Chapter One
The fact is, I’m kind of a shit bartender in a not-so-shit London bar.
A popular bar, full of discerning hipsters with deep pockets and others who want to be seen.
It’s my first Saturday night working here at my new job.
Which is exactly what I need to be doing to bring in some cash and not spending money I can’t afford on supplies from the local art shop around the corner in Soho.
Forget that my new boss has all the makings of a tyrannical dictator—one who already has me nestled comfortably in his crosshairs.
It’s not all smooth sailing despite the luxurious queer glamour of Ivan’s.
Dramatic, high coffered ceilings soar overhead with gleaming chandeliers, and chic paintings from highly successful contemporary artists hang on dark walls.
The last part’s like artisanal sea salt in a career-shaped wound.
I have no idea why they hired me. Aside from me technically being qualified for the job and having the right references.
I mean, they obviously needed another bartender, after one of their old ones left.
Which is a reasonable thing for a bar to want to keep running smoothly and keep their customers in suggestively named cocktails, like Get Your Freak On or Banger Baby, or classics like Sex on the Beach.
But just because I gave them my resumé doesn’t automatically mean I’m the best man for the job.
Never mind. I’m here now, and I need to get on with it. The paycheck will make up for my current suffering and, at best, low-key competence.
Around me, the upscale bar glows with burnished wood counters, gleaming glassware, and a stylishly imposing pink neon display (saying you have arrived, and it reminds me of Tracey Emin’s work), accompanied by a thousand bottles of premium, backlit spirits on the brick wall behind me that the finest of London’s equally premium queers will enjoy. Backlighting optional.
Clenching my jaw, I wring the bar cloth into the sink, rinse it, and give the counter in front of me a quick wipe because I inadvertently slopped some ale when I should have slid the glass over with a certain panache expected of a bartender in a place like this, with every last drop of said ale staying within the confines of its glassware.
Except I panicked, because nerves.
Because Saturday night. Because there are hot men everywhere, where the hotness per capita rating is off the charts—to the point there should be a public health warning and an exclusion zone for the susceptible to distraction.
It’s definitely the sort of hotspot in London where people go when they want to be noticed.
The occasional celeb makes their way through here too, tipping off the paparazzi, who wait outside.
There’re regularly high numbers of influencers in Ivan’s, all vying for social media clout.
Meanwhile, the remaining froth I missed looks obscene on the walnut bar. I wring out the cloth one more time for luck.
People in the queue for drinks are thankfully looking at the mess and not at me.
In my crisp white shirt and black waistcoat and pressed trousers, I at least look the part like the rest of the waitstaff, if not the clientele.
In fairness to me, I do tidy up quite nicely when I try.
Except I’ve got no chill, especially not tonight.
Frantically, I wipe before the wood is ruined.
To be honest, aside from being a shit bartender tonight, there’re several important facts as motivation that got me here.
Fact #1: I’m a morning person turned night owl for my night job, which I need if there’s any hope of me making rent or repaying my student loans.
Fact #2: I’ve been at this job for only two weeks, which is a far cry from the sleepy village pub my parents own, my comfort zone, where we’d have ten tables at lunch.
Fact #3: Ben Campbell used to work here until recently, which is probably about the time they needed a bartender, and they hired me out of desperation because I look good on paper.
I’m not Ben Campbell. Or any kind of celebrity.
I’ll admit I have a flair for mixed drinks when I’m not overwhelmed. Both in consumption and production, and ideally not at the same time. Technically, I’m an experienced bartender. And not just at my parents’ pub.
It’s the overwhelmed part that makes me a shit bartender. Because I’ve more than got the theory down. I know what I’m meant to do, at least, and I have plenty of experience, but the nerves get me every time. Especially when I’m doing something new, somewhere new.
“Matty! For the love of God, pull the pints already,” snaps my thoroughly pierced and impeccably dressed boss, the dictator known as Alexander. He scowls a warning over his bow tie, a localized, upscale tempest known to frequent London bars and wreak havoc like any self-respecting natural disaster.
“Right. Pints coming right up.”
I can do pints.
I toss aside the cloth with a wet slap on the lower countertop, earning another scowl from Alexander, while I spring into action like some spritely deer dashing across a meadow away from a hungry apex predator. “I’ve totally got this. Don’t worry.”
Except this particular bar has me all tangled up, permanently distracted by said nerves. Because Ivan’s has to be one of the poshest queer London bars I’ve ever seen. And the men who frequent it are highly distracting. Hence said slopping problem. Spilling is the least of my worries.
“I’ll have just one pint, if you don’t mind.” A man exchanges looks with his equally fit boyfriend.
I mean, really, I ought to be able to do this in my sleep, given I grew up in my parents’ pub. And I’ve worked in several others since then, and a couple of bars back when I was in uni. I didn’t think I’d make my career bar work. Maybe it’s in the blood. Or maybe it’s inevitable.
“What’ll it be, then?” I ask gamely through the heat on my face.
“The Spitfire,” chirps the first man, all muscle and coif.
I nod, reaching automatically for a pint glass and going to pull the first drink, praying the keg doesn’t run empty, because that’s the last thing I need right now.
His equally attractive and self-aware boyfriend smirks and drawls theatrically, “I’m afraid it has to be the Pornstar Martini for me.”
With a splutter, my draw on the ale falters for a moment. “Of course.”
“What do you mean by that?” Hottie #2 peers at me, looking stern, but his boyfriend’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.
Excellent. I’m already being trolled by the customers, then.
“I mean, nothing. Just…coming up.” My voice falters. Did I actually just say “coming up”? I shake my head at myself. Then I realize they probably think I’m shaking my head at them. “Your drink, that is. Nothing else coming up. At all.”
Shit. I definitely shouldn’t have said anything about coming up, because they both lose their composure there and then, laughing with squeals of delight. Hottie #1 tosses fifty quid onto the bar like it’s nothing. “Get one for yourself too.”
“Um, cheers?” I blink, automatically taking the bills.
I glance from them back to the pint before setting the glass on the counter and get to work with some vodka and passion fruit puree and liqueur to start the cocktail.
Despite the offer, I definitely don’t need a drink.
Especially not a cocktail. Even cocktail is an unfortunate word.
The more I think about it, the worse it gets.
Neither cock nor tail helps me in the least. Why must all of these words around drinks be so sexual?
Not that I have a problem with sex.
I mean, I like sex. Sex is great. Maybe the problem is I don’t get enough of it. Maybe it’s been so long since I’ve had a boyfriend, I’ve forgotten what that’s like. Drunken hookups once in a while at the uni bar were more my speed. Except uni’s over.
And London, let’s face it, is intimidating.
Especially since I’m not from here, and I swear everyone can tell I don’t belong.
That’s my real problem. Plus, I’m too broke for big nights out or even moderate nights going out, because that doesn’t go well with trying to pay my bills. Also, I can’t pull where I work.
Mercifully, I serve both drinks without further incident.
But I can’t even take a sigh of relief through the thudding music when Alexander gestures me over. As ever, he’s no nonsense as he directs me curtly. “Take these drinks to table 23.”
That’s one of the tables with premium table service. Which is definitely not my area of expertise. Not here. Not now.
“Right.” Judging from the look in Alexander’s eye confirming that I’m on thin ice, or quite possibly already fallen through, it’s not the time to ask him for a reminder where exactly table 23 might be or if he really thinks I’m the best choice to go out there. I’ll figure it out.
With care, I lift the tray holding several glasses with practiced ease. At least that’s a familiar enough act, something almost comforting about the weight and balance of the drinks on the tray, weird as that may sound. It’s something grounding. Kind of like a weighted blanket, except cocktails.
Don’t start thinking about cocktails again.
Or cocks again. Or tails, either. Or—
Stop it.
Sidestepping around Alexander, I go off in the general direction of the right table—confident in that much at least—through the boisterous Saturday crowd, adeptly weaving my way through people due to some latent experience kicking in.
Table 19 is the one in the corner, and around the corner into the adjacent room are tables 30 and up.
It’s indecent that there are so many tables, and there isn’t exactly a map of them for me to look at. Or signs on the tables.
I count my way in through to what has to be the right table. Or is it the next table? Both tables seat six. It has to be one of these two. Process of elimination.
For a moment, I hesitate, glancing from the drinks on my tray to the seated customers.
Which lot of six looks like the cocktail crowd of table 23?
Hanging back, I’m not sure, between the table of the bespoke young business men in their suits and shirts, or the sporty-looking crowd with their flipped-up collars at the next table over.
Everyone’s having a great time at both tables, all laughs and selfies.
Just pick one. Don’t overthink it, Matty. Be breezy. That’s what people want in a server. Key word: service.
Which also sounds terribly suggestive.
And, I suppose, competence.
The businessmen are closer, so I approach them to ask if they ordered cocktails. My gut tells me the sports boys want lager. Dodging the knot of people standing nearby with their drinks, I head towards what has to be the right table when someone crashes into me from behind.
I stumble hard.
In a horrible, slow-motion moment, each of the artful drinks slides right off the tray, one right after another. They careen through the air. And then they all crash spectacularly more or less directly onto the table—and onto the lap of the closest business suit.
Glasses shatter—on the table. On the floor. With a series of bangs, as a crash of ice cubes hit the hard floor. They careen every which way.
Even through the din, the man’s shout rings out along with the cries of surprise from his mates as they noisily shove back their chairs from the table to escape the cascading liquid running over the tabletop, along with the bits of glass and ice, which somehow missed hitting the guy closest to me.
“What the actual fuck?” yells the suit.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—” I stammer, wide-eyed, clutching the very wet, very empty tray against my chest. Reflex. Or possibly as an instinctive shield. “Are you all right? Don’t move—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he thunders with a roar to envy Alexander’s, whirling to meet my gaze.
The suit is, well, gorgeous. Dark hair, vivid eyes, pale skin.
Gorgeous to paint.
And he’s really, really angry.
He’s soaked, flushed red with fury. And, unfortunately, covered in crumbs of glass.
I’m so getting fired. It’s probably the best outcome for the bar goers.
But right now, I don’t care about getting fired.
Instead, I stare into the eyes of the furious man, unable to look away. They’re a magnificent green, even in this light.
I’m beyond mortified.
“The glass—” I gesture lamely at the table and then at him, because even though the safety glass shattered on impact, it’s absolutely everywhere.
Cocktails mixed with glass drip off the table onto the floor in a rapidly expanding puddle. Or a sea. Other nearby customers gawp and look at me, including the next table of sporty people.
If I’m not murdered in the next three seconds, I must get a mop and a broom and a stack of bar cloths to clean this up.
And it no longer matters which table is table 23—because I now have wetter, sharper problems.