Cheryl and Jillian exchanged satisfied smiles.
‘You were on the telly, weren’t you? That fly on the wall salon show? Ooh, what was it called…Geordie Shorn!’
‘Eee, I’m surprised you remember that, it was a while ago now. We were a lot younger then.’ Jillian touched the spot behind her ear and raised her eyes with comedic fake modesty.
Beatrice grinned back. She didn’t want to admit she’d seen just the one episode on one of the more obscure channels and that had been only a few weeks ago during yet another sleepless night when she’d had little more than channel-surfing and Walnut Whips to get her through the lonely hours until sunrise.
Relieved she now had a topic to grill them about, Beatrice asked all about the salon and what it was like being a local celebrity and the talk flowed. Mrs Mair reappeared to take the women’s orders and soon all three were sipping ginger beer and the atmosphere in the restaurant warmed considerably, in spite of the rain falling outside.
The easy chatter and smiling made-up faces of her new friends reminded her just how much she had been starved of company recently. Her hands shook a little with the novelty of spending time with other women, a sensation that felt like stress and elation all at once. The strange excitement made her worry she was being too effusive and the women might think her a little odd, and her nerves loosened her tongue and made her unguarded.
The food arrived just as Beatrice was in full flow commenting on the state of the nicotine-stained bar ceiling. ‘How long is it since the smoking ban? A decade? Longer than that? Are these landlords just lazy, or hopeless, or what? Give mean hour, a paint roller, and a tray of white emulsion and I’d have it sparkling.’
Atholl Fergusson settled the plate in front of her with a pointedly steely silence which sent her sinking into the padded bench. After he’d left, she explained how she had got off on altogether the wrong foot with Atholl and now she couldn’t seem to stop annoying him.
‘He looks like the broody type, love. I wouldn’t worry,’ Cheryl soothed.
The three looked down at their steaming plates simultaneously. ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Jillian, prodding the food with her fork. ‘Eee, I knew it was pub grub, but I was expecting something a bit…’
‘Fancier?’ Beatrice said, looking at the sad oven chips and slim piece of battered cod, obviously the frozen variety and not the bubbly-battered fresh from the sea type that Scotland was supposedly famous for. The shrivelled peas, limp lettuce and dry lemon wedge did little to make the meal more appetising. ‘Oh well, dig in,’ Beatrice said with a shrug. ‘It might taste better than it looks, and I don’t want to complain, again.’
As the women ate, without much enthusiasm, Beatrice filled them in on what Seth had told her about poor heartbroken Gene and his runaway wife, the one-time resident gourmet, immediately feeling guilty for sharing gossiped details of someone’s private life, but anything was better than talking about herself.
Seth had by now settled himself at the bar and was chatting with the beautiful woman with the laptop. Atholl was topping up her coffee mug. So hecanbe friendly, Beatrice thought. Maybe he reserved the smiles for his favourite customers.
Beatrice tried to focus on her dinner companions and her uninspiring meal again, but she couldn’t help getting distracted when Atholl’s face broke into a broad grin as he greeted the bar room’s newest occupant.
A man in a white coat and hat had struggled inside carrying a polystyrene tray of ice liberally topped with coral-pink crustaceans and gleaming steely blue and pearl white shells. Beatrice caught the smell of the sea as the man followed Atholl into the kitchen and she heard Atholl calling Gene’s name.
‘If I’d known they were expecting a delivery of fresh seafood, I’d have held off ordering,’ Cheryl said, following Beatrice’s gaze.
‘Something tells me that’s not on the menu,’ Jillian added, pointing at the blackboard above the booth emblazoned with the chalky words, ‘No Specials Today’, which she read aloud.
Seth, who seemed to have supernaturally good hearing, caught the exchange and after checking that Atholl and Mrs Mair were in the kitchens, called over the heads of the other diners. ‘Nor any other day, either, more’s the pity. Not so long ago the Princess was legendary along this coast for its Cullen Skink and its mussels in garlic cream. Legendary!’ He lowered his voice to add, ‘Us locals know to order Mrs Mair’s homemade Scotch broth followed by the shortbread wi’ a wee nip for pudding.’
The men sitting around the bar all agreed in a rumble ofayesandhe’s no’ wrongs and Beatrice realised every one of them had a bowl of broth in front of them. Seth bit the stem of his pipe to punctuate his point and lowered himself from the stool, readying himself for another rainy smoke outdoors.
The pretty woman at the bar beside him raised her head from her paperwork and looked as though she were about to speak when sudden cries from the back room stalled everyone in their tracks.
‘I willnae have you interfering in my business, Atholl. You cannae fixeverythingye ken!’ Gene loped into the bar room swinging a waxed jacket over his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Patrick.’ This was addressed to the bemused fishmonger who followed behind him, still carrying his box, with Atholl at his heels. ‘We won’t be taking in any seafood when there’s naebody to cook it!’ The bar door swung as Gene slipped out into the street.
Suddenly everyone in the restaurant became utterly absorbed in draining their drinks as Atholl surveyed the room through narrowed eyes – everyone excepting the table of Sussex crafters who all loudly clucked their disapproval at the disruption to their evening.
The pretty red-head stood up as though she were going to make after Gene, but decided against it, and sat down again.
Beatrice watched on as Atholl collected himself and apologised to the fishmonger, helping him out the door with his catch. ‘He’ll come round one of these days, just not today,’ Atholl said, his voice thin and weary.
The altercation had stripped away all the atmosphere in the restaurant and Beatrice found herself gathering her book and saying goodbye to Cheryl and Jillian. Seth was still outside with his pipe, she supposed, and Atholl was clattering glasses behind the bar with his back turned to the room. The woman at the bar smiled a quiet goodnight too as Beatrice padded away.
She wouldn’t be seeing any of them again, what did it matter if she headed to bed early, or if these near strangers thought her oddly antisocial? She wasn’t here to make friends. She was only an accidental holidaymaker and tomorrow’s departure would put that right again, and yet it had been good to talk and laugh and remember that the world was, if nothing else, interesting.
Chapter Five
Three a.m., up in the air
Even though she was aware it was only a dream and that it would hurt all the more when she awoke, Beatrice refused to allow her waking consciousness to rouse her fully.
She let herself luxuriate in the lovely delusion a little longer, running her hands over her great round belly, spreading her fingers over the warm bump, solid and soft at the same time, muscle spread thin, flesh taut like a drum, and inside, the vital warmth of the little curled thing, heartbeat resounding, sharing blood through paper-thin skin.
