1
High Tide, April 204
It will all end in tears, Polly’s friend would say. Later. But Polly knew best. Nonsense, she insisted. If you think about it, it’s practically perfect. For what could be more liberating than knowing when and why it was all going to end?
*
Polly’s shop Cutie Pie sat on the side of a steep Bristol hill famous for its trendy independent shops, and just up from Banksy’s mural of a naked man hanging by his fingertips from the ledge of his married lover’s window. The shop was as bright and as cheerful as Polly. Those in the know would pop into this emporium of punk-slash-rockabilly-slash-’50s-pinup to buy a dress or a shirt or frou-frou skirt, or a bright pink fake leopardskin jacket, safe in the knowledge that they’d be unlikely to bump into anyone else wearing the same outfit, for Cutie Pie shop specialised in the witty and wacky. This shop was guaranteed to brighten your day with its clash of colours and hip yet accessible style. This shop could make you smile. It was the realisation of Polly’s dream of running her own business on her favourite street close to Bristol’s historic docks. Coming to work each day was a joy.
Time for some cheerful tunes , she thought. Let’s get that sun shining! Into her CD player she slid Georgie Fame’s “Sunny” and began to sing along as she fiddled with her window display.
Outside, a strong south-westerly gusted, lifting girls’ skirts and turning umbrellas inside out. She was half expecting Mary Poppins to come floating down when her attention was drawn to a man chasing a pirate hat as it bounced in a most jaunty fashion along the street. Incongruously dressed in a frock coat and long boots, he pawed at the hat as it changed direction, threatening to head out into a busy stream of traffic. Just in time, he stamped on it, picked it up, shook it out and turned around to – yes – catch Polly gawping at him through her shop window. Flustered, she attempted to look away as he gave her a little bow.
‘Oh crap,’ she muttered, ‘it’s him!’ and thought to duck down behind her counter but it was too late. So, instead, she feigned being busy.
“Ping” went her doorbell. And there he was. Johnny-Depp-pirate-hat in hand. The hunk who’d bid against her at the auction.
*
Two weeks earlier and Polly and Mel were on a mission. They’d met up outside Bristol Auction House, housed in a building that squatted in one of the tiniest back streets off Bristol’s harbourside. Polly wore a vintage cream coat which she slipped off, revealing a pink dress covered with a cupcakes pattern and topped by a raspberry-coloured crocheted cardigan. ‘I see you’ve come as a raspberry cupcake today,’ quipped Mel, as Polly draped her coat over her arm.
‘Whereas you’re more Cruella de vil.’
‘I hardly think so, Missy.’ Mel wore a sharp black trouser suit with cigarette pants, tailored jacket and freshly ironed white polka-dot shirt (no Dalmatians killed in the making of).
Polly leant forward to give her very best friend in the world a kiss on the cheek.
‘Gerroff, lezzer!’ said Mel, as she smoothed her just-below-the-ear-choppy-blonde bob. ‘You’d better not have left any red lippie on my face.’
‘Hold still.’ Polly pulled a tissue from her bag, gave it a lick, wiping the mark she’d deposited on her friend’s soft cheek. ‘Thanks for coming with me,’ she said. ‘Truly.’
‘Stop calling me Truly!’ Mel grinned at her. ‘You know how much I love slumming it with you arty types.’
They linked arms and waltzed in, finding places near the front where they settled on a battered leather sofa in the already packed auction house. The auction was well under way and they were just in time. For there he was. The man of her dreams. Looking a tad flaky, it was true, and his clothes had seen better days.
‘Go on, then,’ Mel hissed in her ear. ‘Don’t let him get away.’
So Polly stuck up her hand.
‘One hundred and eighty pounds to the pretty lady with the auburn hair.’ The auctioneer smiled what Polly considered more than a professional smile at her.
‘Oh, give me strength,’ muttered Mel, who’d spotted the auctioneer’s leer.
‘Two hundred pounds for the pirate!’ came a male voice from somewhere behind the pillar. Polly craned her neck but couldn’t see who it was.
‘Bugger. We’ve got competition,’ hissed Mel.
But Polly was not to be thwarted. And certainly not by a man so cowardly that he had to hide behind a pillar. She wanted this life-sized figure of a pirate for her shop. And no man was going to get in her way!
‘Two hundred and fifty!’ she shouted, as Mel shot her a look of… pride, it might have been, or caution more like, for they’d agreed not to go over the two hundred mark.
The auctioneer cast his eye towards the pillar, but no counterbid was forthcoming, so he brought his gavel down.
‘Sold!’ And Polly hold up her auction number.
Out in the yard, she was just buying two coffees from a van when there, coming around the corner of the auction house – as if locked in some slow-mo Diet Coke commercial – strode a man in dark curly-haired gorgeousness.
He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. ‘Spike Monaghan.’
( For God’s sake, Polly, close your mouth. ) ‘Hello,’ was all she could manage.
‘I’m hoping I’ll be getting visitation rights,’ he said, with a soft Irish lilt as he beamed an expansive friendly smile at her.
‘Sorry?’ Her brain wasn’t doing catch-up very well as it still appeared to have its tongue hanging out. ( He wants to visit me? )
‘The pirate?’ he said. ‘Fair play to you outbidding me like that. I’d be interested to see where you’re going to put him.’ He released her hand. ‘I didn’t quite catch your name?’
‘Right. Yes. Polly. Park Street. Shop. Cutie Pie.’ Polly appeared to have lost the knack of joined-up speaking.
‘Excellent.’ He walked backwards a few paces then gave her a cheery wave as he headed off for the main road.
And that had been that. She’d not thought she’d see him again, had nearly (okay, not quite) forgotten him, and yet here he was. In her shop. With a dead cheeky grin on his face.
‘Hello again,’ he said, ruffling his hair. ‘Don’t you just hate hats! Look at me now. I’ve got the terrible hat hair.’
She gawped at him – not used to seeing a pirate in her shop… unless you counted her shop pirate, Cap’n Jack, which she did not.
‘Do you not remember me?’
‘Yes,’ she managed to get out. Of course she remembered him. All her nerve endings were already going – boing – and standing to attention. ‘You were my rival for my pirate, here,’ she said – gesturing.
‘And very sad I was to miss out on him,’ giving Cap’n Jack a pat on the shoulder. ‘Was hoping to buy him for a friend of mine who – you know – does pirate tours around the docks? He’s off sick today – hence the pirate costume.’ He indicated his get-up. ‘D’you like it? I’m standing in for him, you see.’ He leant forward. ‘And before you go asking me, no, he isn’t off with the scurvy.’
Blank face from Polly.
‘Geddit? No?’ He stood up to his full height. ‘Pirate? Scurvy?’
Over six foot tall, she reckoned… Hmm … six foot two…?
‘Just as well I’m not a comedian,’ he added. ‘So.’ Another cheeky grin. ‘Have I gone overboard with this lot – if you’ll excuse the pun. Is that what you’re thinking? But I do like the dressing-up, and…’ (he was definitely giving her the once-over) ‘…judging by the looks of you and your fine shop, I’d say you like the dressing-up too.’
He wore such an air of amusement that even his sticking-up hair appeared most tickled. And it was, she noted, the kind of hair made for running your fingers through. If you had a penchant for that sort of thing – which Polly most definitely had.
‘I guess so…’
‘That’s a wicked dress you’ve got on there,’ he said, holding her startled gaze for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘Very nice. The shop too. Way cool.’
‘Yes, well.’ She tried to affect an I’m-in-charge-this-is-my-shop kind of air, but didn’t quite mange it, due to the fact that she was trying terribly hard not to smile. ‘Did you come in for anything in particular?’
‘Apart from my visitation rights, you mean, Polly? It is Polly, isn’t it?’
She coloured up.
‘I could ask for change for the meter? As a reason for popping in. Would that help? Only I don’t have a car…’
Oh, he’s charming, isn’t he. And we all know that charming, good-looking blokes spell “trouble” …
‘Tell you what,’ his eyes alighting on a tie rack, ‘how’s about I take one of these fine fellas?’ He waved a black tie covered with cavorting skeletons in her general direction. ‘This one here could come in handy for scaring away awkward customers. Should I have any.’ He held it up to his shirt. ‘What do you think?’
‘Looks great.’ She gathered her composure. ‘It’s a Mexican Day of the Dead design. It’s a major Mexican festival?’
‘Is it, now? Amazing the things you can learn. I’ll take it!’
‘Good choice.’ (He was giving her a quizzical look). ‘Of tie,’ she added. Flustered. She hadn’t said anything daft, had she? Then why was he looking at her like that?
‘Why don’t I give you my card? Because,’ he said, his face deadpan, ‘you never know when you might be in need of a stripper.’
She stopped mid-ringing up his purchase. ‘I’m sorry…?’
‘Ha! Your face!’ A big grin on his. ‘Got ya! Sorry. Couldn’t resist the whole stripping thing. Is what I do, you see.’ He pointed at his card. ‘Not the full monty – if that’s what you’re thinking – jeez, no. If you look at my card, you’ll see that I strip floors, and sand them.’
She looked at his card. It did.
‘One of my many jobs. That and restoring furniture, doing up boats, writing music reviews for West is Best … Do you get that magazine?’
She seemed to have lost the power of speech once more, and merely shook her head.
‘Don’t mind me, Polly. Polly… Is that why you have a pirate? So’s you can do the whole “Pretty Polly” “Pieces of eight” parrot kind of thing?’
She wondered if he was taking the piss, and if he was hyperactive.
‘I’ll shut up, shall I? It’s the nerves. I tend to gabble when I’m nervous. I do apologise.’ Taking the proffered bag, he executed a long theatrical bow. ‘Tell you what,’ slapping his forehead, ‘I’ve an excellent idea. Why don’t I take you out for a drink tonight? To prove how I’ve not escaped from an asylum for the piratically insane! What do you think? Do say yes, Polly. Pretty please.’
Seeing as he asked so charmingly, and she couldn’t see any other way to get him out of the shop, she said yes. After all, what harm could it do?