lying open on the end of the bed.

  Dad smiled sleepily when he saw who it was and beckoned me to him. I sank into the chair by his bed, Tom sitting down at the other side, and took the hand he offered.

  ‘Well, little girl, and are you looking after my business?’ he asked, his speech slurred from the morphine.

  ‘Always do, don’t I?’ I said. ‘We’re doing great, Dad. Every table full. We sold three bottles of champagne, too.’

  ‘Ah.’ He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘And how is my Lana?’

  I smiled. ‘Should I be worrie
d you don’t ask that first?’

  ‘No point. I know you’re too clever not to tell me you’re fine.’ He yawned heavily. ‘Like your mother was clever. Too clever.’ He gave a little laugh.

  ‘Have you had fun with Gerry today?’ I asked softly.

  ‘Not much fun for him I think, but it was good to see him. He says I owe him a pint at the Fox when I’m well enough. I think he’s trying to take advantage of my bad memory.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Sign of a true Yorkshireman. You’ll never want for company while you still owe drinks, Dad.’

  ‘So do you have any restaurant gossip for the old man? I miss watching the people.’

  I shot a look at Tom. I didn’t want to tell Dad about the whole Harper Brady TripAdvisor fiasco when he was this drugged up, it might upset him. In the morning, if he was better, he could laugh about it.

  ‘Deano had a bit of a strop,’ I said. ‘Had to cook bean casserole for a fussy vegan. I thought he’d pop when he realised they didn’t want his precious marinated venison.’

  Dad smiled. ‘Quite right too. A talented lad, that one. I was like him once.’

  I shrugged. ‘He does all right, for a certifiable nutjob.’

  Tom winked at me. ‘She’s not telling you the real gossip, Dad. Ask her about Stewart.’

  Dad’s forehead knit into a groggy frown. ‘Stewart? Who is Stewart?’

  I flushed. ‘Just someone I met tonight. We’re going out next week.’

  ‘On a date?’

  ‘That was the general idea, yes.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, I hope you don’t scare him away with your sarcasm.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘She’s a terrible flirt now you’re not around, Dad. Fluttering her eyelashes at the customers to get bigger tips than me.’

  I saw Dad wince, pressing his eyes closed for a moment.

  ‘Is it hurting?’ I said quietly.

  ‘A little, that’s all. Just a little. So he likes my Lana, this Stewart?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. I mean, I hope so.’