As I come out onto the promenade, the Star and Anchor is at the other end of our bay, looking back across toward the lido in the late evening light. Where the lido sits atop a small chalky cliff, the Star and Anchor sits at the edge of the pier. You can just imagine small fishing boats pulling right up by the inn to stop for a warming bowl of stew and a glass of mead.
Inside, it feels weather-beaten but cozy. I slide onto a wooden stool at the far end of the bar so I can see everyone, but I’m tucked away nearly enough so no one can see me, and I look around and wait for Ash to come from wherever he’s been.
It has dark blue and dark wood interiors, with cozy nooks and board games and books everywhere you turn. All around on the walls are framed constellations—Virgo, Orion, the Big Dipper, the Southern Cross—and there are various antique telescopes nailed to the walls. My God! What is this place? It’s like my spiritual home.
The bartender holds himself with resigned indifference to everything. I wave him over and he slowly puts down the pint glass he is polishing and slings the damp towel over his shoulder.
“White wine,” I say, and he shakes his head. “Vodka tonic? With lots of ice?”
One small nod. Then he unceremoniously tips a huge serving of vodka into a glass, tosses in two cubes of ice and some soggy lemon, and tops it with tonic before sliding it to me across the bar. It’s about ninety percent vodka.
“Where you from?” he asks as he takes my ten-pound note with his fingertips as if I might be infectious.
“My name is Mara Williams and I live on Sandhill Way,” I reply, and he seems to find this amusing. “Sagittarius,” I add with a knowing wink.
His gray, wiry eyebrows knot together in confusion.
“The constellations on the wall?” I say. “I thought as a fellow astrology buff, you might want to know.”
“Right,” he says, looking up at the walls as if he’s never noticed.
Fifteen minutes later, Ash strides through the pub doors, and I catch him doing a double take at me. The surprise at seeing me outside our home for the first time, I guess, sitting here in makeup and a nice off-the-shoulder blouse instead of a sweatshirt. I’m also a little surprised by the effort he’s made. He looks handsome and tall. And big. And broad.
“You look very blue,” I say, as he tips his head back and offers a tight-lipped smile. He looks, for the first time, a little stressed. “Even your socks and shoes. Like a big blue Teletubby.”
“Well, thank you,” he replies, amused, giving a little eye roll and a slightly shy smile too, which is something I’ve never seen on Ash. Heisall in blue. A midnight-blue wool jumper that looks expensive and some fairly new-looking jeans. His dark hair is freshly cut—he’s obviously been at the hairdresser—and I realize I have to make an effort to tear my eyes away from him.
“You look...” He stops, seeming to lose confidence in his comment, and I can feel his eyes drop to my bare collarbone. Beforehe looks over to the bartender, he says in a raspy voice, “Very nice too.”
Mercifully the bartender arrives to divert attention from the awkwardness. It is just as I feared it might feel to be at a pub with just Ash. A bit awkward, with the boundaries unclear. We’ve both dressed up. I’m in no-man’s-land.Must bring up Joe.
“Hey,” the barman says, pushing back his shirt to reveal a sleeve of shipping tattoos.
“A pint of Busted Balls pale,” says Ash, with a lift of the brows and hint of a smile.
Ash catches me staring at the bartender with my lip curled, as he fixes the pint and slides it onto the bar with an audible grunt.
“Take no notice of Eddie. He’s a softie,” Ash says, his voice lowered.
“Eddie,” I repeat back.
“Eddie,” says Ash, taking a sip of his beer. “And that guy over there playing darts is Dave. The girl wiping down the table by the toilets is Sasha. And in about”—he looks at his watch to assess the time—“thirty minutes you’ll get Mrs. Chapman with the purple hair from the bookstore and Leon from the chemist in here for a quick one.” Then he nods to two different tables, both with knackered parents and wriggling children bright red from a day in the sun. “They are tourists. And so are they.” I can almost smell the sunscreen from here.
“Who’s Mrs. Chapman?”
“She was my English teacher. I can’t call her Jill,” he says, pulling an awkward face.
“Is it weird to know absolutely everyone everywhere you go?” It makes me feel claustrophobic and perhaps agoraphobic just thinking about it.
“Weird? No. It’s nice, isn’t it?” he says, shrugging. “I couldn’t get away quick enough when I was eighteen, but I’m happy to be home. It’s like comfy trainers. Sasha and I used to play naked in my mother’s backyard paddling pool.” With this he waves at Sasha, who tosses her long blond hair extensions over her shoulder and grins at him flirtatiously, her eyes flickering across to me.
I marvel at the thought. I could never go home. I hated it there. But just as I think that, a flash of a different, parallel universe comes over me. What if Ididn’thate it there? What if I found it comforting to go home, like Ash did? The fantasy was oddly appealing. I play with the hem of my shirt.
“So, what do you think of it?”
“The pub? I like it. I’m in heaven with all the constellations on the walls.”
“Sagittarius,” he says, grinning.
