Chapter 15
? Outsider saves the day
Oh God.
The vibration of my phone had woken me up.
Rude. I unsealed my right eye followed by my left and blinked the room into unusually sharp focus, which confirmed my fear that my contact lenses were still in place.
A sure sign of a big night – with a poorly judged end.
I took a peek under the duvet and noted that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, too. Just brilliant.
I propped myself up on the world’s most inadequate pillows and took a lengthy gulp of water from the pint glass on the bedside table.
I placed it back down and examined it through my sleep-smeared lenses.
I never would’ve put an open container of liquid there, even in a drunken state.
Who had done that? And placed that washing-up bowl on the floor?
And… and laid one of the sandpaper-rough towels from the bathroom on top of the bed sheet, which was now scrunched up in a sweaty ball beneath me?
Oh God. Oh shit. Oh fuck.
The events of the previous evening coated the entire surface of my brain in a single instant.
I slithered back down under the covers and groaned. I’d been sick, hadn’t I? And Tom Brinton had witnessed All Of It .
I reached my hand out from the depths of the duvet and scrabbled about for my phone, only narrowly avoiding spilling that glass of water. I brought it under the covers with me to see what it was that had woken me up at this totally uncivilised hour of… ten forty-seven. Huh.
It was a message from Becky.
Becky:
How’s the hangover?! Still on for later? I think we agreed on 5 p.m.?
P.S. Got your number from the booking system – hope that’s OK!
Later? What was she…? Oh. Oh no. I’d agreed to cover a shift at the pub, hadn’t I? I wasn’t even sure how I’d get out of bed today, let alone make my career debut in hospitality.
I replied:
Mally:
Bad. Sure. See you then x
I closed my eyes and welcomed in the familiar rush of regret that always trotted not far behind an unwise agreement that had been made while completely hammered. My phone buzzed again. I looked to see Becky’s reply only to discover a message from Josh, instead:
Josh:
What are you doing in Scarnbrook? Do Mum and Dad know you’re
there?
My regret was swiftly replaced by terror as I sat bolt upright. Too quickly, apparently, given that my hangover-induced nausea intensified by a significant magnitude as I did so.
I downloaded the attachment to his message. It was a screengrab of an Instagram story that awful Darren bloke had posted earlier this morning. It was the selfie he’d snapped while I’d been Peak Pissed. The caption read:
Smashed @TheStarScarnbrook pub quiz with @RealJoshAllister’s sister.
Off to do his latest weights workout to sweat out the hangover.
The absolute prick. My hands shook as I typed out a swift reply to Josh in an attempt to nip this in the bud:
Mally:
Hey, just catching up with some old friends here while I’ve got some
unexpected time off work. Nothing to be concerned about. Mum and Dad
don’t know and there’s no reason why they need to. Don’t worry.
Josh:
So you know this Darren guy? Doesn’t seem like the kind of person
you’d be friends with.
Mally:
No, just some random bloke in the pub who ended up joining our quiz
team. Barely spoke to him.
Josh:
So how does he know you’re my sister?
Mally:
The woman behind the bar said something – you know what it’s like
round here. Bit annoyed he’s posted this to be honest.
Josh:
Do you want me to ask him to delete it?
Mally:
Don’t bother. He’s just fishing for attention.
Josh:
OK. Well, if you’re sure everything’s fine?
Mally:
I’m sure. Speak soon.
But I knew Josh. Despite my efforts to mollify his concerns, I knew he’d be scrutinising the revelation I was in Scarnbrook with an intensity that even Line of Duty ’s Steve Arnott would be bursting out of his waistcoat to contain.
There was only one thing for it: I absolutely had to get back to London as soon as humanly possible to avoid any other screw-ups like this.
I could make the article up when I was safely back in my familiar flat.
Let’s be honest, it would probably be a better piece that way, too.
Elle wouldn’t care, as long as it gave her the clicks she craved.
I began composing one of my mental lists:
Step one of mission to escape Scarnbrook: hydrate.
Step two: somehow get through the shift in the pub (I couldn’t let Becky down, now).
Step three: acquire car ASAP – go to another garage if needed.
Step four: get the hell out of here. For good.
I decided to get a head start on step three by sending a quick message to Ryan:
Mally:
Hey, Ryan! Fun night last night! Any update on the car?
It was a good ten minutes before he replied, which afforded me some extra sleep – after I’d downed the rest of the water.
Ryan:
Soz, still got a backlog. Hoping to get to it tomo or the day after
but no promises.
Tomorrow was just about acceptable, but I made a mental note to research other mechanics as a back-up plan. My phone buzzed with a follow-up message:
Ryan:
Btw, Darren’s asked for your number. Can I pass it on?
Urgh, absolutely not. Sure, a disastrous date would no doubt give me some useful material for my article, but there was no way I was going to go anywhere alone with someone like that. And he’d been quick to show his true colours last night.
Mally:
Sorry, I’m kind of seeing someone back in London.
I mean, it wasn’t a total lie…? Who was I kidding. I had to accept that me and Billy were never going to happen.
Ryan:
Does Brinton know? ;)
I felt a little wobble of promise about what Ryan was insinuating here. Would Tom be interested in knowing this about me? That said, he might already be aware – I could’ve told him my entire life story last night for all I knew.
Mally:
***
Ryan:
Lol, forget it. I’ll be in touch as soon as ur car’s ready.
Hmmm. I needed to ruminate on this some more.
But I needed to empty my bladder and fill my stomach first. I staggered out of the bedroom and almost tripped over a thick wad of material that had been neatly folded on the landing.
A handwritten note lay on top of it, the stems of the letters long and straight, like masts on a yacht:
Good morning,
In case you need a summary of what happened when you got in last night:
We discussed adjectives.
You were a little bit sick (not a problem, please don’t feel bad!).
I helped you into bed.
I stayed for a while to make sure you were OK.
Sorry about the curtain, but it was the only thing I could find…! Not sure how long you’ll be around but the soonest I can pop round to put it back up is tomorrow morning so hope that’s OK. Please message me when you wake up so I know how you’re doing.
T x
07700 900174
P.S. I sorted the boiler for you – the pressure just needed
topping up.
There was no denying that it was a sweet note, and the metallic clinks I could now hear from the radiators were definitely reassuring from a frostnip POV, but I was confused about the curtain.
I eventually figured out it had been the one hung across the front door.
Had he – or I – pulled it down at some point?
I couldn’t recall any drapery dramas, but the specific details of last night didn’t really bear thinking about right now.
I added his number to my contacts and tapped out a quick reply while on the loo.
Mally:
Hey, Tom, it’s Mally (Allister). Just woken up. Thanks for the note.
I’m so sorry that you had to deal with all that. So embarrassing. Thanks
for sorting out the heating. I’d almost forgotten what warm felt like.
Have a good day. M x
I decided to leave out the information about Darren’s Instagram story. I always found it was best not to give situations like this any unnecessary oxygen.
Tom replied instantly:
Tom:
Thanks for clarifying which Mally had messaged me. There are too many
of you to keep track of. No apology needed. It was a fun night… overall!
I’ll be round at 9ish tomorrow morning to sort the curtain if that’s OK?
xx
I almost replied telling him that there was no need to go out of his way, but I couldn’t ignore the warmth in my chest – boosted by the steady uptick of kisses per interaction – that seemed to indicate that it would be nice to see him one final time before I headed back to London, so I replied simply with Yup, thank you! xx instead.
I added some sub-tasks in between steps one and two of my mission to leave Scarnbrook as I navigated the stairs on shaky legs.
Hydrate. Fill stomach. Back to bed. Shower. Pub.
Mally Allister: you’ve got this.
Operation Escape Scarnbrook was going to plan so far.
Although I’d nearly been thrown off-course by a voice message from Elle, asking how the assignment was going.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t get back to her straight away.
I had no idea what to say; if I told her it was going well, she’d want details that I wasn’t quite ready to share, and if I told her it was going badly, she’d probably force me to visit Santa’s grotto at the local garden centre in the hope that would give me something to write about.
I’d reply to her later after the shift at the pub.
I arrived at The Star at five on the dot, as per my promise.
Becky was already setting up the private dining room – the very room that Elle and I had once cowered in with our cosmopolitans that unforgettable mystery shopping night.
A magnificent, real Christmas tree was lit up at one end, with an open fire just getting going at the other.
‘Allister! Right on time, as ever. Headache rating?’
‘A solid six out of ten. Much better than this morning, though.’
She smiled and gestured towards the open cutlery drawer in a vintage dresser, so I duly began laying it out on the table next to each Christmas cracker.