The Night That Changed Everything

by Laura Tait

  I watch Jamie place a metal stirrer into a cocktail shaker to create a makeshift bell. He uses it to call time.

  ‘I don’t get why you’re always single,’ I say, nodding at the bundle of cards stashed down the side of the till.

  Jamie was with Freckly Fiona for the four years before uni, but since then his longest relationship has been a couple of months.

  ‘You get tons of girls coming in here to see you.’

  Jamie draws his phone from his pocket for no apparent reason and places it on the bar. The final couple say goodbye as they leave.

  ‘I just don’t want to risk messing anyone around after what happened with Fiona.’

  I remember getting regular updates on her reaction after Jamie told her he didn’t want to do long-distance at uni. She wrote to him every day for four months, then turned up at his halls with a collage she’d made with photos of them together. That’s why everyone knew him at uni, apparently, because after that he was famous: the lad with the stalker ex.

  I used to find all this quite amusing, but for the first time I can understand how Fiona must have felt hearing that the person she loved didn’t want her any more. And who am I to laugh? I’m the fella who went round to my ex’s house with an engagement ring.

  ‘I know we dated for ages,’ he says, ‘but I never thought it was for life.’

  Jamie goes to lock the door.

  ‘So now you only want to get into something if you know it’s for real?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly. I promised myself I’d always be straight up with people.’

  ‘And you haven’t met anyone you felt like that with? Not even Tidy Tania?’

  When Jamie retakes his seat he twirls the ice in his tumbler for a few seconds. ‘Not even Tidy Tania.’

  I should have known this route of conversation would lead my mind to Rebecca. Jamie would never break any of her confidences, but he is adamant she’d never do the online dating thing, and he’s probably right, but it’s still hard not knowing what she is doing.

  Whenever something happens my first instinct, even after all these months, is to call her, because she was my first tell, and I was hers, and you take that kind of thing for granted until it’s gone.

  Sometimes I find myself wondering how the cinema is coming along, or how she is getting on in the flat on her own.

  Jamie downs the dregs of his whisky and tells Erica he’ll finish clearing up.

  ‘Listen to us,’ says Jamie. ‘Talking about relationships on Valentine’s Day. All we need are some pyjamas and we could have a sleepover.’

  He starts to remove glasses from the washer. Martini, flutes and hurricane glasses hang from a beam above the optics, while each tumbler has its own shelf around the tills. The faceted beverage glasses are stacked upside down on the bar itself. Everything has a place.

  ‘Mate, with your new menu and my natural charisma,’ he says, and I loop my eyes, ‘business has never been so good.’

  ‘We should celebrate with a cocktail,’ I say.

  ‘OK, but I’ve made enough tonight. You’re up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘It’s got booze in it – it’s practically gravy.’

  ‘Touché.’

  He collects three bottles from the back of the bar and signals for me to come round.

  ‘We’ll have Rob Roys,’ he says. ‘It’s pretty much a Manhattan but with Scotch instead of rye or Bourbon.’

  ‘What am I doing?’

  He fetches a measure. ‘Four ounces of Scotch, two ounces of sweet vermouth and five or six dashes of bitters. But first you need some ice.’

  I get to work.

  ‘Shaken, not stirred,’ says Jamie, in the voice of Sean Connery.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know the reason we shake instead of stir?’

  ‘No.’

  Having measured everything out, he points me to the shaker, which I place over the glass.

  ‘Shaking with ice makes the drink go colder quicker. It takes twice as long to get the drink to minus seven Celsius – that’s the lowest it will go – if you stir. Twenty shakes, forty stirs. But if you shake for too long, the ice will dilute the drink. Try it.’

  I do as he says.

  ‘What now?’ I say.

  ‘Use the strainer to pour it into the Martini glasses, then garnish with a little bit of lemon zest.’

  When I’m done he lifts his Rob Roy, takes a sip and pouts. ‘This is almost as good as one of mine.’

  We cheers to that, then Jamie starts wiping the tables.

  I find another cloth and join in. ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’

  ‘I wish I could offer you something full time,’ he says. ‘The lease only allows food four nights a week, and even then it’s supposed to be bar snacks.’ He picks up a discarded menu. ‘We’re already pushing it with your Brazilian jim jams.’

  I laugh. ‘It’s fine, I get it.’

  ‘I’m loving working with you, though,’ he adds.

  ‘Me too, mate.’

  We trade a grin.

  ‘This is all getting a bit homo-erotic,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk about tits or something.’

  We pause to sip our Rob Roys, which do taste pretty good even if I say so myself.

  ‘Hey, did I tell you I’ve got a place at a mixology competition?’ says Jamie. ‘The London heats are at the end of the month. The winner goes through to the national finals.’

  I pause mid-wipe, impressed. ‘I reckon your parents would be pretty proud if they took the time to come and see what you’re doing here.’

  Jamie twists his lips to one side but doesn’t reply. He clears the bar top and circles his cloth, round and round.

  ‘The lease is up for renewal in October,’ he says casually.

  ‘Is it?’ I say.

  He stops and looks at me intently. ‘The lease that says we can only serve food four nights a week – the terms are up for renewal in October.’

  What is he saying?

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying, maybe we should go into business together?’

  I stand there, dumb having struck me right on the chin, and it takes me a moment to come round.

  ‘But I haven’t got any money – I’ve even had to disown my Malayan tiger.’

  ‘I’ve got a good relationship with the bank.’

  I let his offer sink in. Money aside, it does feel kind of . . .

  . . . right.

  It’s like the glasses: everything has a place, and maybe mine is here, with my best mate, doing something I love.

  ‘I mean, we’d have to get a proper business plan together,’ says Jamie. ‘And it wouldn’t be something you could just back out of after a couple of months if you got bored.’

  I’m still taking it in. ‘No, course not.’

  My eyes settle on stencilled letters that spell out BLOODY MARY on the wall. The ultimate cocktail, Jamie once told me, because it covers almost every taste sensation – sweet, salty, sour and savoury. The only one that is missing is bitter. It feels symbolic somehow but it’s too late in the day for me to work out why.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I hear Jamie say. ‘Shall we sit down next week and talk it through?’

  I look at him. ‘Mate, let’s fucking do this.’

  We shake on it, and then Jamie returns to his side of the bar.

  ‘One for the road, Nicholls?’ he says.

  ‘One for the road, Hawley.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  REBECCA

  Saturday, 28 February

  It doesn’t take long to locate the source of the wolf whistle.

  ‘All right, darlin’!’ a ruddy-cheeked workman hollers, leaning against the scaffolding, mug in hand. He looks a little surprised when I cross the road, and full-blown horrified when I stop in front of him at the entrance to East House Pictures.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I ask.

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘I though
t you were trying to get my attention?’

  I know I’m being mean, but I’ve just had to commute into town on a Saturday morning, plus I’m nervous about later, and I really have always wondered what builders who catcall girls on the street are actually hoping to achieve.

  ‘Was just paying you a compliment, wasn’t I?’ He shrugs. ‘Everyone loves a compliment.’

  The workman turns away, revealing an arse crack attempting to escape low-slung jeans.

  ‘Are we playing builder cliché bingo?’ I ask him.

  ‘Eh? Look, feel free to carry on walking, love.’

  ‘Feel free to put down your tea, pull up your pants and stop harassing girls in the street.’

  ‘Stop breaking Si’s balls and come and check this place out,’ says Bobby, appearing from inside and chucking me a hard hat. The builder looks even more horrified as he registers who I am.

  ‘He’s making it so easy, though.’

  I follow Bobby inside.

  ‘Wow.’

  The internal structure is all in place now, including my central staircase that leads up to where the second screening room and jazz cafe will be housed.

  I stare up at the high ceiling, which now has decorative moulding around its edges and a huge groove in the centre, where the chandelier will be hung.

  ‘Bobby, it looks stunning.’

  ‘Does, doesn’t it?’ someone who isn’t Bobby says.

  I spin around. ‘Oh, Adam! Hi.’

  ‘Hey.’

  I haven’t seen Adam since the Goode Grand Party – just exchanged the odd abrupt email, but I’m starting to realize that’s just his style. I’m less sensitive to his criticism these days so as he scrutinizes the staircase, I’m more than ready for whatever he’s about to hit me with.

  ‘You were right to insist on restoring the balustrade. The way you’ve positioned each section around it is genius.’

  ‘Careful, Larsson.’ I turn away to hide my blushes. ‘That was almost a compliment.’

  ‘Almost.’ He smiles. ‘I still think the ornate brass fittings are a huge waste of the budget.’ I’m about to bite but I catch him winking at Bobby. ‘I mean, where do you get such garish inspiration?’

  ‘Your mum’s bedroom,’ I tell him, which is childish but satisfying, and makes them both laugh.

  Bobby finishes the tour and I’m on a high by the time we’re back at the entrance. If I’ve ever worked longer and more arduous hours in my career than I have the past few weeks, I can’t recall it. In fact, I think if I’d discovered any on-site catastrophes this morning, I’d be throwing myself off the top of the scaffolding.

  ‘Are you guys sticking around?’ Bobby asks, discarding his hat and high-vis jacket. ‘Me and the boys are heading to the cafe for a bacon sarnie if you fancy it?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Adam says. ‘Giamboni?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ I tell them. And I truly am sorry because seeing the cinema’s progress has put me in a camaraderie kind of mood. And I’m hardly doing cartwheels of excitement about my plans for today.

  ‘What you up to?’ asks Bobby.

  ‘Just meeting someone.’

  ‘Someone? It’s a man, isn’t it? I thought you were a bit dressed up for a trip to a building site at ten in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not dressed up,’ I snap, looking down at my khaki green dress and leather jacket like it’s made of bin liners soaked in kebab meat. It’s not that dressy. Maybe it’s the boots – I rarely wear heels at all. Not that they’re high, and I thought I could get away with it as Adam and Bobby are both so tall.

  I glance at Adam but he’s looking at his phone.

  ‘Come on,’ Bobby says, ignoring my discomfort. ‘Spill. Who is he?’

  ‘Just a guy.’ Urgh, why can’t I talk about this without sounding like a fourteen-year-old? I take a deep breath. ‘He’s called Michael. Now do you think I should bring forward the order for the brass fittings as we’re ahead of schedule?’

  ‘Where’d you meet him?’ interrupts Bobby.

  Sigh. ‘At the pub.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early for a date?’

  ‘We’re going for lunch,’ I say defensively, even though I thought the same thing.

  Michael said that it’s easier to get to know someone on a daytime date. Which is all very well except I could do with a bit of Dutch courage, but if I start drinking Scotch in the morning it won’t be long before Jemma and Jamie are calling another intervention.

  ‘Well, you look lovely,’ Bobby is saying. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely, Adam?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Adam agrees, without taking his eyes off his phone as he punches in a text.

  ‘That your missus?’ Bobby asks him.

  ‘There’s a missus?’ I ask, enjoying the deflection.

  Adam looks confused.

  ‘The one that gave you sex vouchers for Valentine’s,’ Bobby clarifies.

  ‘Oh, that never worked out.’

  I snort, glad I’m not the only one getting ribbed. ‘Shame – she sounds . . .’

  ‘Like your mum,’ Adam says drily.

  ‘My mum’s dead,’ I tell him, deadpan, though I’m well aware I asked for that.

  ‘Shit, Rebecca, sorry.’ He looks mortified. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I tell him, with a small smile. ‘I’m out of here – enjoy your brekkie, lads.’

  Jemma calls me just as I’m leaving the site. I’d tried to phone her this morning but there was no answer.

  ‘Hey, Rebecca,’ she greets me with a yawn. ‘It’s me. There’s an emergency. I need you. You have to leave whatever you’re doing immediately and come over, otherwise you’re a terrible friend. Et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘Jemma? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I told you to give me a missed call if you need me to rescue you. That’s not why you called?’

  ‘No, I thought you were joking. And I haven’t even met him yet. But you’ve missed your calling in life – you should totally be an actress.’

  ‘Fuck that – the camera adds ten pounds. What’s up?’

  ‘I just want your advice,’ I explain, crossing the road towards the station. ‘If I decide pretty quickly I’m not interested, how long do I have to stay before I’m allowed to leave?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve asked the right person – this exact thing happened to me the other week. Knew as soon as I saw him I didnae fancy him. I met him online, and at first I thought he’d used fake photos on his profile, but I think what he might have done is Photoshop his face on someone else’s body. Not even like a body builder or anything – just someone with a normal body as this guy had really skinny arms and legs then a huge belly. Kind of looked pregnant, and you should have seen his—’

  ‘Anyway,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘I thought, I can’t just turn around and walk straight out again – that would be rude. Besides, he might have a great personality. He didn’t, though. He was really arrogant, and a wee bit racist. Particularly hates the Scottish, it would seem.’

  ‘So what time did you leave?’

  ‘Met him at eight and left about nine-ish, I think. Maybe just after.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good to know. An hour is enough, then?’

  ‘No, I mean nine the next morning.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope, I find it really hard to get out of those situations,’ she explains sadly. ‘God, I feel sick just thinking about it.’

  ‘Um . . . OK, then. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for. Want to meet in Arch 13 tomorrow for a debrief?’ It’s her new favourite bar since I took her there last month, and Jamie adores her.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  When I hang up and head down into the Underground, I feel more nervous than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  BEN

  I’m wrenched from a deep, Saturday-morning slumber by my ringtone. Groaning, I reach down to the bit
of floor where a bedside table will be when I’ve got some cash to buy one.

  ‘I bought a cat,’ opens Russ.

  ‘A cat?’

  ‘You know – meow, meow.’

  ‘I know what a cat is, I just didn’t see you as a cat man.’

  ‘CAT MAN,’ he declares like the Hollywood voiceover fella. ‘Seriously, though, neither did I, but Sarah Ward loves them, doesn’t she? So I told her I was thinking of getting one, which was obviously a lie, and she said she’d come pick one with me.’

  I hear the postman descend the steps to my flat, then I watch whatever he puts through the letterbox drop to the floor.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say to Russ. ‘Who’s Sarah Ward?’

  ‘She’s the new you, but fitter. I’d been trying to pluck up the courage to ask her out and then, boom, we’re at the rescue centre.’

  ‘Dear God.’

  I hear him call the cat, repeating the name ‘Mildred’ four times. ‘She’s still getting used to her new name,’ he explains.

  ‘So what happened with Sarah?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we got the cat to the flat and I’m giving Sarah the tour. We’ve got as far as my bedroom when little Mildred . . .’

  He inhales, as though preparing himself.

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘Mildred starts pissing all over my bed.’

  I crease up.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly the kind of damp patch I’d hoped for.’

  After a few seconds Russ’s laughter deflates into a sigh.

  ‘I realize I’m a ridiculous human being,’ he says. ‘I’m just ready to settle down. Kids and that; holidays in Gran Canaria, if we can get a cat sitter.’ I hear him click his tongue for Mildred before tutting in frustration. ‘I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask her out?’ I say.

  He scoffs. ‘Because for me to ask someone out face to face I need to build myself up into a complete state of self-loathing. I’m calling myself a worthless coward; telling myself I’m going to die alone; basically, that I might as well jump off a cliff because I can’t even tell a girl I like her. The little man in my head is becoming so abusive that I’m at the point of applying for a restraining order, and only then, because I can’t take any more, can I do it. It takes months, years sometimes.’