Cece ends the call. I send her a pin of my location, then stare at my hands. She’s mad as all hell, and I have no idea why. There are always plenty of reasons why people could be mad at me, but Tristan’s back in town and Cece’s no fool. Maybe she suspects I almost fucked her brother? God, I hope she doesn’t suspect I near-fucked her brother...
I slide a cigarette from the pack and stick it between my lips. I’m dying to light it, but don’t. If Cece is angry, stinking up her car further won’t do me any favours, and I need her in as good a mood as possible. Because if Grace is right, and I’m sure she is, then Will Sharpe is up to his neck in what’s happening at Thompson Farms. And someone needs to tell Cece.
22
Aggie
Ilean against the brick wall outside the kitchen and pull a fresh pack of Winfields from my apron pocket. Work in hospo long enough and nothing surprises you anymore. Which doesn’t mean nothing pisses you off.
Tempers run hot in kitchens even on a good day, and this past week has rattled mine beyond belief. Afterglow might have Cece’s name on the license, but the kitchen’s been mine since before Mitch kicked the bucket. I was happy to stick around after he passed. Happy enough when Cece rolled in all bright-eyed and big smiles, with her shiny new branding and hunger for a big, glamorous life. As though slapping a new name on the place is all it takes to fix a reputation built on murders, hangovers, and bad credit.
Me? I’ve never asked for more than clean surfaces, a decent wage, and the space to cook in peace, but these last few months it’s become painfully clear the pub’s skidding toward closure. The stockroom’s constantly near-empty, the steady customers are vanishing, and then that prissy blonde showed up with mice in her handbag and a grudgeunder her arm, and now we’re closed for two weeks, maybe longer. Maybe forever.
I spark up and take a long drag on my cigarette. Smoking’s a habit I thought I ditched in the nineties, but here we are again. Winnie Reds still taste like shit, but they help with the rage and the devil you know is always the safest one to flirt with.
Not that I’ll keep smoking. I know the difference between indulging a vice and risking an early grave. It’s a lesson I wish I could hand down to the kids hanging around this old pub.
Davis, playing Mr. Fix-It instead of just telling Cece how he feels.
Ada, pouring tequila on her open wounds like it’s antiseptic.
Cece, convinced she’s only worth what she can hustle across the bar. Like she didn’t watch her own godfather do the same thing and achieve nothing but a bad back and a stack of bills, which he passed down to her.
They’re all self-destructing in front of me. Lying to themselves and each other. I want to shake them, tell them, ‘Pick better poisons.’But even if I did, they wouldn’t listen. Truths like that only sink in once you’ve suffered enough to let them.
My cigarette ember glows in the late afternoon sun. I tilt my head back to avoid getting smoke in my eyes as I study the burning tip. It’s bright, angry and fading fast, like a lot of things around here.
I hear a moan, or I imagine I do. A low, pitiful sound coming from the building behind me. The kind I heard a thousand times when I helped Dad with the end-of-season slaughter on the farm. Animals all sound the same when they reach the end of the line, and apparently, so does this place. Or that’s how it feels today. I wedge my dart between my lips and text Des:
Almost here?
His reply is instant:
2 mins away.
I shove my phone back into my miniskirt pocket and take another long drag. Tobacco coats my tongue, bitter and dry.It doesn’t feel as good as it used to, smoking. But what was I supposed to do, ask Ada for a vape? I’d rather taste tar than suck bubble-gum-peach mist, or whatever the hell kids are into these days.My cig gives one last flare then dies, and I stare at the smouldering stub for longer than I should. The girls are down in Pukekohe for their reunion; Ada, still furious at the All Black, Cece, beside herself at Davis, the pub in tatters and nothing solved. A fire’s been lit. Stress sparked bone-dry resentments, and now they’re ablaze, gobbling up oxygen and getting bigger by the second.
I don’t seek out fires anymore, but I’ve danced in enough to know how they end. They either fizzle out or explode. Hard to say what’s going to happen to this one. I’d like to think it’ll fizzle, and everything’ll sort itself just fine, but that’s just blind hope. A woman my age doesn’t set much stock in hope.
I flick the butt to the ground and crush it under my boot heel. The sensor light above the kitchen door clicks on, and Des O’Malley steps into the bin-lined courtyard, a big, brown paper bag in one hand. He eyes me like he always does, curious and horny. Just how I like ’em. Usually.
“You been smoking?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Yeah. What about it?”
I might like my men curious and horny, but I didn’t survive two ex-husbands just to start lying to them about shit they don’t approve of.
Des’s face softens into a smile. “Want another?”
“Nah, I’m done for now.” I nod at the bag in his hand. “Those the traps?”
“Yeah. A dozen. And peanut butter. Wasn’t sure if the bar had any, and that’s what I always use.”
“Good. Come on, then.”
I walk past him and pull open the kitchen door. I feel him eyeing my legs, and the warmth that gives me is twice what came from the cig.
Pick your poison, Agnes.
