I roll my eyes. “Fine. More men, fewer mice.”
Des starts baiting traps, pointedly ignoring Davis’s raisins, andthe two of them get to work placing them around the skirting boards and near the bins. I head for the walk-in and start hauling the perishables onto the prep bench. My kitchen might be spotless, but spotless doesn’t stop the clock ticking on sour cream and raw chicken. Everything that’ll expire before we’ve got a shot at reopening will have to be binned. More of Cece’s precious money down the drain.
I’m halfway through when there’s a knock on the pub door. I wipe my hands on my apron and step into the main bar. Sure enough, New Zealand’s star flanker is lurking in the window like a life-sized Weet-Bix commercial.
“Blimey,” Des breathes from behind me. “Is that?—”
“Yes,” I snap. “Don’t be a star-struck prick about this, O’Malley.”
Rugby does strange things to men in this country. I once saw Des being carried out of a Rugby World Cup party in a wheelbarrow in West Auckland. The last thing is him losing his mind at being this close to an All Black.
“Jaysus,” he murmurs, still gawping. “You said it was a rugby bloke, but I didn’t think?—”
“Don’t you go thinking,” I say, already marching for the door. “Just shut up and lay traps. That man left one of my girls in bits. He doesn’t deserve a hero’s welcome from you.”
But I need’t have worried. When I open the door to Jake Graves-Holland, he’s as miserable a man I’ve ever seen; his big shoulders slumped, his skin pale as a ghost.
“Afternoon,” I say, cold as the fridge I’m emptying. “Ada and Cece aren’t here, and no one cares that youare.”
“Right, can I still stick around and help?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Cool. I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Jake.”
“I know.”
I make damn sure it doesn’t sound like I baked a Black Forest gateau to celebrate Ada riding him like a prize thoroughbred. Rugby player or not, blokes like him can always stand to be knocked down a peg.
Lucky for the AllBlack, Davis appears. He and Jake shake hands before heading off to lay the last of the traps, and I return to the kitchen. Half an hour later, the walk-in’s empty, and I call the lads in to help haul the perishables to the skip out back. Des insists on joining, eager to keep pace with the young bucks.
When they’re done, I lead the men to the bar where three neat piles of leftovers are sitting on the counter. “These are for you,” I tell the boys. “Marinated steak, honey chicken thighs. Bit of ham.”
“Cheers,” Davis says. “We’ve done the bathrooms, the supply closet, the back room, the office, and Des did the kitchen and bar. I reckon we should head upstairs next? Do the girls’ apartment?”
I shoot a glance at Davis, and the All Black, and the idiots are too slow to wipe the hopeful looks off their faces.
“So you two can rummage through their knicker drawers? Not bloody likely. I’ll handle the apartment. Your work ends at the stairs.”
“I’ve already done the stairs.” Davis turns to Jake. “Drink?”
“Might as well.”
“I’ll have one, too,” Des pants, still out of breath from the skip run. Silly bugger only has himself to blame.
Davis walks to the fridge. “Des?”
“G&T, thanks. Can’s fine.”
He slides Des a Gordon’s premix, then fills two scotch glasses.
“Whiskey, Aggie?”
“Nah, my usual, please.”
Davis mixes me a White Russian and hands it over. We settle in the nearby booth, clink glasses, and swig.
“Thanks for letting me help out,” Jake says, flashing me that lopsided grin that I’m sure gets all the girls wet when they see it on the telly. Just like Des, the man really thinks he’s something. So does Davis. Handsome as Satan, the three of them, and so sure they can charm the old goat they’re drinking with.
