I look up, finding the little barman smiling at me. He speaks with an accent, and I conclude that he’s Italian. He’s very short and rather sweet, with his mustache and receding black hair. ‘I could do with one, but I’m driving.’
‘Ah!’ he exclaims. ‘Just a small one,’ He holds a small wine glass up, drawing a line across the middle with his finger.
Oh, sod it! I shouldn’t drink on the job, but my nerves are shot to bits. He’s in this building somewhere and that’s unsettling enough. I nod on a smile. ‘Thank you.’
He holds up a bottle of Zinfandel. I nod again. ‘Your dress is very, urhh…how you say...striking?’ He pours a little more than half a glass. In fact, it’s full.
I look down at my black, structured, figure hugging dress. Yes, I suppose striking would be a word you could use. It’s my if-all-else-fails dress. I always feel nice in it. I ignore the little voice in my head asking me if I wore it in the hopes of seeing Ward. I snap a lid on that thought immediately and laugh at Mario’s careful choice of words, taking the glass as he passes it over the bar on a smile. I think he means tight. It shows every curve I have. Considering I’m a size ten, there are not many, but if I live with Kate for much longer, that may change. ‘Thank you.’ I smile.
‘Pleasure, Miss O’Shea. I leave you in peace.’ He picks up his cloth and starts wiping the granite counter under the optics.
I sip my wine as I wait for John. It goes down too well and before I know it, I’ve drank the lot. I can’t wait to get home so I can dig into the bottle being kept chilled in the fridge.
‘Hello.’
I swivel on my stool, coming face to face with the woman that was draped all over Ward on Friday. She smiles at me, but it’s the most insincere smile I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving. ‘Hi.’ I say politely.
I see Mario come rushing over with a panic stricken face, waving his cloth in the air. ‘Miss Sarah! No, please. No talk.’
What?
‘Oh, shut up Mario! I’m not stupid.’ she spits.
Poor Mario flinches before returning to wiping the bar, keeping his eyes on Sarah. I want to jump to his defense, but just as I’m contemplating doing exactly that, she puts out her hand.
‘I’m Sarah, you are?’
Oh yes, the last time she asked me that I didn’t answer and left rather hastily. I accept her hand, shaking it lightly as she eyes me suspiciously. I can tell she doesn’t like me. Perhaps she sees me as a threat.
‘Ava O’Shea.’ I offer, releasing my hold of her hand swiftly.
‘And you’re here because?’
I laugh lightly. I’m sure she knows exactly why I’m here, which only serves to confirm that she’s feeling threatened and going out of her way to make me feel uncomfortable. Sheath the claws, lady. I silently smile at the thought of telling her that it’s because her boyfriend pleaded with me to be here.
‘I’m an Interior Designer. I’m here to measure up the new bedrooms.’
She arches an eyebrow, flicking her hand in the air to get Mario’s attention. This woman is something else, with aloofness in equal measure to Wards boldness. Her blonde, layered hair is flicking here and there, her lips the same pouty red as they were on Friday, and she’s wearing a fitted, grey trouser suit. I’m being unkind when I put her at forty. She’s probably mid-thirties – far closer to Ward in age than me. I quickly reign in my wandering thoughts, mentally slapping my own desperate arse.
‘Sloe gin and tonic, Mario,’ she demands past me. No please and no smile. She really is quite rude. ‘You’re a bit young to be an interior designer, aren’t you?’ Her tone is unfriendly, and she doesn’t look at me when she speaks.