‘So this is facial discrimination! I’m older than him. Probably older than you too. And why didn’t you ask before making this?’
‘I’m gonna add tequila in a second. This is just OJ and grenadine.’
Grenadine. The barman didn’t even attempt to sound British there. His bilingual brain made the switch. Up until the OJ, Charles was in a small boozer in North West London, but the grenadine catapulted him onto a Parisian pavement. He’s surrounded by chain-smokers, an Édith Piaf song plays in the background and—
‘Happy?’ Elsy presents her driving licence with a roll of her eyes. ‘That makes me twenty-two, in case you can’t do maths. Please leave the tequila bottle. I’m sure you’ll find a way to overprice that.’
‘On your tab too?’
Charles nods, but his throat tightens a little. A steepafternoon pub bill will show up on his bank statement. His father has access to his bank statements.
He clicks his pen again, six times.
Elsy pours tequila into her glass until it overflows and pulls Charles’ notebook closer. ‘Let’s see what you came up with!’
‘Weirdest thing you’ve ever asked me to do.’
‘Potential desperate times call for pathetic measures.’
On the off chance that she suffered from a fatal disorder, Elsy deemed it necessary to draft a goodbye letter to a man she used to spend steamy nights with – until he got engaged to a woman she had never heard of.
‘You’re a witty writer, I trust you,’ Elsy’s text said.
Charles is neither witty nor a writer, but as ghoulish as it was, it distracted him. He suspects Elsy knew it would.
She tries her drink, moistens her lips and starts reading out loud. ‘“Hampstead, London, 13th November, 2018. Dear Wanker, as my chaotic journey comes to an end, I’m rejoicing at the deadly-dull one you’re embarking on. Rest assured that I no longer hope you choke on your wedding cake. I want you to live the miserable cockroach life you deserve, unable to get a hard-on without picturing my mouth. Offer your soon-to-be-frustrated wife my least sincere condolences and remember, you fucktard, that I loved you—” Oi!’
‘Too harsh?’
‘I never loved the prick!’
‘You thought you were dying and he’s the one you wanted to leave a note to.’
‘Because I’m a petty queen. Let’s fix this. And sharpen it.’
‘You’re not dying.’
‘But I had a crappy afternoon and you know it’ll be fun.’
Elsy takes a pen out of his case, and Charles stops mistreating theone he’s holding. Yes, it will be fun.
He cranes forwards to catch the attention of the barman, who’s busy serving an army of drunks.
‘Could I get a glass? And could you put the bottle of grenadine on my tab?’ Charles winces at how stale the word sounds in his accent. ‘Please.’
The barman pushes the syrup towards him and arches an eyebrow. ‘That’s gonna cost you way more than the tequila.’
‘As it should!Merci!’
Tequila and grenadine turn out to be a great combination with the optimal dosage. Charles needs four glasses to get it right and, at this stage, he can’t tell if it’s great because he got it right or because he feels amazing.
The pub is more crowded, and Charles and Elsy are insufferable, acting like they own the place and disrupting the quietude sought by regulars. They shout and snort tequila out. They hammer the counter whenever they find a new obscene way to belittle Elsy’s ex-lover. They crush the letter drafts into balls to throw at each other, indifferent to the carpet forming around their stools. They’re loud, ill-mannered, haughty about it, and it doesn’t matter.
Charles can sense the prevailing disapproval. He cares enough to notice, but he doesn’t actually care, because no one knows him here. It’s the perfect amount of caring, a golden mean between the two extreme states he usually flounders in. It’s exhilarating, and grenadine tastes like a place he would love to write about.
When Elsy sucks out the last drops of tequila from the bottle’s speed pourer, Charles asks for the bill.
He enters his pin without checking the amount and puts a tenneronto the counter. The barman thanks him and wipes their mess now that Charles has shoved his belongings into his leather messenger bag.
