Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
L evi
A loud guffaw breaks through my reverie and my attention snaps back to the present. I glance down the bar and see Ben waiting patiently. Shit, I hope he hasn’t been there long. I risk a look to where Darla is serving someone else at the other end, and the look she gives me back lets me know she saw. He hasn’t been waiting long enough for Darla to come over herself, but long enough for Darla to notice I was distracted. It’s been happening a lot lately. Too many times I’ve fallen into a loop, hating myself for allowing him to affect me so much, hovering between pleased that I haven’t seen him in the week since I was at the police station and desperation that I haven’t seen him to know what he thinks of me. Does he judge me? I tell myself it shouldn’t matter, several times a day, but deep down it does. I want him to understand. I don’t want him to judge me like everyone else does. The not knowing and not seeing him puts me on edge. Nervous tension crackles under the surface of my skin, and I spend too much time watching the door or getting distracted while drying glasses.
Strangely, Darla hasn’t said anything to me yet, even though I know she’s caught me several times. I don’t want her to, or need it. I can keep my mind on my job. I have to; it’s all I’ve got.
“What can I get you?” I ask Ben, and I receive his friendly smile. If he’s bothered by the less than snappy service he doesn’t show it. He places the order for his round, and after he’s paid I tell him I’ll bring it over. The group is large tonight and it takes me a while to pull the twelve pints. I’ve become used to the group that gathers in the Arms on Friday nights, taking over a large part of the pub. Not only are they good for business, they seem to be a friendly group, with lots of camaraderie that never seems to get out of hand. I’ve had to deal with large groups in the city pubs I’ve worked at, and they can get ugly very quickly, but it’s never like that here. The group changes in size, I guess, depending on other people’s commitments, but there are never fewer than six, and I’ve seen it larger. One thing that strikes me is they’re all couples, and for the most part gay ones. There are a couple of straight couples that join them, and I can see Tom and Megan are here tonight, but the rest are gay. It was one of the strangest things that struck me when I first started working here, that Larchdown is incredibly inclusive. I’d never have expected it, especially from a small town, and it’s one of the reasons I want to keep this job. It’s a very easy place to live, one of the first places I’ve not felt so different from everyone else... not for my sexuality at least. Having a prison record, well, that’s another thing entirely. Not that anyone has even looked at me funny, though I expect that’s just because they don’t know.
I sigh as I place the first half of the order on a tray to take over. I know it doesn’t matter to Darla, but I’m sure it will when people do find out—which they will eventually. If it hurts her business, she’ll let me go; she won’t jeopardise that, she’s made that clear.
“That’s a sight for sore eyes. Yer are a lifesaver,” Keith says in his booming Scottish voice as I rest the tray on the table and start dispensing the drinks. Ben, Keith’s Swedish husband and the owner of the bakery, takes his drink gratefully. Johan, Ben’s half brother and the Thor look-alike, agrees.
“Absolutely. I was getting a case of desert mouth.”
Shit, was that a reference to me taking too long. I hope they don’t complain. Surely I wasn’t that long. Embarrassment that I’ve caused this builds, taking its usual outlet into resentment, and my skin starts to prickle. A cutting remark bubbles up and I bite my lip. I’m desperately trying to hold it in, which is a new sensation for me, as my anger usually erupts before I can stop it.
“That’s cos yer talk too much,” Keith says.
“Well, that’s rich coming from you. We can hardly get a word in when you speak,” Johan retorts.
“Exactly.” Keith laughs heartily.
I let out a breath, the tension subsiding and relief taking over. Thankfully I didn’t lose it in front of Darla’s best customers, I fetch the second half of the order. When I put a drink down in front of Josh, he gives me a small smile. This is the first time I’ve seen him in the pub since his father tried to kidnap him, resulting in his arrest. It’s been a couple of weeks, and although he still looks pale, he’s lost the scared, pinched look he had in the summer when I saw him for the first time in years and he was on the run from his father. The relief of no longer having to look over his shoulder must be huge, but I think having Alex has been a big help to him too.
I return to the bar and serve more customers, but I find my eyes sliding towards the group on a regular basis. I marvel at how Josh has been assimilated into the crowd. It’s hard to believe we were friends once. Not really close, but enough for me to be invited to his seventh birthday party, back when his mum was alive and my mum was... well, still around. It feels like a different world to return to the memory of that summer, when naivety kept us innocent from the ugliness of the world.
Another round of laughter draws my attention again, and a knot of envy tightens in my stomach. I don’t have any friends like that, and as the group seems to consist of couples, that’s never going to be a way in for me. Not that they’d want someone like me in their midst. Even though I like it here in the village, I feel more lonely than I did on the streets of the city. At least there I wasn’t faced with examples of what it’s like to be included and have friends. Now it feels like looking through the window of a sweet shop, too shabby to go in and with no money to buy anything. I have my nose pressed against the glass, but I know it’s not for people like me.
When I enter Sable Cottage, which I now call home, at the end of my shift, I can tell Marina’s still up from the low hubbub of the TV. I poke my head in the door and she twists round from her position on the couch and gives me a small smile.
“Good shift?”
“It was busy. You know, Friday night,” I reply and she gives a little laugh.
“Did you eat? Do you want anything?” She enquires. She seems to have this need to feed anyone who walks through the door. Not that I’m complaining as she’s an excellent cook, but Philip, Alex’s dad who runs the pub kitchen made me a fish-finger sandwich that I managed to eat on the short break I had earlier.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply and nod towards the TV. “What’s happening?” It’s playing Walker, Texas Ranger , an old cop show from the nineties. Marina seems to have a fascination with them, and prefers them even though she must have seen them a dozen times. She gives me a short rundown of who’s who and how the baddies, as she quaintly calls them, are about to be caught.
“Do you want to join me?” she asks. I’m about to refuse, to make an excuse and do what I usually do—go to my room using it as a refuge from the world—but I know I won’t be able to sleep for a long time, just like every other night. Suddenly the draw of the cosy room, an old TV programme, and easy company seems a better option than lying in bed staring at the ceiling until exhaustion takes me.
“Sure.” I come fully into the room and sit in the large armchair facing the TV. Marina looks delighted and jumps up.
“I’ll just make us a cup of tea and a biscuit. Surely you can manage a biscuit.” She exits in a flurry of swirling patterned skirts. A small chuckle escapes, surprising me. She won’t be happy until I’ve eaten at least one biscuit. It’s as if she believes the horrors of the world can be staved off by baked goods. Though if they’re her lemon shortbreads, which I’m sure I could smell she was baking earlier, she might have a point. I settle into the chair and take a deep breath, allowing the tension to ease away.