She rolls her doe eyes and lowers the phone. “Like an hour and a half—she’s been in and out.” Her golden-blonde hair bounces on her bony shoulders as she laughs. “Such a fucking lightweight.”
A wave of anger hits me, and before my brain can catch up my feet are already moving toward Bancroft, Iris and the bar manager. Bancroft sees me first, and I can feel the shame radiating off him as I approach.
“Can I see that?” I ask bluntly, holding my hand outto the manager. He sighs exasperatedly and places the long paper bill in my palm. My eyes run down the list of drinks until they reach the total. Jesus Christ. Three grand: that’s more than I pay for three months’ rent, spent in a matter of hours.
Bancroft must notice my eyebrows raise. “It’s fine, Hastings. I’ll deal with it.”
He looks so deeply uncomfortable he’s probably willing to pay that much money just to get out of this situation. I scan over the receipt again, trying to work out how many drinks Iris could have had before passing out.
“I need another card—hers bounced,” the manager snaps, pointing a bitten-down fingernail at Iris.
I quickly scan the bill again, running my finger down the items. “It says here this tab was opened with her card about two hours ago?” My chin lifts to meet the group of spectators. “They said that she’s been unconscious for an hour and a half. So did you not notice a girl passed out on a table in the middle of your bar, or were you happy to let random patrons add four-hundred-pound bottles of champagne to her tab without her consent?”
Bancroft matches my raised eyebrows as the manager sucks in his cheeks, flicking his eyes from Bancroft to Iris to me.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “She’s only been like that for a few minutes. This was all her! You need to pay now or I’m calling the police.”
I steady my voice, trying to stay calm against his escalating tone. “Yes, let’s! I’m sure one of the people here with their phones out has evidence of her that would prove you’re lying.”
The manager side-glances at a huge, bald-headed man in a black T-shirt who looks as if he’d be better suited to a career in WWE than this bar. As the bouncer paces over to us, adrenaline starts to pound through my veins, making my blood thick enough to hold up my shaking legs like stilts. Glancing back to her “friends” so I know they can hear me, I point a shaky finger at the manager and double down.
“You’ve been racking up a bill while she’s been passed out. From what I can tell”—gesturing with a sweaty palm to Iris—“this isn’t the first time this has happened.”
I pause to wait for a response that doesn’t come, so instead, I continue with this new self-confident persona: “Do you do this to all your customers or just the young women? I don’t think you want a reputation for taking advantage of unconscious girls.”
He rips the bill out of my hand with the alacrity of someone who’s just been told it’s a winning lottery ticket. The bouncer steps between us and I freeze: a deer on a tight country lane about to become roadkill. This guy looks thrilled to be getting into his first big confrontation of the night. I’m briefly sucked out of my righteous tirade and forced into the reality of getting punched by a human freight train. Bancroft pushesto step between us and gives me a gentle nudge out of the way, blocking my body from the bouncer with his.
The manager turns to us and sighs dramatically. “Just... get out. Make sureshe,” he spits, pointing a harsh finger at Iris, “doesn’t come back.”
“With pleasure,” Bancroft interjects.
We each put one of Iris’s arms over our shoulders. She’s a rag doll, half walking, half being dragged through the bar toward the exit, her heels scraping against the wooden floor like chalk on a blackboard. Her “mutuals” are still stumbling around the room, giggling with cocktails in hand. As soon as they see Bancroft, a look of pure wrath on his face, they scatter like bugs, heading toward the door on to the next stop of their champagne crawl. We make it out of the building and into the taxi Bancroft had kept waiting outside.
“That’s not Margeaux.” Iris’s hand flops like a freshly caught fish toward me as I sit down on the other side of the cab, facing them both in stunned silence.
Bancroft’s lips push together, suppressing a smile as he pulls Iris’s seat belt over her and plugs it in with a click.
“No, that’s Grace,” Bancroft corrects. My face creases: Is this first-name basis becoming a regular thing now? My name feels new when it’s on his lips, as though it’s the first time I’ve heard it from anyone.
Iris lets out a quiet gasp, her hot breath creating a momentary fog against the window. “Oh,that’sGrace. Hastings... like the battle...”
A flash of panic whips across Bancroft’s face; he runsa palm across his mouth and the look is gone. Iris’s flushed face smushes against the cab window, and she falls asleep. I’m tempted to ask what “thatGrace” means but decide against it; he’s probably complained about me or talked about me behind my back to his sister too.
Instead, I ask, “Not to sound like a dick but... isn’t your family likerichrich? Why did you have to come to settle her bill?”
The taxi pulls out, making all three of us bob in our seats until we turn on to the road. Bancroft sighs, considering for a moment before answering me.
“Our mother likes to cut us off whenever she’s feeling ‘unloved.’ She does it for attention... or if she doesn’t feel we’re being as appreciative as we should be.” He looks over at his dozing sister with a mixture of love and pity. “Since I have a full-time job it doesn’t affect me much, but it still works like a charm with Rissy.”
Thinking of my own mother, I feel a twang of guilt; there have been so many missed calls and canceled visits over the past few years, because life, work or William got in the way. But I’ve never received anything but love in return.
“Is that why you took the job at Ignite? To stop being controlled by her?”
“Maybe at first, but I like what I do. I’d do it for a lot less.” Detecting my awkwardness, he shifts, looking at his lap. “I’m sorry we had to cut your date short.”
“It’s OK. Mellie seems really keen to partner. I’ll call her to lock it down on Monday.” Sensing the need tolighten the mood, I lean back in my fold-down seat and cross my legs. My calf lightly brushes against his knee in the confined space, a touch we ignore. “I am livid I didn’t get to finish my clay masterpiece though.”
“And what were you making? It looked like you were going for a...” He pouts, searching for the words. “... gray-brown blob?” He takes off his jacket and lays it over Iris’s lap, covering her riding-up dress. As he moves his shirt separates between the buttons, revealing a hint of golden skin and a smattering of hair a shade darker than his sandy locks.
