Chapter 15 #4
‘This fucking legend here has just told Christian Woods to do one, once and for all!’
‘You’re kidding?! Tell me everything!’
‘Oh, we will,’ said Becky, whipping off the Santa hat from the bust’s head on the bar and plonking it on mine instead. ‘But first, I believe there’s a bottle of undrunk but paid-for champagne with our names on it that we need to crack into. You know what? Sod it: FREE CHAMPAGNE FOR EVERYONE!’
Once everyone in the pub had been given their free bubbles and Becky had filled Tom in on my showdown with Christian, I ducked back into the private dining room with my own glass to give it a swift, final appraisal from the doorway.
Before Christian had arrived, I’d gone to a fair amount of effort, giving all the cutlery and glasses an extra buff so they gleamed and glistened.
I’d somehow got the fire crackling contentedly, and had lit all the tealights – even adding some more I’d managed to find in the dresser to every available surface.
Once all the fairy lights in the room had been switched on, and the Christmas tree in the corner was aglow, I’d decided we could afford to switch off the overhead lights, resulting in the aesthetic of a sumptuous festive banquet room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Nigella Lawson’s innuendo-laden winter cookery shows.
I stepped to one side to give space for the diners to enter, only for Tom to step in the same direction so that my nose was practically touching his chest. I looked up, sheepishly, neither of us taking a step back.
‘Mally! Woah, this room has never looked so good.’ He pulled me in for a quick hug. He smelt of beer, sambuca and a nameless but delicious aftershave I knew I would need to track down so I’d be able to relive this deeply pleasurable sensory moment in the near and frequent future.
We moved away from the doorway to allow his team to enter the room, which they all did while cooing and squealing at their unexpectedly luxurious surroundings. As they all took their seats, Becky came up beside me, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Milly Allister, once again you’ve outdone yourself. The room looks amazing! You’d never know I’d had my first snog up against a pool table pretty much where we’re standing right now!’
She winked at me before bundling me into another massive hug.
‘Right, I’d better let the kitchen know to get the starters out. Reckon you could give me a hand bringing them through?’
‘Amelia Allister, at your service!’ I replied.
It was the first time I’d said my real name aloud in twenty years.
By eleven thirty, the pub was empty of all customers – I’d been given the honour of ringing the bell for last orders – with the exception of Tom and his WeFacilit8 colleagues.
They were rambunctiously waiting for a minibus to take them on to Rotunda – a sticky-floored nightclub in the next suburb over, devoid of any positive attributes whatsoever beyond a dancefloor and a late licence.
Tom hung back from the throng, joining me at the bar that I was wiping down with a frankly magical potion called Bar Keepers Friend.
Before I’d even clocked his presence, he slung one long arm around my shoulder, and tossed his grey tweed coat over his own with an ironic flourish.
It was tempting to transfer my weight into what was fast becoming my favourite human nook, but I kept my core firm and continued wiping.
‘They missed the apostrophe.’ His words bumped up against each other in a way I hadn’t heard before, his breath sweet with eau-de-whisky-and-mince-pie.
‘Erm, who, what, where?’
Tom pointed at the bottle of cleaning product. ‘Surely there should be a possessive apostrophe after the word “Keepers”. Without it, the word “Friend” is grammatically redundant.’
I picked up the bottle and took a closer look at the copy. Huh, he was right.
‘Is this how our chats work?’ I placed the bottle back down and focused on rubbing the surface in a vaguely ‘wax-on, wax-off’ fashion.
‘You what now?’
‘Well, last night I drunkenly bored you to death with adjective-related chitchat, and now you’re drunkenly talking to me about possessive apostrophes. I’m starting to detect a linguistic pattern.’
‘You didn’t bore me, Mal. But are you saying that I’m boring you ?’
My breath caught, and I decided to chance an honest answer since he probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation by the end of the night.
‘You know you’re not.’ Keep wiping, Mally.
‘Good.’
‘Minibus is here!’ someone called from the doorway to a cacophony of cheers and West Country ’wahey’s.
He removed his arm from me and I exhaled, unaware my breathing had been in glitch mode.
‘Now then, Miss Mally. I know you’re still feeling delicate from last night’s chundering, but are you absolutely sure I can’t convince you to join us at the legendary establishment that is Rotunda?
Even for a single orange juice and lemonade?
It’s just that I have so many other language-based observations I’d love to get off my chest.’
Tom’s eyes were fixed on mine, but his pupils were dilated. And, as tempted as I was to say ‘yes’, even the thought of stepping into that place sober made my stomach churn and eardrums ache.
‘Not this time, Thomas.’
He stuck out his bottom lip in exaggerated disappointment, and my brain immediately leapt back to that vulnerable little boy from the playschool picture.
‘Next time, then?’ he asked, swinging his coat back round from the faux-casual shoulder sling. I had to lean back at the waist to avoid the thick material whipping me in the face. He attempted to put the coat on but couldn’t successfully locate the armhole.
I snorted and put down my cloth, finally – my arm was killing me. ‘Tom, you piss-head. Let me help.’
Tom chuckled. ‘Please.’
I guided his firm arms into their respective holes from behind, standing on my tiptoes. Once his arms were in, he turned to face me, and I instinctively rose up on my tiptoes again to turn up his collar to protect him from the cold.
‘Why thank you, Mally, you hangover-head.’
‘Any time. Right then, off you pop.’
As he walked to the door, he turned and blew me a drunken kiss, which I pretended to catch mid-air and place in my pocket. I patted said pocket to indicate it was safe and snug.
‘See you at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning for some curtain hanging!’ Tom shouted, as he was ushered out of the pub by his boisterous colleagues.
I laughed quietly before turning around to return to my bar-wiping duties, only to come face to face with a smirking, wide-eyed Becky, her arms folded in friendly challenge.
‘“Curtain hanging”? Is that what they’re calling it these days? Debrief. Now.’
Becky pointed to a pair of well-worn sofas next to the fire, which was gradually dying down but still deliciously warm.
I sank into the softness of one of them, relieved to take the weight off my sore feet.
Becky sat on the sofa opposite, leaning towards me with eagerness and intent.
I prepared for an Elle-style interrogation.
‘Firstly, thank you.’
Oh! Unexpected.
‘You don’t have to thank me, Becky, I just—’
‘I’m gonna stop you there. You prevented all that food going to waste and helped us have our best night in bloody months.
You stood up to that dickhead Christian Woods and finally got through to him.
And you laid and unlaid that massive table like seven times.
You did fucking loads and I’m obsessed with you. ’
‘Gosh. Er, thanks! I guess…’
‘And can I tell you what else I’m obsessed with?’
Ah, here goes.
‘I have this feeling you might tell me anyway?’
‘Correct. I’m utterly obsessed with this thing between you and Tom. Turning up his collar and catching his cute little kiss? I mean, Jesus, I’m a sceptic when it comes to all things romance, but even I couldn’t help but swoon at the sparks that are almost literally flying between you guys.’
‘Argh, stop it!’
‘I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. This has to go somewhere! Speaking of which, why didn’t you go with him just now?’
‘Because he’s smashed and I’m very much not.’
‘Fair enough. Fledgling relationships often rely on drunken equality.’
The word ‘relationship’ gave me goosebumps, which made me feel hopeful and pathetic all at once.
‘In that case, if the last couple of days are anything to go by, Tom and I may be forever doomed to remain on opposite sides of the sobriety fence.’
‘Oh my God, you do like him, don’t you?!’
I said nothing as I heaved myself off the sofa and began collecting up my things, but my internal fairy lights were now flashing at maximum speed, and – somehow – Becky could tell. She let out a squeal so high-pitched that it was almost inaudible.
‘Oof. I dunno, Becky – I’m heading back to London soon. Even if what you’re saying is true, it all just feels a bit futile. And I still can’t figure out why on earth he would’ve been interested in me back then, let alone now.’
She drummed her fingers on the table and bunched her lips to one side.
‘Okay, I reckon I’ve got something back at mine that might help to convince you. I can drop it round in the morning. What number Hollyhock Close are you staying at?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Cool. If I find it, I’ll pop it through your letterbox first thing on my way to the wholesaler’s. And trust me – it’s conclusive.’