One
It’s funny how we make assumptions about people, isn’t it? You might be surprised to learn that the grey-haired couple in the pub, who you thought were still holding hands after a lifetime together, had actually met on an Internet dating site three months ago. Or that tattooed leather-clad biker on the next table, sipping a pint of real ale… you would never guess that he had spent his younger years as a trained dancer and now teaches salsa dancing at the local community centre to supplement his courier wage. We do it all the time. I mean, the customers who see my cheery pink-lipped smile as I serve them food and drinks at the Pig and Whistle would never guess that I’m an emotional mess inside.
‘Would you like any side orders with that?’ I chirp as I punch their food orders into the till, even though my stomach churns at the thought of eating a single morsel.
I’ve lost twelve pounds in the last three weeks, a fact I would normally shout from the rooftops, had it not been heartbreak weight loss, aka the divorce diet. It’s better than Slender World, Weight Controllers, or any other diet out there, and the best part of it is you don’t even have to try. The heartache causes an instant loss of appetite, ensuring that you never gain a pound.
I thought that me and Danny Davis would last forever. We started going out together at school when we were both fifteen years old and bona fide members of the A team. We were the good-looking, popular ones who sneered at anyone who actually did any studying at school. We pitied those poor inky swots who were destined to live a life of greyness and boredom in their neat suburban semis, whereas us dudes would be travelling the world in a camper van. The boys in the A team rocked up at school on purple metallic mopeds as soon as they had reached their sixteenth birthdays, staking their place as masters of groove, while the bespectacled book-laden geeks could only look on in envy. Oh yes, school was all about planning the next disco and lying on the grass at breaktime, discussing such topics as whether shaving your legs did actually make the hair grow back thicker. Look where that got me though. Almost thirteen years down the line I’m working in a local pub and Danny Davis has just broken my heart.
I must stop daydreaming. There’s an empty beer glass and wine glass on a nearby table that need removing and I don’t want Brian, the kindly pub manager, to think I’m slacking. The last thing I need now is to lose my job, as it’s the thing that makes me get up in the mornings.
I like working at the Pig and Whistle. If you’re going to work in a pub restaurant then this place is as good as it gets. ‘The Whistle’, as it’s known locally, is a sprawling pub with a maze of alcoves, situated six miles from Liverpool city centre in the Knowsley countryside. It attracts a variety of clientele, its biggest pull being the fact that it is an independent pub with its own microbrewery; it also has an outstanding chef called Darren, who came runner up in a Young Chef of the Year competition two years ago.
It’s bright and cheery, with grey flagstone floors and chunky wooden tables and chairs. It’s a mix of modern and homely, with chrome fixtures and fittings alongside stone walls bearing old farmland photographs. It has several log fires that roar into life during the winter months, and five different types of hand-pulled cask ales. The oak wood bar is slightly horseshoe-shaped and offers every alcoholic beverage known to man with the exception of absinthe, after an unfortunate event involving a man stripping naked at a pensioners’ club lunch.
I have such a great view of everybody from behind this bar that it’s like being a captain at the helm of a ship. There aren’t too many locals that drink here, although there are a few that inhabit the terraced cottages near farmland just a couple of hundred yards away. There’s Geoff, the ruddy-faced pig farmer, who exudes an interesting scent; Bill and Dot, married for forty years and still holding hands; and two young couples, one being me and Danny, who have bought our cottages seeking an idyllic location. It’s semi-rural with a twice-hourly bus that goes into Liverpool city centre.
The rest of the pub clientele is made up of passing trade, parties celebrating special occasions, and Christmas nights out when the pub features tribute acts. These acts are generally very good, apart from last year’s singer who was more Bruce Forsyth than Bruce Springsteen.
My job has been my salvation here these past weeks. People- watching just happens to be my hobby and observing the comings and goings of the pub clientele has made me realise I’m not the only one going through a tough time. Arranging a funeral-party buffet last week should have put everything in perspective really, yet my heart still aches for Danny.
The couple just leaving the table with the two empty glasses on it are having an affair. I can spot the signs a mile off. There were the furtive glances around the pub interior as they walked through the door, and the intermittent entwining of hands throughout lunch. Plus, the slender young woman looks more like the daughter of the slightly portly, well-heeled gent she’s with. It makes me think of Danny and how he was able to hide his little affair with such ease. You think you know someone, but I didn’t have a clue…
A group of young women arrive for lunch but Jack, one of our waiters, has disappeared. He’s probably sneaked out for another cigarette. He’s going to have to go. Jack’s a student who’s half-hearted about his job, and thinks he can get by because of his Brad Pitt (in his younger days) looks, but the pub has an enviable reputation for service that must be upheld.
I’m about to show the women’s group to a table when Jack reappears, exuding his usual charm, so I resume my place behind the bar. Then my heart stops. A guy who is the image of Danny has just walked through the door. He has the same tall, slender build and brown, slightly curly hair. He strolls towards the bar, where I notice he has brown eyes rather than the aquamarine of Danny’s. He smiles a slightly lopsided smile, revealing sparkling white teeth.
‘What can I get you?’ I beam, even though my heart is hammering at being in front of someone so remarkably similar to my husband.
‘A pint of your best bitter and your phone number, please.’ He grins.
‘You’re a bit forward, aren’t you?’ I reply, as I pull him a pint of Magpie bitter, a current favourite.
‘Saves time.’ He laughs. ‘Gets the rejection out of the way quicker.’ He feigns a sad expression.
We chat for a few minutes before I serve another customer. I should feel happy that I am being flirted with, and there is no doubt he is attractive, but I’m not interested. He’s probably got an unsuspecting wife or girlfriend somewhere anyway.
I’m distracted by another group of people entering the pub and ask Lyndsey, a waitress, to watch the bar as I show a slim, glossy-haired businesswoman, with an expensive woollen coat, to a table with her group.
Jack is actually doing some work now, taking food orders from the party of young women who are flirting outrageously with him. Strands of blonde hair have tumbled down from my neat and tidy bun and attached themselves to my face in this unexpected heatwave towards the end of May. I am trying to cover the ketchup stains on my white blouse, which the toddler on the next table has just deposited on me with his sticky hands, as I plonk some menus down onto the wooden table and tell everyone about the blackboard specials, which are pork-and-cider casserole or sea bass with steamed asparagus.
The woman in the woollen coat has success oozing from her pores and I briefly consider that she must be around my age. She must have been the type that worked hard at school; someone who focused. I feel a brief stab of regret that I didn’t do the same thing. I don’t dislike my job, in fact I love it, but I dreamed of becoming a journalist. That’s all I did though. Dream. I never actually worked hard enough to achieve it. I was far more interested in boys, shopping, nightclubs, and anything that involved having fun.
I was the one who would round up all my friends to take taxis into neon-lit thoroughfares in different towns for nights out. I shudder when I think of how my best friend Hayley and I once hitch-hiked to London with a bearded trucker, who remained menacingly silent throughout the whole journey. We checked into a youth hostel in Holland Park, where we spent the next three nights exploring the city, only returning home when our money ran out. I can’t recall the last time I had any sort of adventure, although maybe that’s exactly what I need right now.
The woman with the copper-coloured highlights eases herself out of her blue woollen coat before handing it to me. It smells of Miss Dior. ‘Be a doll and hang this up for me would you, Mandy,’ she says, giving me a wry and very satisfied smile.