Chapter 8
EIGHT
A few hours later, I realise that I am officially hopeless. Help my dad? I was deluding myself – he’s better off without me!
I started the evening shift with great gusto, determined to be a useful soldier and to make my father’s life easier.
I’d been an unofficial member of the pub staff for years as a kid, helping him change barrels, learning how to pull the perfect pint, operating the glass machine.
I was confident that it would all come flooding back to me as I stepped behind the bar.
For a start, I hadn’t accounted for the fancy new till – or ‘my archnemesis’, as it is now known.
Every item is listed individually, including every different drink, every mixer, every bag of nuts or basket of chips or bottle of wine.
It feels like I spent most of the night staring at the screen, searching.
Then my dad would wander over and point it out, patting me sympathetically on the shoulder when it was right there in front of my damn eyes the whole time.
I also understand now that when I was a kid, he was really just letting me play.
There are several different types of ale – the stuff that’s in barrels, the stuff that’s in casks, the stuff that comes as a limited-edition guest range.
And each of the darn things needs to be pulled in a slightly different way.
Not only is my arm aching from the constant pulling, but I swear I ended up throwing away half of it.
Too much head, not enough, no fizz, too much fizz…
you would not believe the number of ways that pulling a pint can go wrong.
The wine and spirits were easier, apart from putting them through the archnemesis, but the food orders were so complicated I eventually gave up on using the till and wrote them down on a little notepad for Sean instead.
That did result in me ordering several meals twice and forgetting pretty much all of the special requests – no salad, extra tomato, whatever.
I started to hate people who made special requests, which was totally unfair.
Especially coming from me, a woman who goes into meltdown if there’s a cucumber on her plate. Cucumbers are my other enemies.
As well as messing up the food orders, I dropped pints, smashed glasses, and almost knocked my dad over repeatedly within the small confines of the bar. Basically, you name it, I did it. Worst. Barmaid. Ever. I need to get that printed up on a T-shirt.
Food service stops at eight, at which point Sean blessedly offers to swap with me – he takes over on the bar, and I agree to retreat to the kitchens to do the clear-up.
I cast a final glance at the seven million customers all angrily demanding service and realise that it’s actually pretty quiet.
It might have felt like a zombie invasion but it isn’t even that busy, when you’re looking at it from the other side of the bar.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ my dad shouts as I leave, ‘it gets easier with practice!’ I swear he looks relieved as I go.
I walk into the kitchens and take a few deep breaths as I survey the abandoned plates, mounds of dishes, and scraps of food on the floor.
I then rush to the toilet, because I haven’t had the chance to go for what feels like a week.
I glance at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands afterwards and see that I am as much of a disaster zone as the kitchen.
A lot of people recognised me today, and it was incredibly strange to see so many familiar faces – and now, staring at my own, I get that it must have been strange for them as well.
I left here at sixteen, and now I am back.
Plus after that ordeal, I am not looking at my best.
I’d started off with tidy hair in a ponytail, with make-up and lip gloss and a fresh top from my suitcase.
Now, only a few hours later, I look like a scary clown in a Halloween fun house.
The kind that chases you with a chainsaw.
My mascara has slid down under my eyes, and my hair has escaped from its band and is stuck to the sides of my shiny, sweaty face.
The lip gloss is long gone, and even my neck and chest are red and splodgy.
As if I’ve actually had an allergic reaction to the whole experience.
It reminds me of my Santa photo from Macy’s – I have exactly the same shell-shocked expression.
That, I tell myself, was the start of a much better year for me, so it’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Besides, I’m now officially relegated to kitchen duties, so it really doesn’t matter what I look like at all.
There is nobody here to see me, or to care.
Like Saint Bridget Jones, I am all by myself.
Smiling at the thought of Bridget drunk-singing into her rolled-up magazine while she necks wine, I dance my way back into the main room, slamming the door open with my ass.
I start the hot tap running and grab up an empty beer bottle from the island.
If it’s good enough for Bridget, it’s good enough for me, and I start singing into the neck of the Bud bottle.
Nothing like a good sing to clear away the cobwebs.
‘ALL BY MYSELF!’ I yell, spinning around and waving my arms, like I’m on stage at Wembley.
I have the voice of a tone-deaf angel, but what I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm.
I combine my power-house performance with scraping leftover lasagne into the food bin, and I’m soon feeling better – I might look like crap, and I might be a terrible barmaid, but who cares?
Tomorrow is another day, and if the last year has taught me anything, it’s to grab the fun times whenever and however you can.
Living alone has also taught me that the whole ‘dance like nobody’s watching’ thing is very real.
These days, I try to do pretty much everything like nobody’s watching.
I finish my scraping and decide to take my impromptu concert to the next level – I pull up The Killers doing Mr Brightside on my phone.
I bop around the kitchen as I screech, punching the air and doing a few karate-style high kicks.
It’s only when I decide to take a leap from the small step stool during the chorus that things go wrong.
I land directly on a sneakily camouflaged dollop of mashed potato, and my leap becomes a spectacular slide that leaves me half in the splits on the floor.
It’s an ungainly and painful position, and I am feeling less than bright as I self-triage.
I feel even worse when I hear a voice say: ‘Are you okay? What happened? Let me help…’
‘I’m all right, nothing broken, just severely bruised pride!’ I swipe a clot of mash off my leg as I speak. ‘I was dancing. Bit too enthusiastically apparently. Got carried away.’
‘Nothing’s changed then!’ he says, and I finally look up properly at the man standing over me. He grins, and holds out a hand.
It takes me a minute. Possibly two. I stare at him, my mouth dropping to the catching flies position, my brain feeling like a steam train is tunnelling through it.
He is almost unrecognisable from the boy I knew.
The scrawny kid with acne has become… damn.
There’s no other word for it – he has become incredibly hot.
I take his hand, and he tugs me to my feet.
I look up at him, which in itself is a novelty.
At sixteen he was barely the same height as me; now he is towering over my five foot five, and he hasn’t only grown upwards.
He’s filled out in ways I could never have imagined, and there is no sign of a single spot on his sun-kissed skin.
His hair is the same brown with flecks of auburn, but short and stylish, and his clothes are a million miles from the scruffy skater boy who was always tripping over his jeans.
The eyes, though… the eyes are the same.
A deep shade of hazel with flickers of gold.
‘Liam,’ I finally say, once I’ve finished examining the new him. I can tell he’s been doing the same, his gaze taking it all in. I’m suddenly far more aware of my sweaty hair and my beer-stained top.
‘Ellie. You’ve got mashed spud on your arse,’ he says, gesturing down.
‘Oh… fudge!’ I curse, swiping it off. I tuck some stray strands of hair behind my ears and try to calm down. This is not how I’d pictured seeing Liam again. Not that I really had pictured that – I’d locked him away in a little mental box and thrown away the key.
I look back up and he has an amused smile on his face. ‘Now you have mashed spud in your hair. Stay still, let me get it out for you.’
I bite my lip and close my eyes, trying not to jump out of my skin when he makes contact.
Liam Byrne is touching my hair, and his fingers are brushing the side of my face.
Liam Byrne, who is very much not a teenage misfit any longer.
It makes me tingle, because it is like being touched by someone who is familiar and at the same time an undeniably gorgeous stranger.
He holds his fingers up and grimaces. ‘Yum,’ he says, and grabs up some kitchen towel.
I notice a plain gold wedding band, and try not to react on the outside.
Liam is married. To someone I don’t know.
Obviously, considering the fact that we’ve not seen each other for so long, that should not come as a surprise – and yet it does somehow.
He is married, and might have children, and that is odd.
Odd but good, I decide. I’m glad that he has someone. I’m glad he found his person.
I tilt my head to one side and manage to smile. ‘Back when we were kids, you’d have eaten that.’
‘You’re not wrong. I was always hungry. My tastes are a bit more refined these days.’
‘So I see,’ I reply, looking him up and down. ‘Posh clothes, nice cologne, a proper haircut… what is it with you Byrne kids being late bloomers? I saw Cara earlier too.’