‘Closer, then,’ he’d said, slipping her skirt from her. ‘He might stop you coming here … ’
‘I’d never let him,’ she’d said.
Which she wouldn’t.
The time, all the elastic, timeless time that the two of them had now stolen together within the cottage’s bewitched walls had become everything to her. Here, now, in Bettys Bar, she smiled, thinking back over it, their every touch and word and whisper replaying in her mind, making her sweltering skin tingle in anticipation of the next time they’d meet there.
Tightening her hold on Robbie, she glanced up at him as they reached the booth and slipped into the last free space left by the others, and could tell from the look he gave her – the enjoyment in his bright gaze, the promise – that he knew exactly where her mind was.
‘I have no idea if this film’s loaded,’ said Jacob, bringing them back to the moment, frowning down at his birthday gift. He was sitting on the opposite side of the booth, between Clare and Beth.Tim was next to Clare, and Henry, Ames, Mabel, and Lewis were on the other side of Beth. The rest of Lewis’s crew, andMabel’s Fury’s gunners, Danny and Gus, were already dancing. ‘Should I open it up … ?’
‘No,’ they all chorused.
‘You’ll expose it,’ said Beth, a glutton for difficult men, taking the camera from him. ‘Let me see what’s going on.Oh, these damn glasses.’ She removed them, reaching into her handbag for a cloth.
‘Here,’ said Jacob, producing a kerchief from his tunic pocket and taking the glasses to clean them himself. ‘There.’ Carefully, he set them back on Beth’s face, and if he was as oblivious as he was making out to the intensity with which Beth watched him do it, not to mention the colour flooding her cheeks, then it was high time he got some glasses too.
‘It’s definitely loaded,’ said Beth, returning her attention to the camera, her glasses already fogging up again. ‘Try taking a picture.’
‘Drink?’ said Tim to Iris, proffering one of the table’s jugs.
‘Absolutely,’ she said, reaching for an empty glass, meeting his smile.
She’d spent a lot of time with him too, these past weeks, mostly back at The Heaton Arms, and here in Bettys: drinking, dancing, reminiscing.
‘Do you still have that picture of your dad?’ she’d asked him, as they’d walked home from Heaton one night back in January.
‘I still have it,’ he’d said, patting his chest pocket. ‘I feel like he’s keeping his eye on me when we fly.’ He’d smiled ruefully. ‘Foolish, probably.’
‘Not foolish,’ she’d said, reaching for his hand, just as she’d done when they were small children. ‘Not foolish at all.’
‘I wish we hadn’t lost touch,’ he’d said, looking down at their hands. ‘If I could only go back and teach eleven-year-old me to write a proper letter. Or better yet, get on a train to visit you … ’
‘If we could only teach our eleven-year-old selves all sorts of things,’ she’d said.
And, wistfully, he’d nodded.
Then, as the others had caught them up, he’d let her hand go.
‘Thank you,’ she said to him now, once he’d filled her glass.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he said to her, and poured for Robbie too.
‘Salut,’ said Mabel, raising her own glass.
‘To Jacob,’ said Robbie, raising his.
‘To Jacob,’ everyone chorused.
And, as they all leant across the table, cheersing, Jacob held up his camera, clicking the shutter, blinding them with the flash.
‘Mon dieu,’ said Mabel, blinking.
‘It works,’ said Jacob.
‘Please don’t do that again,’ said Tim.
‘Take Beth for a dance instead,’ said Clare.
