The bartender
The sign above the door says ‘The Black Dog’, and though they’ve only been open a few months, plenty of customers have already passed beneath it.
Seb refuses to label tonight an ‘indie disco night’, even though that’s what they call this kind of music nowadays, when they’re not calling it indie sleaze, indie landfill.
They kick off with ‘Chelsea Dagger’ and end with ‘Mr Brightside’, and a certain crowd go mad for it.
‘Retro night,’ Bea had suggested, and Seb had hated that even more.
‘Leave it,’ says Bea, nodding at the tray of glasses Seb has just pulled out of the washer. ‘We can manage without you for one night.’
Seb looks like he’s about to protest, but he’s distracted by the woman who has just walked in.
‘You’re here,’ says Seb, setting down the tray, stepping out from behind the bar.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘And Nora is in her uncle’s capable hands.’ She breaks away from him. ‘She was very excited when I said I was going on a date.’
‘Is that what this is?’ Seb says.
She punches his arm. ‘It’s a long time coming.’
‘Nineteen years,’ he says. ‘Since our first one.’
‘Did that one count?’ She smiles. ‘The karaoke was a nice touch.’
‘You lassoed me the moon.’
Their voices are dreamy, their memories especially vivid under these particular lights. Even Bea, who considers herself uniquely unsentimental, cracks a smile.
‘We should celebrate,’ Seb says. He looks to Bea. ‘This is Clara. Do we have champagne?’
‘You don’t drink champagne,’ Clara says.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘Two black velvets.’
Bea tells him that they’re not allowed to do that kind of thing any more, whether he owns the bar or not. Seb rolls his eyes, then orders a Guinness, a glass of champagne, and two empty flutes to decant into.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
‘Cheers,’ says Clara.
They’ve barely clinked glasses before Clara’s phone starts ringing. She cringes, fishes it out of her bag, looks at the name on the screen. She cancels the call.
Smudge has emerged from the back room. He casts his eyes over the bouquet of flowers on the side, then picks up the half-full Guinness glass beside it.
‘Alright, lovebirds,’ he says, taking a sip. ‘We’ve got this. Get out of here.’
Clara shakes her head at him, then downs the rest of her drink.
Seb hasn’t touched any more of his, because his phone is ringing now, and he’s trying his best to retrieve it from his pocket.
He looks at the screen, but he’s already missed the call.
Clara frowns. Smudge’s phone is going off behind the bar, too, and he’s already answering it, already heading back out of view with one finger in his ear.
Clara’s starts up again. She answers on the first ring.