Chapter Nine
Fin
‘Stop grumblingand move your bony arse.’ The three of us—Nat, Ivy and me—are walking along Park Road. Well, two of us are; I think Ivy must be crawling, lagging behind at a snail’s pace. ‘I thought you said you weren’t coming, anyway.’ Nat’s tone is taunting.
‘Someone has to keep an eye on you.’
‘We’re only going local. How much trouble can we get into?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the kind of trouble that has you taking off your knickers on the garden path,’ she retorts
During the pair’s snarky exchange, I keep quiet, huddled into the collar of my suede jacket. The pointed heels of my boots click against the damp sidewalks of streets that are familiar, and yet not. My insides bubble with a mixture of excitement and trepidation; it’s an age since I’ve been out socially. Being out in the cold evening feels strange. The air is damp and the streets are shadowy as the night sets in. Streetlamps intermittently spring to life as we walk, the hum of TV’s and domesticity sounding from beyond front doors of terraced homes.
‘Besides, I’m not worried about you,’ Ivy adds quietly, the implication hanging in the cold air. Of course it’s me she’s trailing. I don’t exactly blame her. The way she sees it, in the space of a few hours, I’ve gone from grieving hermit to hair hacker to someone who wants to party. My explanation that I need a break from four walls hasn’t cut it with her. Maybe I should’ve just told her I need a break from myself.
‘Which pub are we heading for?’ There are three to choose from in the village and in the direction we’re heading, two pubs out of that not so grand choice. I’m not exactly thrilled to be spending the evening in any of the local haunts; haunts being the operative term, given that some of the regulars are only a few years away from being ghosts themselves. I might also be a little overdressed, but it beats sitting around watching Ivy watching me... waiting for fall-out.
Time passes. Time heals. Time sucks. I’m weary of being told all I need is time, when in actual fact what I need is time out. Time out from being the grieving widow. Time out from being the cheated wife.
‘Are we going to The County?’ It’d be my choice of the two, but Nat answers not, repeating the name of the pub, while dropping the0and twisting the name into something far less pleasant.
‘That place is full of old twats,’ she adds, stopping at a door. ‘We’re in here.’
My heart sinks; the old pool hall. A place I’d happily avoid for the rest of eternity. I spent enough time here as a teenager, all clumpy mascara, hairspray and raging hormones.
‘Ah, don’t pull that face. It’ll be a laugh.’
‘I know the village has slim pickings, but at least in a pub we’ll be able to get something to eat as well as a drink,’ I protest.
The door opens before Natasha can answer, warm lighting, soft music, and a young couple spilling out of the space. I step aside to let the pair pass as Nat begins to laugh.
‘You didn’t think this was still the pool hall, did you? Haven’t I been saying the village has gone upscale while you’ve been away? We’ve even got a couple of half decent restaurants—and the chipper is now posh.’
I turn to Ivy behind me. ‘They got rid of the pool hall?’
Ivy shrugs noncommittally. ‘It’s nice inside.’
‘This is exactlywhat I mean about it being like living in a state of constant Movember.’
Ivy’s face could turn milk sour as we step inside, a waitress quickly asking us our booking status, which strikes me as odd—we’re hardly in New York—but as I take in my surroundings, I better understand.
What was once a dingy pool hall, is now a stylish and busy restaurant. Like the pool hall before it, the space is divided into two levels, the lower level now housing a thriving bar that runs the length of one wall; standing room only, by the look of things. There’s also a pool table, maybe in homage to the building’s previous use, only this one looks like it belongs in another era, maybe in a gentleman’s club.
The mezzanine beyond is filled with stripped wooden tables and metal chairs; a sort of industrial chic, contradicted by the massive glass chandeliers and bronzed mirrors scattered through the space. Beyond the seating area, a large window into a busy kitchen is the central focus, black clad culinary staff flitting about inside like goldfish. And the customers? They’re a well pulled together bunch—not a lick of waxed canvas or a muddied welly in sight.
The lower space seems heavily biased towards men, probably because of the number of micro brewed beers on tap I notice, as we follow the waitress to our table. And this is where Ivy’s complaint lies; these men seem drawn to the hipster life. Skinny jeans that don’t quite touch the tops of their shoes, retro specs, beards and ironic grandad cardigans.
‘Knock it off. You’ve used that line once already this week,’ complains Nat. ‘Facial fascist.’
‘I just don’t get the fascination with all this...’ Ivy makes a circling motion in front of her chin, plonking herself into a seat at the table we’ve been taken to. ‘Facial fuzz.’
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve had a man with bristles all up in your lady business,’ Nat replies.
‘Shush!’ I glance worriedly at the server’s retreating back. ‘Not everyone needs to hear you like it hairy.’
‘I do not!’ returns an indignant Nat. ‘I like them to have taken care of the downstairs.’ My eyes flick automatically to the restaurant’s lower floor. ‘Not there, numpty. I mean, I like their general dick area to be low on fuzz. The face is something else.’
Nat carries on her indignant response, the words sounding distant and indistinct as I zone out,zoning inon something on the lower floor. I say something, but I meansomeone, because it’s hard not to notice him, wet or dry, when he literally stands out from the crowd. And not just a head and shoulders kind of stand out, though he is tall. It’s my wet Tuesday morning caller. My secret blast from the past.
