‘I could say the same about Gary. You devote your life to him, yet he’ll never be yours. How can that make you happy?’
‘He’s a fantasy,’ she says. ‘I know that. You know that. Part of the attraction is chasing that elusive dream. I don’t have to put up with his moods or do his dirty washing. I don’t have to listen to him moan or cook his dinner. I get Gary on my terms.’
‘It isn’t enough though, is it? Joe wasn’t a fantasy. He’s real-life flesh and blood. I want to be there for him when he’s a grumpy old bugger or has man flu. That’s what I want. And he was mine – if only for a fleeting moment.’
‘Now we’re both chasing what we can’t have,’ Charlie says and she sounds more sad than I’ve ever heard.
I hug her to me and kiss her cheek. ‘Now I’ve made you miserable too.’
‘You’ve made me think,’ she says. ‘That’s different. But damn you all the same.’
‘I guess we’ve just got to learn to be content with what we’ve got.’
‘You will get over him,’ Charlie says. ‘In time.’
‘I know.’ But I wonder how long that will take.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
It’s a few nights later when Mason turns up at the Butcher’s Arms. He catches my arm as I’m rushing past with three sharing platters for table six.
‘Can’t stop,’ I say. ‘They’ve been waiting ages for these.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you, Brown,’ he says. ‘Work. Business. Life.’
‘Me too. I’ll catch you later.’
‘Can you stay around when we close up?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’ll put Ryan Gosling off.’ And I’m away to deliver my platters before my diners complain and cut my tip.
Then I spend the rest of the evening rushing round and don’t give Mason a second thought. I’m knackered and it’s late when we finish.
He’s helping to tidy up when I finally go through, stacking some glasses and setting out bottles on the bar. When he’s done, he turns the lights down low and, as all the other staff have gone, we have the place to ourselves.
‘You look knackered, Brown.’
‘I am knackered. But thanks for pointing it out.’
‘I have the very thing.’ He flips a glass in the air and catches it with a flourish.
‘Wow.’ I find the nearest armchair and park myself in it.
‘I’ve been on a bartending course,’ Mason says.
‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘I don’t tell you all my secrets.’ He does another fancy glass flip thing. I try not to look impressed, but I am. ‘I’m thinking of sending all the bartenders at the club on a course, so I thought I’d try it out myself first. It was great fun. There are things that I can do with ice that would make your hair curl. I’ve mastered the technique of free-pouring …’
I look at him blankly.
‘You don’t use measures and I can handle four bottles at once.’
‘Huh. I’ve been doing that with wine for years.’
Mason laughs at that. ‘Let me mix you something.’
‘I remember last time we had cocktails it ended very badly.’ I think I might never touch rum again.
‘I remember it ended with me having a bad back for days from sleeping on your rather small and inhospitable sofa.’
‘Ah. Sorry about that.’ And I am a bit as Mason was actually very nice that night.
‘Live dangerously,’ he urges. ‘We haven’t had a chance to see each other since then. I have stuff to tell you. Besides, it’s work. I’m thinking of putting some of these on the menu.’
‘My shift has officially ended. Does that mean I get overtime?’
‘Whatever you like, Brown. Just say yes.’
‘Taxi home too?’
‘It goes without saying.’
I give in and grin at him. ‘Yes.’ I’m on the evening shift for most of this week, so if it all goes Pete Tong then I can have a lie-in tomorrow morning. ‘You’re a bad influence on me, Mason Soames.’
‘Good.’
I have to smile. The man is shameless.
‘What do you fancy? I have a repertoire of a dozen different cocktails.’
I hold up my hands. ‘You choose.’
‘A little Sex on the Beach for you then, madam.’
‘Mason!’ I look at him as you would a naughty schoolboy. ‘Must you be so bloody obvious?’
‘It’s harmless enough,’ he promises. ‘And I’ll make a small one so you can try something else. Vodka, peach schnapps …’ He pours as he reels off the ingredients. ‘Cranberry and a soup?on of orange juice.’ He adds ice and a slice of orange before he brings it over to me.
‘No colourful umbrella?’
‘That’s so last year,’ he informs me.
I taste my drink. ‘Hmm. Nice.’
‘And it has three of your five a day,’ he says.
‘Nothing for you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says and peruses his bottles. ‘A Singapore Sling, I think. Made to the original Raffles Hotel recipe. It’s one of my favourites. I’ll make one for you as a chaser too.’ He concentrates as he pours a little of this, a bit of that. ‘I’m seriously thinking of packing all this in and opening a beach bar in the Caribbean, Brown. I’d be quite happy doing this for the rest of my life. Coming with me?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’ It actually sounds quite appealing.
When he’s finished juggling a dozen different bottles, he brings the drinks over and I take a sip.
‘Blimey.’ I give a theatrical cough. ‘That’s like rocket fuel. Just how much alcohol is there in that?’
‘Maybe too much,’ he says as he tries his. ‘We’d have to charge a fortune for it. But it’s good, right?’
‘Very good.’
This is so strong that I can feel it melting my bones. But after a long, hard day on the front line of hospitality, it feels good to put my feet up and be waited on. Mason comes to sit next to me and he talks about what he’s been up to, plans for the business, his bartending course and, to be honest, I don’t really listen to him. I let it all wash over me and try to nod in more or less the right places but, if he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s actually nice to be sitting here with him getting slowly trollied. It’s nice not to think about Joe for once. It’s nice to have someone making a fuss of me.
When we finish our Singapore Slings, Mason rubs his hands together. ‘Now what?’
And I don’t know what possesses me, but I leave my chair, go over to sit on Mason’s lap and kiss him deeply.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
The next minute we’re in the kitchen and Mason lifts me onto the massive stainless steel table that chef uses for preparation. It’s the only place that’s not covered by CCTV, Mason tells me and, at the time, I don’t question how he knows this.
I can’t tell you exactly how we got from the lounge to here, but we shed some clothes on the way, bump into furniture and the bar. My lips are bruised from some very enthusiastic kissing. Mason makes short work of unbuttoning my blouse and hitching my skirt up. As I’m struggling with his belt, his jeans, I think that chef would go mental if he could see us. I’m going to have to go over this with Dettol when we’ve finished.