Suddenly the volume of the music in the dining area inexplicably increases. I put my head in my hands, as I hear the sound of Damo roaring with laughter from the restaurant and a chorus of other diners joining in.
‘Please, I can handle them,’ I beg Irene, stepping closer to her and whispering into her ear. ‘Please let me. I should get over there … now.’
Irene purses her lips, lifting one long finger to her temple. ‘Very well,’ she says. And so I brace myself, ignoring my desperate need to try and explain to James what the hell is going on, and push through the kitchen doors.
When I reach their table, Damo is on his knees serenading both ladies on table three, while holding the nearest lady’s delicate, wrinkled alabaster hands in his. Tim is at the bar, leaning over to top up his own pint, and Brett is delivering a tray of tequila shots to the ladies in the Auxiliary Club, who are squirming and giddy.
I march over to Tim, flick the ale pump up and wrench the pint out of his hand.
‘You have to stop this. At least, please go into the bar area.’
I reach round to the stereo and turn the volume down abruptly, interrupting Damo’s rendition of ‘Oh Danny Boy’.
‘Sorry, everyone,’ I say to the entire restaurant. ‘Through to the bar, you two. Now!’ I insist, to the audible disappointment of theladies. ‘Let’s go,’ I say again, and Tim is laughing as they both head through to the bar area where, mercifully, there is no one around for them to harass.
‘Guys. Please,’ I say. ‘Tim,please. Can you guys call it a night soon? My boss is really pissed at me, and I need you to go back to your room or find a quiet corner in the library. Could you please do this for me? I can get you a free bottle of aged whisky to take to your room? Or a bottle each? Whatever it takes.’
Tim looks at Damo and shrugs. ‘Fine. One more drink, then we’ll go.’
‘One more,’ I repeat.
‘One more,’ Tim says, nodding.
One hour later, to the booming sounds of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’, I am trying my best to drag Tim – who has smashed two crystal tumblers in less than thirty minutes, is wearing the silver deer antlers on his head and singing at top volume to whoops and cheers from all the extremely drunk dinner guests – out of the library. Damo has now gone missing, and I’m slightly worried he’s upstairs with one or both of the ladies from table three.
‘Best night ever!’ says a regular, who dances past in a three old-person conga.
‘You got to admit they’ve livened the place up,’ says Bill as he struts past, hips jiggling, this time with a tray of Jägermeister. He’s clearly been on the booze himself.
‘Traitor!’ I hiss.
I try to pull Tim down the hallway, to the protests of his fan club, pulling the stag horns off his head and pushing him towards the stairs.
‘Bedtime, you fucker,’ I say, trying to jolly him out.
As we reach the bottom of the stairs he suddenly seems to come to, and his eyes momentarily focus on mine. He smells of whisky, and he laughs as he makes out my pained expression. How did I ever like this man? I thought he was fun, but it turns out he was just a colossal shitbag.
‘Baby bird,’ he shouts over the noise. ‘Look at you, all stressed.’
He tries to tuck my hair behind my ear, but kind of misses and ends up tugging out my hair grip.
‘Ow! That fucking hurt,’ I say as I scramble to readjust it. ‘Come on, you have to go to bed now.’
He grins and turns round and makes his way out to the back entrance. ‘Isn’t your room this way?’
‘No, Tim,’ I say and actually stamp my foot, but he grabs me and pulls me out of the back doors and we spill onto the pebbled courtyard. I feel the evening chill and rub my arms. I consider smuggling him down to the cottage and into my bed to shut him up, but his bed is closer and I want him out of the public eye. As fast as possible.
‘Birdy,’ he says again, swaying. ‘We should have gone out properly. I didn’t treat you well enough.’
What a time to come to this conclusion. He leans in and opens his mouth, like he’s trying to kiss me, but I’m too angry to let him invade even a single inch of my space.
‘No,’ I say, shoving my hands on his chest and pushing him back. ‘And don’t call me “Birdy”.’
‘Come on,’ he says, putting his hand round my waist and trying to pull me closer.
He leans in to try and kiss me again and I turn my face away and step back, causing him to stumble forward a little. ‘Seriously, fuck off!’
‘Jeez. Sorry,’ he says, looking sheepish. He knows this would have worked on me before.
