Chapter 22
22
Jaggers Bar, St Aidan
Sunsets, big calls and high perches
Friday
E ven though it’s not especially warm, when I sprint up from the beach, the harbourside is as busy as you’d expect for a Friday evening in late May, with weekend visitors thronging the streets. As I reach the part of the beach where Jaggers Bar runs out onto the sands, the groups milling on the terrace outside look a lot like I did when I was eighteen and hell-bent on a party. I slide between them, ask myself where the heck the last ten years have gone, then ease my way into the large open building and pick my way past the crowds. When I finally make it to the bar, a barman catches my eye.
‘Hi, I’m Paul. You must be Betty?’ He holds out his hand and grasps mine for a second. ‘When Scarlett said look out for net skirts and hot pants, she was bang on.’
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and gasp to get my breath back. ‘I came straight off the sofa, Scarlett said it was urgent.’
Paul smiles. ‘She wanted you to have Manhattans, but they’re a bit grown up for us, so we settled on tequila sunrises.’
‘Good choice. Retro but cool.’ It was Mum’s favourite drink from the seventies. Better still, they’re easy to drink.
Paul is busy with ice and mixers. ‘We usually serve in jugs, but Scarlett asked for glasses. She’s insisting I line you up four to begin with?’
As I scramble onto a red velvet stool he’s obviously waiting for my input. ‘Two tequilas and two mojitos might work better– just to ring the changes.’ The buns were the last thing I had to eat, but that was so long ago my stomach is growling with hunger. ‘Do you have a food menu?’
Paul shrugs. ‘We’re liquid only, I’m afraid.’
I watch Paul put down a highball tumbler full of rosy, orange liquid and ice, and balance an umbrella on top, then explain. ‘I’ve done enough drinking to know– I’m a lightweight if I’m hungry.’
He’s trying to be helpful. ‘We can Deliveroo you some chips?’
‘Great idea.’ My mouth is already watering then my phone begins to ring. ‘It’s Scarlett. I’ll leave the food for now.’
A second later she’s staring out at me from my phone screen.
‘Bets! Where are your cocktails?’
I panne around with my phone to show her the full glasses arriving on the stainless-steel bar top, then pick up the first and take a long drink.
On the lopsided view her own row is mostly finished. ‘ We are going to get off our faces…’
I cut in. ‘Before we do, tell me about Tate.’
From the way she pushes her hair back and blows up her fringe I know she’s already tipsy. ‘He kept me away from the office until the party yesterday. You know when something slams you right in the face?’ Her hand flies down in front of the screen. ‘ Splat! It was a complete “eyes wide open” moment.’
I’m thinking aloud. ‘Wasn’t the movie Eyes Wide Shut ?’
Scarlett blinks. ‘What movie?’
I’m frowning, trying to remember. ‘The one with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.’
‘What the hell have Nicole and Tom got to do with Tate hooking up with a woman who has tennis balls for butt cheeks?’ Scarlett’s voice rings out again. ‘Drink your next drink, you’re falling behind.’
I’m aware that the person I’m obeying is five thousand miles away, but I pick up my mojito and slug it back. Its minty fizz is so refreshing that I empty the glass. Then I think, what the hell, I need calories from somewhere , and finish the next one, too.
‘If Tate’s crossed the Atlantic for this tennis player, it must be serious.’
Scarlett nods as she swigs. ‘Thank you for acknowledging that, Bets!’
I’m swirling the ice round in my next to last glass with my straw, watching the grenadine rise through the orange juice. ‘There’s one flaw in this. If Tate was seriously pursuing a transatlantic office crush, why did he take you?’
Scarlett lets out a groan. ‘Me adding myself in was a last-minute impulse. By the time I decided to leap on the love train, there wasn’t time for him to stop me.’
Paul wanders over and picks up my empty glasses. ‘Same again? Maybe a jug this time?’
With what Scarlett has thrown at me a bucket might be better than a jug, but I know drinking’s not an answer, so I offer a token protest. ‘I’ve already had four.’
Paul laughs. ‘The trick is to stop counting after one.’
Scarlett fills my screen again. ‘Tell Paul jugs are good.’
At one time bottomless cocktails were my idea of the best night ever. I’m guessing they went with the heady days of student finance when I’d survive on a pack of crisps a day all week and save the cash for a blow-out of weekend clubbing instead. Good nights out were harder to find back in Somerset, but there were still some blinders at local fetes and county shows. Then, when I hurt my arm I swapped late nights for early mornings and Saturdays on the market stall, which neatly fitted with me never wanting to go out anyway, and that was the final part of my transformation to the country mouse who sat on my bed watching Bridgerton and The Crown .
As Paul fills up my glass, I haven’t completely let go of my hope for a decent ending for Tate and Scarlett.
I’m sucking a cherry off its stick. ‘Aren’t workplace attachments frowned upon now?’
Scarlett blows up her fringe again. ‘They still happen. Proximity and power are a heady mix.’
I pull a face. ‘It could be Tate’s mid-life crisis kicking in?’
Scarlett sighs. ‘If only. The truth is, Virginia is warm and smart, and her Long Island accent is gorgeous. I feel like a very small nothing beside her.’
She’s being so unfair on herself, I have to shout. ‘Don’t ever say that! You’re the most determined, together, clever, attractive, captivating, high-achieving person I know, Scarlie.’
She gives a rueful grimace. ‘And I’m also wise enough to know when I’m beaten.’ The breath she blows out makes her look even smaller. ‘We had our worst fight ever last night after the reception. When Tate suggested we meet up this afternoon I hoped it was to clear the air. But as he’s not here, I read that wrong too.’
Giving up is so unlike her. If she’s about to toss away everything she’s worked for since she was seven, it’s up to me to fire her up. ‘Promise me you won’t go down without a fight.’
She rubs her nose. ‘I do have some pride left. I refuse to go through his messages.’
As the gravity of the situation hits me, filling my glass to overflowing feels like the best support I can offer. I abandon the straw, tip back my head, let the sweet liquid flow down my throat, and only put my glass down again when it’s drained. But instead of the sensation of the proverbial sun climbing the sky inside my chest and raising my spirits, all I feel is blurry.
As Scarlett shouts at me from my screen she’s sliding out of the frame. ‘Bottoms up, Bets. I refuse to allow a guy to define who I am or wreck my happiness.’
It’s like she’s reading me my own private mantra.
I’m not sure, but it always felt like Scarlett and Tate totally defined each other, so I add another thought. ‘I refuse to let a guy take you down, Scarlie.’
There’s a momentary blanking of the screen, a view of what looks like the ceiling, then I hear a guy.
‘Scarlett, what are you doing? How many cocktails have you had?’
I recognise Tate’s voice, wave at the screen, and leap in to explain why Scarlett is sitting on a bar stool in Manhattan completely rat-arsed.
‘Scarlett and I are going drink for drink while we discuss you.’ There’s no point in sugar-coating this. ‘Shagging your counterpart in New York? What were you thinking, Tate?’
Tate gives a cough, which is worrying, because I’d rather have had a hard denial.
‘It’s not how it looks, Betsy. I’ll make it right. I mean, I’m here now, aren’t I?’
He’s talking to Scarlett. ‘Now might be a good time to make a run for home. What do you think, Scarl?’
Scarlett’s face is diagonally across the screen. ‘We can’t leave Bets in Jaggers on her own with six cocktails to finish.’
My tummy clenches as I hear that.
Tate’s voice comes in. ‘Sit tight, Bets. We’re right here with you.’
I refill my glass, and putting the jug down I send a splash across the bar. I’m mopping it up with my sleeve, thinking of the walk back along the beach. How far it will stretch in the dark with the alcohol expanding my perceptions. The way the room is going in and out of focus, even a visit to the Ladies could be out of my reach if I don’t go soon.
I prop my phone up against the cocktail jug. ‘Talk to Paul while I go to the bathroom. I won’t be long.’ I slither down from my stool and try not to leave any skirts behind as I land.
Paul’s calling directions after me. ‘Straight across, Betty, then left at the end.’
It feels like I’m walking on a cross-channel ferry in a Force10 gale using someone else’s legs, but once I grab hold of the chair backs it gets easier.
It’s so long since I’ve been out that I’ve forgotten how loudly the toilet doors bang when you forget to close them quietly. Then there’s that moment of calm while I pee and hold my head in my hands. Then the door slams again as I open it, and when I wash my hands, the person I’m staring at in the mirror looks like a different version of me. Then the lobby door is closing behind me, and I’m back to steadying myself on the chairs.
It hits me that I used to do this in five-inch heels rather than Converse high tops, and I’m impressed by my past self. In fact, the lack of height might explain why I’m finding it such hard work here. When I get back to the bar, push off on the polished foot rail and try to scramble back onto my stool, it feels less achievable than climbing the north face of the Eiger. I’m halfway up, when a low, resonating male voice cuts through my head and ruins my concentration.
‘Betsy, are you okay?’
There’s a thud as I land back where I started. Then I look up and there’s a moment of recognition and I let out a shout.
‘Miles, what the hell? You didn’t tell me you drank in Jaggers!’
He pulls a face. ‘This is my first time.’
Paul laughs from behind the bar. ‘You might like to try our sex-on-the-beach summer offer, three for the price of one, every night in June.’
I reach for my phone, miss, watch it slide along the bar, then shout for the benefit of those in New York. ‘Scarlett and Tate, guess what? Miles is here!’
Miles stares down at my screen as it slides to a halt in front of him. ‘Okay, guys, I’ve got the St Aidan end of the party. You two go and enjoy the rest of your evening.’ He looks at me. ‘Would you like more cocktails, Betsy Bets, or are you ready to head home?’
‘Home how?’
There’s that twitch to his lips. ‘My car is on the harbourside, if you’d like a lift.’
There’s a sudden pang in my chest. ‘Have you come specially…? In which case what about your real date?’
‘Tate rang to say you needed a lift, I’m sure she understood.’
I’m not sure I would have. I feel suddenly defiant. ‘I don’t need rescuing!’
‘No one is saying you do.’ He eyes me levelly. ‘If we’re heading in the same direction, it makes sense to go together, that’s all.’
With that query covered, I move on to the next.
‘Could we have chips?’
‘To eat on the harbourside or to take away?’ His arm slides around me, and I lean in as we weave our way towards the door. Then we move outside and the wind from the sea hits me in the face and blows my hair off my head. By the time I get to think, what the actual eff? we’re already halfway across quayside.