by Kate Hewitt
She wasn’t a big drinker normally; a glass of wine on the weekend, maybe, or a cocktail out with friends was all she was usually up for, and it didn’t take long for her to realise that three glasses of champagne was at least one and possibly two too many.
Her head was spinning and so was the room, and everyone’s voices started to sound very loud.
“You all right, darling?” Ruth asking, touching her shoulder, and Rachel had to blink her mother into focus.
“Yesh.” She tried again. “Yes, I’m fine.”
Ruth frowned, and from the corner of her eye Rachel saw Esther smirk. Suddenly she felt near tears. How stupid was she being, getting tipsy with her family? It just made her feel even more pathetic.
“I just need the loo,” she murmured, and walked as steadily as she could from the table towards the bathrooms in the back. Someone was having a crisis in the ladies’—Rachel heard raised voices and then sobbing and so she decided to give the loos a miss. Despite the three glasses of champagne she didn’t need to go, anyway; she’d just wanted to escape her family’s pitying, eagle eyes.
She didn’t want to go back to the table yet, though. The thought of being around all that blatant happiness made her feel even more miserable—and the fact that it made her miserable, even worse. What sort of cow was she, that she couldn’t put her own problems aside to celebrate her sister’s engagement? A miserable cow, apparently.
She walked past the loos to the door at the end of the hallway that led to a little enclosed courtyard behind the pub, where the bins were kept.
Rachel stepped outside and breathed in deeply the smell of rubbish and coal smoke with just a whiff of fresh summer air. She leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes, willing the world, if it couldn’t change, then at least to stop spinning.
“Are you areet?”
Her eyes flew open as she took in the shadowy, hulking figure that took up the entire doorway. “Sorry…?”
“Are you areet?” The voice was low, the accent decidedly Cumbrian, although Rachel recognised what he was asking. Was she all right? She scuttled out of the way as the man came into the courtyard and heaved a black bag full of rubbish into the bin, his impressive biceps bulging.
“Yes, I’m fine.” She tried to smile. “Just getting some fresh air. Sorry, am I not supposed to be out of here?”
“I don’t mind.” The man shrugged, his gaze assessing her, probably trying to figure out how drunk she was. Rachel recognised him now—he was the man who had been behind the bar, pulling pints.
He had very closely cut dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a muscular figure that undoubtedly helped in his line of work: bartender cum bouncer. He folded his arms, an intricate tribal tattoo swirling across one bicep, and gave her a level look.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Three glasses of champagne, but I’m a lightweight.” She tried to sound airily insouciant. “Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to embarrass myself.”
“I’m not worried, but you look as if you could bowk all over my shoes.”
“Bowk…?”
“Vomit.”
“Oh. Right.” Her stomach was feeling a bit queasy, now that she thought of it, but Rachel didn’t think she was going to be sick. She was known in her family for having a stomach of steel. “I think I’m okay,” she said, but the bartender didn’t look convinced.
“How about a glass of water?”
“Seriously, I’m fine.” Rachel straightened, keeping her chin tilted at a slightly haughty angle as she sought to move past him and back into the pub. Unfortunately, with her first step, the world spun a little more and despite what she’d just assured him, her stomach heaved in protest.
The man grabbed her elbow to steady her. “Careful,” he murmured and Rachel closed her eyes, willing the ground to stop moving underneath her feet. She’d only had three glasses of champagne, after all. Three small glasses. Her stomach heaved again, her insides twisting viciously, and she tried to take another step, back to the safety of the pub.
“I’m fi—” But she wasn’t. Rachel clapped a hand over her mouth but it was too late. Unable to stop herself, she bowked all over the bartender’s work boots, just as he’d been afraid of.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she retched helplessly, horrified and humiliated, while he watched. Finally, the unbearable episode came to an end.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, doubled over, her hands on her knees, her stomach feeling as if it had been wrung inside out. “I really didn’t think that was going to happen.”
“I did,” the man returned dryly. “Stay right there.” He left for only a few seconds, returning with a glass of water and a roll of paper towel. “Here,” he said, passing her over a sheet. “Wipe yourself off and then have a drink.”
Rachel tidied herself up while the man rinsed his boots under the outdoor tap in the courtyard. She felt utterly wretched.
When he’d finished, he silently handed her the glass of water. “Drink.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, and took a a few sips of water. Her stomach, thankfully, had settled right down and the world no longer spun. She felt astonishingly sober all of a sudden, which was both a good and bad thing in that moment. She wouldn’t have minded a little blurring at the edges of everything right about now.
“Does this happen to you fairly often?” she asked with an attempt at a smile. “In your line of work?”
“No.” The man regarded her stonily. “I toss anyone out who has had one too many. I don’t run a pub for drunks.”
“Ah.” She felt suitably chastened. “I really didn’t have that much to drink—”
“Obviously, you’d had enough.”
Unable to disagree, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose that is true.” She took another sip of water, trying not to cringe under the man’s unsmiling scrutiny. She felt even smaller and more miserable than when she’d been sitting with her family, swilling champagne.
“Whatever it is,” he said abruptly, “it’s not as bad as all that.”
Rachel looked up from her glass of water, shocked. The man still wasn’t smiling; he stood with his arms folded, biceps rippling, a resolute look on his face. “I’m sorry…?”
“Most people get kaleyed because something’s gone wrong in their lives and they don’t want to face it. All I’m saying is, it’s not that bad.”
It took Rachel a second to recognise the Cumbrian word for drunk. “How would you know?” she retorted, both stung and touched.
He shrugged one powerful shoulder. “Because nothing is.”
Okay, now she was just stung. “Speak for yourself, then.”
“Because,” he continued implacably, “when the buzz wears off and the puke is cleaned up? The problem is still there. You haven’t done it or yourself any good.”
“Wise words from a bartender,” she managed. “Clearly you’re in the wrong profession.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed, unruffled. Rachel felt petty and childish for snapping at him, especially considering what she’d just done to his boots.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “You’re right, of course. Getting drunk doesn’t help at all. And it was dreadful of me to be sick all over your boots. Thank you for—for everything.” The man inclined his head, as unsmiling as ever. Rachel felt even more cowed. “I suppose I should be getting back.”
“I suppose you should.”
She bit her lip, discomfited by this man’s quiet stillness. Who was he, anyway? He looked vaguely familiar, but she’d never been in The Bell before and she didn’t think she’d seen him around the village.
“Thanks,” she said again, and then she slipped past him back into the pub.
She made her way back into the table, everyone exclaiming as she sat down.
“Rachel, where were you?”
“Are you all right, darling? You look a little peaky.”
Esther simply gave her one of her narrowed, knowing looks, as if sh
e’d witnessed the whole uncomfortable scene out in the courtyard—a prospect that nearly made Rachel shudder.
“I’m fine,” she said wearily. “Just needed some air.” She felt flat suddenly, and so very tired. All she wanted to do now was go home and sleep.
Miriam gave her a beaming smile. “More champagne?” she asked, and suppressing a shudder, Rachel shook her head.
The next morning, she felt rather ridiculously hungover, and after making herself a strong, sweet cup of tea, she sat at the dining room table with a pad of paper and a pen, determined to make a list of everything she needed to do to end the wedding period of her life. Once she’d done that, maybe she’d be able to move on. See the bright side of life. Make lemonade with the lemons she’d been given, and all that banal nonsense. She sighed and pulled the pad of paper towards her.
Put house on market, she wrote first, the words still giving her a pang of sorrow. Letting go of that house and all it had represented would always be a wrench. Store dress. Write to family and friends. She chewed the end of her pen, wondering what else she needed to do. Hold head up high? Soldier on?
With a dispirited sigh Rachel pushed the pad of paper away from her and took another sip of tea. She wanted to jump to the next, happier stage of her life but she knew she couldn’t. She just had to slog through the muck and mire of this one, and some day, she’d hope and pray that it would come to an end. She’d look up and the sky would be brighter, the sun would be shining. Philosophically speaking, of course. This was Cumbria, after all.
“Feeling better this morning?” Anna asked as she came into the dining room cradling her own cuppa.
“Yes, a bit. Sorry, I hope I didn’t bring your evening down.” Rachel grimaced. “I had a bit too much to drink. Stupid of me, I know. I’m such a lightweight.”
“Don’t worry, you didn’t,” Anna answered. “And I understand why you might have—”
“Don’t, please.” Rachel held up her hand. “I know you mean it well, everyone does, but I’m getting tired of everyone treating me as if I’m a terminal cancer patient who isn’t accepting her diagnosis. What happened was hard and horrible and it will take me a while to get over it, but I just want to move on and be seen as normal again.”
Anna ducked her head. “Sorry…”
“And I’m sorry for snapping,” Rachel said on a sigh. “I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.” She let out a sudden, surprising laugh. “I snapped at the bartender last night, after I was so nicely being sick all over his boots.”
“What?” Anna looked both shocked and intrigued. “You were sick?”
“I know, I couldn’t believe it. I never get sick like that. But I went outside for a bit of fresh air and the bartender was back there. I ended up spraying his shoes.” Rachel closed her eyes in remembered mortification. “He was actually quite nice about it, really.” In a stony sort of way.
“Wow.” Anna shook her head, smiling. “I missed all the excitement.”
“You had enough of your own.” Rachel pulled the pad of paper back towards her. She needed to get on with things. And she didn’t really want to dwell on her unfortunate vomiting episode.
“On an entirely separate subject,” Anna said, “I have a solution for you and Miriam.”
Rachel looked up, surprised. “A solution for what?”
“Your living arrangements. I’ve talked to Simon and he thinks it’s a great idea.”
Anna’s beaming smile made Rachel feel a little wary. Simon did? “What’s this idea, then?”
“You and Miriam can both be lodgers here at the vicarage. Simon will charge you a nominal fee so it’s all above board.”
“Lodgers?” Rachel rolled the idea around in her mind. It was better than freeloading, but…a lodger in her own home? Except of course it wouldn’t be her own home anymore, would it? Not after her parents left in just three days. “Don’t you think people in the village would gossip, the vicar living with two single women?”
“Oh, people are more relaxed than that, surely,” Anna protested. “In any case, it wouldn’t be just the three of you. Simon’s old school friend is coming to stay as well.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve never met him. Someone from his days at Cambridge. He’s fallen on something of a hard time, apparently, and wanted to get away for a bit.”
“Hmm.” Rachel doodled a few flowers on the corner of her paper. “Well, it’s very kind of Simon. I’ll certainly have a think about it. What about you, Anna? You’re going to be moving into the vicarage come Christmas.”
“Well, yes.” Anna blushed, her eyes sparkling like the ring on her finger. She looked, Rachel thought with only a hint of envy, like she was the happiest woman in the world. And of all her sisters, perhaps Anna deserved that the most. She’d always been so quiet, content to stick to the shadows. It was good and right for her to have a bit of the limelight now.
“But what about before then?” Rachel pressed. “Will you chuck your job in? Move up here to get things ready?”
Anna twisted the ring on her finger as she answered, “Yes, eventually. My work has never been something I’ve been desperate to do. I more or less fell into it.”
“But it’s a good job.” Anna worked as a legal librarian in Manchester, and had since her uni days.
“Yes, but I’m ready for something else.”
“Including being a vicar’s wife?” With a jolt Rachel realised just what this could mean. Anna would take over Ruth’s role—she’d be the one bustling about the kitchen, baking for coffee mornings, leading the toddler times and Sunday School. “Are you going to be like Mum?”
“I don’t know, to be honest.” Anna looked away. “I don’t think I could ever fill Mum’s shoes, and I hate being in front of people.” She looked down, nibbling her lip. “I really hate it.”
Anna had always been shy, with a stammer that had improved over the years but which she still tried to hide. Rachel could understand how the public role of vicar’s wife, unofficial as it was, would be daunting for her.
“But you’re so warm and empathetic,” Rachel said with a smile. “Which are surely good qualities in a vicar’s wife.”
“Thanks.” Anna sighed. “If I’m honest, I almost wish Simon was going to be the vicar somewhere else, where we could start fresh. Where people hadn’t known me in nappies and will no doubt constantly compare me to my mum.”
Which seemed like a reasonable request. Now that Rachel thought about it, Anna had a hard course set ahead of her. Comparisons would be inevitable, no matter who was making them. “Everyone will support you, though,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, in theory. But you know what support looks like sometimes, in a place like this. You’ve lived here your whole life, except for uni. People think they know you better than they do. And they have so much well-meaning advice, whether you want to hear it or not.”
“Yes, true enough.” When Rachel had started teaching at Thornthwaite Primary, it had seemed idyllic. She’d never wanted anything more than to settle down and raise a load of kids in a lovely village, just as her parents had. But living in the village where you grew up, especially when you were the vicar’s kid, could be tough. More than one parent had marched into her classroom, bristling with indignation, recalling how Rachel had once nicked a sweet from the post office, so how dare she tell off their child?
Yes, she’d nicked a sweet when she was six, and her mother had promptly marched her back and made her give it back and apologise. It had been a lesson Rachel hadn’t forgotten, and no one else seemed to have forgotten it, either.
“You’ll find your way, Anna,” she said. “You and Simon together. He adores you, you know.” She saw in every word he spoke, every time he looked at her. The man wasn’t just smitten, he was dedicated—and deeply in love.
“I adore him,” Anna answered simply. “And that makes it all worth it.”
Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? Ten days on f
rom the debacle of her big day, Rachel could acknowledge that she hadn’t felt quite that way about Dan. But she’d loved him—and whether you needed that level of mushy emotion was another matter entirely. She was still sure they could have been happy together, but perhaps not since Dan hadn’t thought so. In any case, it no longer mattered. She needed to look forward to her future…whatever that was going to look like.
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT FEW days seemed to pass in hyper-speed, with everything going faster and faster, until it all was a dizzying blur. With only three days until their move, Ruth and Roger Holley had gone into imminent departure mode, with suitcases crowding the front hall and people from the parish coming and going for yet more final farewells.
Rachel realised just how much she, as well as her three sisters, had been trying to pretend her parents weren’t really leaving, until now. They’d talked around it, accepted her mother’s gifts of china and furniture as she emptied the vicarage, but it still, amazingly, hadn’t felt real or imminent. Now there was no way to avoid the fact.
Simon spent a lot of time with Roger, going over various parish matters. Roger was leaving his study as it was, which was both comforting and strange. Instead of her dad, it would be Simon sitting behind the old leather-inlaid desk, Simon relaxing in one of the squashy armchairs by the woodstove, beckoning people in for an amicable chat.
Rachel was glad Simon was taking over; she knew and liked him, as did many in the village. Her father had done some fancy footwork in the diocese to arrange for his curate to take his position without a waiting period or formal interview. It was all going to work out well—it just felt so strange.
The last Sunday the church was packed out with parishioners wanting to pay their respects to both Roger and Ruth. As Rachel stepped inside the dim, soaring space, light filtering through the stained-glass windows and impressive flower arrangements bursting from every available space, she felt a twist of bittersweet finality. This was it. Her father’s last Sunday, after a lifetime of them. She couldn’t remember a Sunday where he hadn’t been at the front of the church, smiling in welcome, as cheerful as ever.
