by Sharon Owens
Liam considered this information. ‘That's refreshingly honest. What's your name again?’
‘Bridget O'Malley.’
‘Bridget O'Malley. What a cute name! That's like a cat's name in a Disney movie.’
‘Do you want another drink?’ She sighed, looking at her watch.
‘I just left my wife, Bridget O'Malley. What do you think of that?’
‘That's too bad, Mr Bradley.’
‘Yes. We had no children together, though. So it could be worse, I suppose?’
‘I suppose.’ She sighed again and rolled her eyes. Why had she ever thought being a barmaid was a terrific way to meet men? By the time they got her length they'd been kicked up and down the football pitch of life, and were sagging at the seams a bit. She wiped the counter in front of Liam with a clean cloth and slapped down a fresh coaster.
‘Still. Chin up. Eh?’ She almost laughed in his face when she saw how shocked he was by her indifference.
Liam had been drinking all afternoon, and he was almost too numb to feel insulted by the dreadful lack of respect shown to him by this young woman. Bridget wasn't bad-looking. He wouldn't turn down a fifteen-minute session with her. But compared to Lily Beaumont, she didn't have a look-in.
‘She was not a cultured lady, my wife,’ he said. And he burped loudly.
‘Are you big on the culture yourself, Mr Bradley?’
‘No. I wouldn't know a good play from a bad one.’
‘Why should she, then?’
‘She just should. She has nothing else to do all day. She should be reading books of highbrow poetry, and making me look good at parties.’ Liam closed his eyes for a minute to stop the room from spinning. But that only made it worse so he opened them again.
‘You know what, Mr Bradley?’ said Bridget.
‘Please call me Liam.’
‘Liam, maybe you're just not suited to married life? Don't worry about it. Lots of men aren't. My advice to you is this: hire a cleaner to do the housework, and forget about culture and all the rest of it. Good luck with the book, now.’ She moved away from Liam as he digested this information. Although he tried to engage her in further conversation, she avoided his eye and kept herself busy at the cocktail section. She wished the night would end so that she could make herself some tea and toast, and snuggle up under her new blankets. She would just have to try really hard not to notice the other beds in the room.
By eleven twenty-five, the Devaneys were packing up their guitars and there was a stampede to the counter for last orders. The noise level had reached a crescendo and there was still another half-hour of tidying-up to go. Bridget could hardly breathe through the fog of cigarette smoke even though the overhead fan was whizzing round at top speed. Her feet were killing her but she couldn't wear flat shoes or she wouldn't be able to see over the beer pumps. They were nearly out of cranberry juice and coloured sugar and champagne.
‘Out of the frying pan,’ she moaned as yet another order for twenty Peach Bellinis came through, only one minute from closing time. So much for thinking this place would be a holiday camp. When one of the drunken rugby players lay on the counter and said he fancied her like crazy, Bridget merely rolled her eyes and ignored him. She was beginning to think it might be time to give up on men altogether and enter a convent. The angel on top of the smallest tree smiled down at her as if to say, this night is nearly over, you'll be okay.
Then, Liam Bradley passed out onto the slate floor of the bar and the rugby players cheered their heads off.
That writer fellow looks like a bigger drinker than Dr Gerry,’ Bridget told the angel sadly. And David Devaney had the hots for Daisy. Any fool could see that. He was looking at her all night. Even though she was as tall as a beanstalk and dressed like a witch from a kids' TV show.
‘Oh, God!’ whispered Bridget, as Liam was carried outside. ‘What will become of me at all?’ She gave Daisy such a look of disdain when she brought a tray of dirty glasses back to the counter after closing time that Daisy was visibly shocked. Bridget didn't know it but Daisy was very close to the edge herself. She'd been looking forward to having her student digs all to herself this Christmas. She'd been planning lots of lazing around in front of the telly, ordering pizzas and wearing cucumber facemasks. Now she'd have to help out in the tavern all day, every day. She was grateful, of course, and the food would be lovely, but her own house collapsing had brought it home to her how vulnerable she was. And that maybe a degree in fashion design wasn't the best start in life? Would she ever have a little home of her own, she wondered. Or would she always be living out of a suitcase?
At the end of the night when all the customers had been ushered into the clammy, damp and sleety night, still singing at the tops of their voices, Daisy sat down beside the fire and had a little fit of melancholy. Her large, green eyes were pools of sadness. Lily, Jack, Trudy and Marie were upstairs queuing for the bathroom as Bridget had beaten them to the hot water again. So Daisy had elected to turn off the lights downstairs. She decided to leave the Christmas tree on for a while, though, as she warmed her hands on the dying embers. Only the day before, she had fallen out with both her parents over this year's Christmas Day arrangements. Her father said he'd be very offended if she didn't spend the day with his family. And they could do with some help with the children, as his wife, Sheila, was working in the hotel for a few hours in the morning. And Daisy's mother said that it was the least she could do to spend the day with them because they'd only just moved into a new house and the walls needed three coats of paint. She seemed to think that Daisy would be only too happy to be painting walls over her Christmas holidays.
‘Sure, aren't you an art student?’ her mother had said brightly. ‘You can help me pick out a nice shade of beige for the sitting room. I've narrowed it down to four.’
Daisy just wanted them to say they loved her and that they were sorry for turning her life upside down when they decided to get divorced and remarried and have more children and take on stepchildren. She sighed and wondered how she would go about renting another room. She didn't want to outstay her welcome here. But none of her friends had a vacancy and she had nothing in the bank for a deposit on a one-bed flat. She wondered if the Beaumonts were going away for Christmas Day. She'd rather spend the day alone here than watch her parents being all lovey-dovey with their new partners. Although Daisy accepted divorce as a civil liberty, it was still hard to watch her birth family implode. And it was impossible to decide which parent to spend Christmas Day with. No matter which one she chose, the other would feel rejected. Last year, she'd spent Christmas morning with her father's family and the evening with her mother's. But even that was complicated because it felt like she was comparing the celebrations, with both sides asking what the others were doing. And now she had seven extra presents to buy for her stepsiblings, and no money to buy them with.
There was nothing for it, but to ask if she could hang around here on Christmas Day. If the Beaumonts were going away for the day, they might let Daisy stay on in the pub and keep an eye on things. She twirled her red hair up into a bun, and picked at some loose sequins on the hem of her short black skirt. Be positive, she reminded herself. It was great of Lily and Jack to take her in, and the room upstairs was cosy and homely even with four beds and a sofa in it. They'd made a little sitting room in one corner with the sofa and the television, and Marie was planning to hold a midnight feast soon. (Poor Marie was reverting to childhood pleasures, with the trauma of losing her home.) Daisy told herself to cheer up and go with the flow. Something would turn up when she least expected it.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Daisy jumped. She went over to the window and peeped out but it was too dark to see anything.
‘We're closed,’ she called out. ‘I'm sorry, now.’
‘It's David Devaney,’ said a man's voice. ‘I've lost my wallet. Could I just check is it here? Before I go to the trouble of cancelling all my cards?’
‘Sure,’ she said, openin
g the door. ‘We'll have a look.’ After ten minutes of searching, Daisy found the wallet behind the turf basket.
‘Aw, nice one,’ he said, hugely relieved. ‘I don't know how that happened.’
Daisy had a fair idea. There just wasn't room in David's back pocket for a five-pound note, let alone a wedge of leather an inch thick. She handed it over with a lopsided grin. With some considerable effort, he managed to slide the wallet back where it belonged. Daisy thought he looked gorgeous in the firelight, even if he dressed like a cabaret singer from 1970s California.
‘Well, I suppose I'd better get some shut-eye. I missed college today,’ she said, covering a yawn with her hands. He looked curious. ‘Long story.’ She smiled. ‘Involving chicken balls and an awful lot of dust.’
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Unless you're too tired? Or maybe I could take you out for a meal sometime and you could tell me then?’
They stared at each other for a few moments before David tilted his head to one side and slowly leaned in for a kiss. Daisy was still considering whether she would kiss him back or not, even as his lips brushed against hers. Then she decided to enjoy the moment. He was rather gorgeous, and she did fancy him. Bridget would be so jealous. And even though Daisy was sure it would be only a fleeting thing between them, before David moved on to his next gig, she allowed him to put his arms around her and hold her for a little while. After all, as Lily had said to the reporters, it was Christmas…
12. Betsy's Brief Encounter
Saturday, 18 December
Richard Allen lay down on his comfortable black recliner and flicked through the pages of his address book. He wondered if he might invite that nice girl Sarah Jones out for dinner. They'd met at a house-auction yesterday. Bit of a sad occasion, actually: a repossession job. Couple of factory-workers by the name of Smith, going under. Sarah was a property developer from Belleek. She had mischievous brown eyes, and her family had plenty of money. He sighed with contentment, gazing into the flames of the fancy gas fire, which now had white cones in it instead of coal pieces. The ornaments on the white tinsel Christmas tree twinkled and shimmered, and Richard was glad that he had the peace to enjoy such things. Not like his work colleagues, who were frantic with Christmas shopping for the children's presents.
There was a buzz from the intercom. He ignored it. Most likely it was only charity collectors or carol-singers. But the buzzer rang again. And then a third time.
‘Damn,’ he said, hauling his body over to the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘Richard. It's Betsy.’
‘Betsy Bradley?’
‘Yes! How many Betsys do you know?’
‘Come on up, Betsy,’ he said, reluctantly pressing the button.
‘I just thought I'd surprise you,’ she said, gasping, when she had climbed the three flights of stairs to his level. Richard was disappointed. He'd been looking forward to watching an action movie on Sky TV and then nipping across the street to Kane's Bar for last orders. He smiled weakly at Betsy as she tottered across the wooden floor on very high heels, and dropped onto the sofa.
‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ he said, forcing charm into his voice. Betsy passed him a bottle of good champagne from her shoulder bag and took off her fake-fur coat and woolly bobble hat. She was wearing a tiny denim skirt, shredded at the edges, and a skin-tight pink T-shirt with BABE written on it in white rhinestones. Her legs were newly tanned and she was sporting long blonde hair extensions.
‘Blimey! Betsy, are you trying to put Pamela Anderson out of business?’
‘Oh, you flatterer!’ she cried, delighted with his compliment. ‘I've had a lovely day pampering myself, and I thought I would call over and let you see the results.’ She crossed her legs seductively, and rubbed her hands up and down her shiny shins to show off her glittery manicured nails. In spite of himself, Richard was aroused. Okay, she was vulgar and cheap-looking, but in a good way. He uncorked the champagne and brought two tall glasses from the kitchen.
‘I just love your tree,’ cooed Betsy, as he handed her a glass. ‘Where did you buy the decorations?’
‘Can't remember,’ he said, carefully pouring the champagne. An ex-girlfriend had chosen them for him some years ago but he couldn't remember her name so it was almost the truth.
‘Well, they're very nice,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’ She patted the sofa. Richard sighed. He was going to have to get fitter, such was the rampant nature of his love life. He didn't want to keel over with a heart attack when he was only in his forties. Betsy took a deep breath and smiled up at him. He noticed at once that she wasn't wearing a bra. She laughed when she saw his gaze dropping further down, to her nut-brown thighs.
‘I'm not wearing much down there either,’ she giggled, and stood up slowly.
‘Oh, is that right?’ Richard downed his drink in one go and set his glass on the table. He slid a hand up the side of Betsy's skirt and found the thinnest of ribbon ties there. He pulled gently on one of the ribbons and a pink lace thong fell onto the wooden floor. They both looked at it for a moment. Here we go again, thought Richard, taking a deep breath.
‘Shall I get undressed?’ she asked, mock-shy.
‘There's no need to, in these bits of clothes,’ he said slowly, and he pulled her down onto his knee.
‘What about my heels? I might put them through the couch? They're as sharp as needles.’
‘Betsy Bradley, you're gonna kill me. You know I have a thing about spike heels,’ he moaned. But he gently flicked off her red shoes. There was no need to damage the furniture. They lay back on the sofa. He eased her skirt slightly upwards, her T-shirt down off her shoulders, and forgot all about his movie. Betsy undid his buckle, pulled the belt right off, and threw it across the room.
‘Be rough with me, you tiger,’ she begged. She kissed him hard, covering his face with sticky pink lipstick. He pulled at Betsy's hair extensions in a calculated display of passion. She liked him to pretend he was going to hurt her, as long as he didn't actually do it.
‘Careful,’ she warned, as a handful of the blonde fibres came away in his hand. ‘This hair-do cost me an absolute mint, not to mention how long it took.’ He apologized at once, and the pace of their lovemaking slowed down a little. She wanted to kiss him for a while first but he was anxious to consummate her visit. She pushed his hands away from her hips. ‘Just a minute,’ she purred. Betsy thought she saw a trace of impatience creep across his face and she felt mildly cross with him. He could never wait, just like Liam. Trying to revive things, she slapped him hard across the face. Genuinely shocked, he held her tightly by the wrists and then rolled over, pinning her to the sofa.
‘You're gonna be sorry you did that,’ he panted, and she laughed out loud and kissed him again.
‘Wow,’ said Richard, gasping, when it was all over five minutes later. ‘That was great. I'm worn out.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. It was a bit disappointing, to be honest, that he had given her only five minutes of pleasure. After she'd spent an entire day preening and grooming for him. Even though they'd both enjoyed themselves, she felt cheated. Men were quite pathetic, she thought. They said they liked a bit of a fantasy, but they couldn't handle it when it was time for them to do their bit. Oh, well. Richard poured them both another glass of champagne.
‘Are we celebrating anything in particular?’ he asked, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead.
‘Yes, we are,’ she said, after a dainty sip. ‘Liam and I have split up.’
‘Is that right?’ Richard barely flinched, but his body temperature dropped rapidly. ‘That was pretty sudden. What happened?’
‘He's freaked out. Working on his new book day and night, and falling in love with one of the characters in it.’
‘Heavy stuff.’ Richard exhaled noisily. He'd never fallen in love with any woman, let alone one in a novel. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘My brother, Ted, is going to sort him out. Ted's a lawyer.’
Whoops, thought Richard. He'd forgotten about that. Poor old Liam!
‘Maybe Liam is having a creative crisis of some kind?’ he offered. ‘It'll pass.’
‘I don't care if it does pass. I've had it with his moods. No man treats me like dirt and gets away with it.’
‘Fair enough.’ Richard finished his champagne, and poured himself a whiskey from the silver tray on his coffee table. The table was made from the door of an Indian prison. He retrieved his belt and secured it with trembling hands. Now, he was worried. He didn't want to be saddled with a scorned woman, having to listen to endless complaints about her evil ex-husband. Some females could keep the vat of bitterness boiling for years after a split. Repeating the sins of their ex-partners until they drove all potential new lovers, and even old friends, away. And God knows he didn't want to be dragged into the divorce courts as a witness again. He'd nearly lost his job after that time he was caught in bed with a client's wife. No, it was time to get rid of Betsy. He must get her to leave him. Engineer a split and convince her he was doing her a favour into the bargain.
‘Maybe we should stop seeing each other for a while?’ he began. ‘I wouldn't want you to lose out on your divorce settlement because of me. If Liam decides to sling a bit of mud in your direction?’
‘Don't worry. There's no money in the bank. The house is all there is to fight over. And he's not getting that. Not unless he kills me first.’
‘I see.’ Richard began to panic. ‘Would you not try and make it up with Liam? I don't want you to be alone, Betsy.’
‘But I'm not alone. Am I?’ she said quietly. And she kissed him on the cheek and pushed her almost spherical breasts back under the rhinestone-encrusted cotton top.
‘No,’ he whispered, and the whiskey burnt a hole of indigestion in his throat.
‘It's been great, coming here and forgetting about my troubles for a while. I don't know what I'd do without you, Mr Allen. Let's see if we can beat five minutes, shall we?’ she said. ‘I'm still in the party mood. Come on into the bedroom. I'm getting cramp like this.’