36. Present Day – January
36
PRESENT DAY – JANUARY
SCOTT
‘ J ust wanted to check in,’ I say to Jamie as he takes off his coat, hanging it up in the back before his shift. ‘How’s it going? Working here?’
‘I love it.’ He grins. ‘Still a while off saving up for my bike, but I’m getting there.’
‘That’s great. Let me know if you want extra shifts to help.’ He catches my eye, curious. ‘I think we can safely say you passed your trial period.’
His face lights up and then a scowl interrupts his smile. ‘There is one problem, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘My sister.’ Oh shit. Can he sense how I feel about her? ‘Can we bar her or something?’
‘What?’ I laugh, more out of relief than anything else. ‘She’s fine.’
‘She’s embarrassing.’
‘Risk of the job, working with drunk people. And she’s only gotten drunk like, once.’ I stop myself from saying any more, gushing about how incredible I think she is, or Jamie will definitely know all my innermost fantasies. Lamely, I finish, ‘She’s always welcome.’
‘Can you imagine if Marcus was still here? He’d be furious .’
Everything stills. I’m not used to people casually bringing up Marcus like this. Jamie’s gone and dropped him into conversation like we only saw him yesterday.
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. His little sister … almost dancing on the bar.’ Jamie shakes his head as if trying to clear the image.
Part of me wonders if I should try to change the subject, apologise for his loss, gently move the conversation on. But part of me is vehemently disagreeing. The video I watched of Marcus trying to breakdance last night springs to the front of my mind, and despite the silly image, I get a moment of absolute clarity. ‘No, he wouldn’t.’
‘What?’ Jamie looks shocked.
‘Marcus would be encouraging her. He was the ringleader of chaos. He’d have been mixing some disgusting cocktails for her, and he’d have been holding a dance competition.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Marcus was the biggest party animal I ever knew. He wouldn’t have tried to smother her.’
‘I should have known.’ Jamie sounds solemn, almost as if he’s disappointed in himself. ‘But no one tells me stories of what he was like.’ He swallows, gaze flicking away and then back to me. ‘I watched one of those videos you made. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ he rushes to add. ‘I didn’t know what was on the flash drives, and when I realised I …’ He gestures loosely, raising his hands in surrender. ‘I stopped right away. It felt wrong watching something that wasn’t mine.’
I shake my head to try to show I don’t mind.
‘What I did see, though,’ he lets out a small laugh, ‘was that he was a loose cannon.’
‘The loosest.’ I clap down on his shoulder. ‘I never thanked you properly for those memory sticks.’
‘No need to thank me. They should have been yours.’
‘I’d forgotten all about them. It was … really good to see Marcus again.’
‘I wish I had some videos like that.’ Jamie suddenly flushes. ‘I don’t remember him as much as I’d like. I miss him.’
‘Me too, Jamie.’
He looks at me, eyes wide, and I see the ten year old I abandoned after his funeral.
‘I could make you a copy … of the videos … if you want? Well, the ones that aren’t legally incriminating.’
He grins his big grin, the one that reminds me of Josie. ‘Yes, please.’
I nod and rapidly change the subject. ‘Did I show you how to clean the lines yet?’
He shakes his head.
‘Come on, it’s gross.’
It’s almost closing time when I place the passionfruit and soda on the bar. My head snaps up as a breeze whips through the pub. Josie’s illuminated in the doorway, glowing like the brightest star in the dark night sky behind her.
‘Hey.’ She beams at me and it’s like all the stars are smiling at me, too. ‘I’ve got my first mock-up of the sign. You wanna see?’
The door closes behind her, blocking out the darkness, as she walks forwards.
‘Hell, yes.’ I come out from behind the bar and move towards her. Not touching her feels like fighting against a magnet.
Yellow painted nails glint as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a sketch pad.
‘Here.’ She flips over the cover and passes it to me.
A simple pencil sketch of the right half of a bull’s head silhouette stares back at me, the words “ The Bull Inn” filling the gap on the left.
‘It’s actually really simple. I almost feel like I’m cheating you.’ Perfect teeth chew her bottom lip, and I whip my concentration back to the design so I don’t think about where I’d like to feel that mouth.
‘No, I like it. It’s …’ I struggle to find the right words. Mature. Sleek. Modern.
‘Classier?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s not that I don’t like the current bull you have but …’
I cock an eyebrow. ‘The eighties called and they want their bovine back?’
‘Your words. But the client is always right.’
I rock my head to the side and then back again, scrutinising the sketch. ‘We could do with a bit of a change around here.’ I nod. ‘I like this so far.’
‘I’ll template how the sign will look, and get you to sign off on it before I start painting anything.’
‘Josie …’ I don’t know how to put it into words. To thank her for giving me a chance to be her friend. To thank her for what she was doing. My, ‘Thank you,’ sounds very lame.
‘No worries. Just if anyone asks, give them my name.’
‘You gonna pull up a bar stool while you wait for Jamie?’
‘I’ll take my usual spot.’ She smiles at me, and her eyes sparkle when they see her drink already there waiting.
Turning away, I refill the serviettes to give me something to focus on that isn’t the most incredible person I’ve ever met. Bad Scott. She’s Marcus’s little sister. And what about the age gap? The arguments circle round my head as I work, but, the more I think about them, the more I realise one is lacking.
She’s more capable than I am now, let alone when I was twenty-two. My mind is blown when I think about everything she’s already achieved with her art. And she’s thoughtful, talented, passionate, conscientious. But I also love how she’s fun, playful, loud, but that doesn’t mean she’s too young. Age gap, shmage gap. If there were a discrepancy in our maturity, it would be the other way. If anyone’s lacking, it’s me.
I catch sight of her pink tongue poking out as she concentrates on her sketchbook, and my dick nudges my jeans. No. Our age difference might not mean a damn thing, but she is still irrefutably my dead best friend’s younger sister, and so in the friendzone we must stay.
The crisp paper squeaks against the spiral binding as she swipes through her drawings. I catch fleeting glimpses of her work. Suddenly, the hanging sign design feels too fleeting as well — she’s already planned it. Before I know it, she’ll have finished, and I won’t have this excuse to talk to her anymore.
As friends.