Chapter 22
Aggie
Ilean against the brick wall outside the kitchen and pull a fresh pack of Winfields from my apron pocket. Work in hospo long enough and nothing surprises you anymore. Which doesn’t mean nothing pisses you off.
Tempers run hot in kitchens even on a good day, and this past week has rattled mine beyond belief.
Afterglow might have Cece’s name on the license, but the kitchen’s been mine since before Mitch kicked the bucket.
I was happy to stick around after he passed.
Happy enough when Cece rolled in all bright-eyed and big smiles, with her shiny new branding and hunger for a big, glamorous life.
As though slapping a new name on the place is all it takes to fix a reputation built on murders, hangovers, and bad credit.
Me? I’ve never asked for more than clean surfaces, a decent wage, and the space to cook in peace, but these last few months it’s become painfully clear the pub’s skidding toward closure.
The stockroom’s constantly near-empty, the steady customers are vanishing, and then that prissy blonde showed up with mice in her handbag and a grudge under her arm, and now we’re closed for two weeks, maybe longer. Maybe forever.
I spark up and take a long drag on my cigarette. Smoking’s a habit I thought I ditched in the nineties, but here we are again. Winnie Reds still taste like shit, but they help with the rage and the devil you know is always the safest one to flirt with.
Not that I’ll keep smoking. I know the difference between indulging a vice and risking an early grave. It’s a lesson I wish I could hand down to the kids hanging around this old pub.
Davis, playing Mr. Fix-It instead of just telling Cece how he feels.
Ada, pouring tequila on her open wounds like it’s antiseptic.
Cece, convinced she’s only worth what she can hustle across the bar. Like she didn’t watch her own godfather do the same thing and achieve nothing but a bad back and a stack of bills, which he passed down to her.
They’re all self-destructing in front of me. Lying to themselves and each other. I want to shake them, tell them, ‘Pick better poisons.’ But even if I did, they wouldn’t listen. Truths like that only sink in once you’ve suffered enough to let them.
My cigarette ember glows in the late afternoon sun. I tilt my head back to avoid getting smoke in my eyes as I study the burning tip. It’s bright, angry and fading fast, like a lot of things around here.
I hear a moan, or I imagine I do. A low, pitiful sound coming from the building behind me.
The kind I heard a thousand times when I helped Dad with the end-of-season slaughter on the farm.
Animals all sound the same when they reach the end of the line, and apparently, so does this place.
Or that’s how it feels today. I wedge my dart between my lips and text Des:
Almost here?
His reply is instant:
2 mins away.
I shove my phone back into my miniskirt pocket and take another long drag.
Tobacco coats my tongue, bitter and dry.
It doesn’t feel as good as it used to, smoking.
But what was I supposed to do, ask Ada for a vape?
I’d rather taste tar than suck bubble-gum-peach mist, or whatever the hell kids are into these days.
My cig gives one last flare then dies, and I stare at the smouldering stub for longer than I should.
The girls are down in Pukekohe for their reunion; Ada, still furious at the All Black, Cece, beside herself at Davis, the pub in tatters and nothing solved.
A fire’s been lit. Stress sparked bone-dry resentments, and now they’re ablaze, gobbling up oxygen and getting bigger by the second.
I don’t seek out fires anymore, but I’ve danced in enough to know how they end.
They either fizzle out or explode. Hard to say what’s going to happen to this one.
I’d like to think it’ll fizzle, and everything’ll sort itself just fine, but that’s just blind hope.
A woman my age doesn’t set much stock in hope.
I flick the butt to the ground and crush it under my boot heel. The sensor light above the kitchen door clicks on, and Des O’Malley steps into the bin-lined courtyard, a big, brown paper bag in one hand. He eyes me like he always does, curious and horny. Just how I like ’em. Usually.
“You been smoking?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Yeah. What about it?”
I might like my men curious and horny, but I didn’t survive two ex-husbands just to start lying to them about shit they don’t approve of.
Des’s face softens into a smile. “Want another?”
“Nah, I’m done for now.” I nod at the bag in his hand. “Those the traps?”
“Yeah. A dozen. And peanut butter. Wasn’t sure if the bar had any, and that’s what I always use.”
“Good. Come on, then.”
I walk past him and pull open the kitchen door. I feel him eyeing my legs, and the warmth that gives me is twice what came from the cig.
Pick your poison, Agnes.
Des empties the paper bag onto my prep bench. Mouse traps skitter across the stainless steel, an unopened jar of peanut butter rolling out behind them. I groan when I see the shiny gold label. “Christ, Des. You didn’t have to buy the mice the gourmet shit.”
“Ah, if you’re gonna do a job, better to do it right, ay, Aggie?”
He grins at me like he’s something special. Sad thing is, he’s right. Full head of grey-brown hair. Big shoulders. Sparkling blue eyes. He’s always been a looker. Always knew it too, which was half the bloody problem.
I bite back a grin. “Think we’ll get all of ’em today?”
“Should do.”
The health inspector who spotted the mouse was decent enough to recognise there were no signs the mice had settled in; no droppings, holes or grease streaks on the walls. But Afterglow can’t reopen until an official sign-off from an exterminator, and I told Cece I’d handle it.
I wanted to save her more stress, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I wasn’t thinking it was a good chance to call Desmond O’Malley.
He did a stint in his cousin’s pest control business in ’08, and he agreed to help me catch the furry bastards for free.
If we’re lucky, we’ll have the tick of approval from the council in no time.
It’s just a matter of whether the customers ever come back.
“So,” Des says, snapping open a trap. “How’re the girls holding up?”
“About the same as the wallpaper. Hanging by a thread.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He knows better than to expect more from me, but it never stops him from trying. He’s that kind of man. Or at least he is now. Back when we had a shot at something decent, he bolted like a soaked cat.
“I’m worried about the boys, too,” I say. “That rugby show pony running around on Ada, and Davy acting like Cece’s unpaid supervisor. Pair of idiots, both of them.”
The kitchen door bangs open, and Des jolts. Speak of the devil.
Davis steps through, dressed head-to-toe in black, hoodie up. “Afternoon.”
Des raises the trap like a weapon, and I laugh.
“I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, O’Malley, but I doubt that’ll hurt anything bigger than a mouse.”
Des scowls as he lowers the trap. “You might wanna rethink wandering into places dressed like that, mate,” he tells Davis. “Pick a shirt with some colour.”
“Black’s a colour.”
“It’s the colour you wear to rob someone.”
“Can it, Des.” I fold my arms, one bra strap slipping down my shoulder. I ignore it. Fidgeting’s a weakness. “What’s in the bag, Davis?”
“Traps. Raisins for bait.”
I give him a look. “The mice aren’t your responsibility, love. I told you last night, Des and I’ve got it covered.”
“I know. I just figured you could use a hand.”
Figured he could get back in Cece’s good books, more like. The boy means well, but he’s thick as two planks when it comes to Cecelia. “Well, that’s kind of you, Davis. The more the merrier.”
“Yeah.” He pushes his hood back. “I’ve got someone else coming too.”
“Who?”
“Jake.”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to skin a rabbit.
If he thinks I’ll swallow that load of bollocks, he’s thicker than four planks.
Stacked sideways. “That so? Well, you probably already know the girls aren’t here.
But you should also know no one, including the girls, will be informed that you or the show pony pitched in at all. Got it?”
“Yes, Aggie,” Davis says meekly.
“You wanna ring Golden Boots and let him know?”
“Nah, he’ll still be keen. We might, uh, have a drink after. Commiserate and all that.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. More men, fewer mice.”
Des starts baiting traps, pointedly ignoring Davis’s raisins, and the two of them get to work placing them around the skirting boards and near the bins.
I head for the walk-in and start hauling the perishables onto the prep bench.
My kitchen might be spotless, but spotless doesn’t stop the clock ticking on sour cream and raw chicken.
Everything that’ll expire before we’ve got a shot at reopening will have to be binned.
More of Cece’s precious money down the drain.
I’m halfway through when there’s a knock on the pub door. I wipe my hands on my apron and step into the main bar. Sure enough, New Zealand’s star flanker is lurking in the window like a life-sized Weet-Bix commercial.
“Blimey,” Des breathes from behind me. “Is that—”
“Yes,” I snap. “Don’t be a star-struck prick about this, O’Malley.”
Rugby does strange things to men in this country. I once saw Des being carried out of a Rugby World Cup party in a wheelbarrow in West Auckland. The last thing is him losing his mind at being this close to an All Black.
“Jaysus,” he murmurs, still gawping. “You said it was a rugby bloke, but I didn’t think—”
“Don’t you go thinking,” I say, already marching for the door. “Just shut up and lay traps. That man left one of my girls in bits. He doesn’t deserve a hero’s welcome from you.”