The Cocktail Bar

by Isabella May

  “Geez, yes,” she’d gasped. “That does explain the recent spell of contract work he was going on about.” She’d propped her head up with her elbow, unable to hide the legitimate worry that had wrinkled her face. “I mean, I know Blake can get flighty, that he’s not happy in that dead-end job, that he misses Ethan… who’s got to be going on for like eight now. But going to those lengths and dragging poor Lee along for the ride…?” she’d paused, puffing air from her cheeks like a dragon, “…all I can say is I am really sorry. This is not going to happen again. I can’t confront him, obviously—”

  “No, do not even go there. He made it more than quartz crystal clear this wasn’t his last visit… maybe this was all too big a risk you working for me? What if he does come back when you’re in the bar… or one of his friends spots you as they walk past the window?”

  Georgina couldn’t believe how dense River could be at times. She lay in bed reflecting on their recent dialogue, in awe of those fabulously muscular buttocks which never seemed to get a workout, other than when parked on a mattress, and shook her head at last night’s naïve remark as he pulled on his boxer shorts.

  “a) Blake doesn’t have any friends, they’re just workmates,” she’d said, “well, except for Lee, who’s hardly contender of the year for Iron Man, b) Blake drinks at The Pear Tree to avoid seeing Dad’s sorry face prop up the bar at the Ring O’Bells… okay, what was the Ring O’Bells…,” she’d swallowed, she’d really not intended to keep labouring that point. “So I wouldn’t worry about him putting in an appearance at the bar any time soon to switch pints for piña coladas – either alone or with a baseball bat armed group of drinking buddies.” She’d stopped to sigh at the tragedy of it all, taking in River’s face, intent and hooked on her revelation. “In fact, he’s Dad’s mirror image at his pub, face melded to the head of his beer, his only communication a quick gawp at the barmaid’s cleavage, or a head nod to the landlord… such a sorry state of affairs.” Georgina had broken off again. “Now, where was I, oh yes… point c)… both Dad and Blake know I wear the trousers. I will tell them I’m working with you,” how she’d enjoyed the lingering of that four letter word, “but when the moment is right.”

  And with that he’d pulled her on top of him, just as he was doing now, tempting her libido out of its daydream, despite him being fully dressed.

  What could she say? She was yet to meet a woman who operated smoother than she did.

  Chapter Nine

  RIVER

  “Do you like it like this?” River beamed at Georgina as she bent over to reveal a sneaky peek of her black lace thong beneath her increasingly short peplum skirt. “Or would Sir prefer it a little higher,” she said, sliding the poster advertising ‘BOOK CLUB NIGHT’ further up the window with her right hand, and the hem of her skirt further up her body with her left, leaving very little to the imagination.

  “Definitely higher,” he replied, arms wrapped around her now, oblivious to the fact the blinds too were rolled up, so their frolicking was on full-on display to a rain-soaked and windswept High Street.

  “So, do you think it will work?” he asked, and she span round to reward him with a speedy peck on the lips, before hopping off the windowsill with the grace of a dainty sparrow.

  “You’ve nothing to lose, but in all honesty, a book club… in a cocktail bar… in Glastonbury? It’s ever so slightly bonkers.”

  “Well cheers for the vote of confidence.” He came at her again with that embrace.

  “Hey, I never said it was impossible but, Riv, I think you’ve forgotten what this town is all about.” She pulled away and started to get animated with Latino-style hand movements. “Look around you. We’re surrounded by bongo drum shops, tarot cards and incense. It’s not London or Manchester. It’s not some quaint little Devonshire village either. And then there are the townies… and they’re hardly anyone’s definition of literati.”

  “Ah c’mon, people still read here.” He found himself throwing his arms wide open like Pavarotti now, too.

  “Yeah, Fifty Shades of Grey and the ilk, or The Encyclopedia of Faeries and Goddesses at the other end of the spectrum – no offence to your mum – but it’s nothing worthy of analysis and debate.”

  “Okay then, let’s make this interesting.” He marched to the other side of the bar, slammed two Tequila shot glasses onto the counter and began to encrust their rims with pink Himalayan salt, an act that would have the masters of his trade more up in arms than a cocktail battle. “Since we’re on the subject… I will make love to you… dressed up as a…a… well,” he brought his fist to his chin deep in thought, sensing the intrigue lighting up those sexy eyes, “as a superhero, yes, a caped crusader… of madam’s choice… depending of course on what Amazon have got in stock… if at least five people – non-family or friends, honorary human beings – show up.”

  She threw her head back and let out a wild Cruella De Ville cackle, to which he simply shook his head in response, filled their glasses, and then nudged hers across the bar.

  “I don’t want you to lose, babe… and I can’t deny the thought of you coming to my rescue totes turns me on,” she said through her pout when she was finally able to compose herself, glass clinking against his, where there she let it rest just a second or two before swinging it operatically to her lips, her defiant emblem of him almost succeeding in having his fill. “But lose you will.”

  ***

  One week later…

  “Well, I think it’s a truly fantabulous idea. Just what this town needs.” A willowy multiple-layered Jane Austen Bourdaloue-skirted bespectacled women of senior years fluttered her spidery, cartoon, violet eyelashes at River as she attempted in vain to perch herself on a bar stool.

  “It took me no time at all to round up my four ladies and I can assure you, darling, we’ll be a regular fixture every fortnight, come rain, shine or even snow; such a marvellous venue in which to discuss our bi-monthly literary pickings – with a tipple of the exotic or two and a view of one thoroughly dashing gentleman, of course.”

  River didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, especially as Georgina had clocked on early for her shift, no doubt hoping to point score and prove his optimism wrong. He chewed on his smile as he imagined what he was going to do to her later – not that she’d revealed her choice of costume yet. She was too good to be true; no strings, adventurous sex on tap, a friend to have a laugh with. Just the tonic he needed to ease him back into local life, to almost take his mind off the impending mission, and the kitchen window ‘thing’, as well as the constant urge to look over his shoulder for hedge-hiding photographers. Miraculously, it appeared Blake was also completely unfazed by her new employment – none the wiser as to what she was getting up to in somebody else’s bed besides.

  He let his smile have his way with him in a bid to select some appropriate preamble. “This is exactly the positive reaction I hoped my idea would have. I’m a passionate bibliophile myself. Just wish I had more time to indulge in the written word. A bar full of highly educated – and equally classy women,” he stopped to swallow his deceitful words away, “it not only sends my heart a flutter, but eases my own lack of reading time guilt.”

  “Darling, you’re too kind.” Jane Austen extended her hand and River’s stomach catapulted, wondering whether this was an invite to brush it with his lips – he did anyway, cursing himself for being so two-faced, careful to avoid her Twiglet fingers, should they snap in half.

  “Now then, what can I get you all to drink? These are paid for by the way.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t but we’ll gratefully oblige.”

  She swivelled and put two fingers – whose apparent fragility belied their strength – to her over-painted coral lips producing an enviable whistle to attract the attention of the rest of her group.

  “Open your menus, girls. Mr Jackson is granting us our first drinks on the house.”

  A hubble bubble of cheer brewed at the corner table as the realisati
on illuminated faces, thankfully not all as heavily made-up.

  Jane Austen’s elongated fingers reached for one of the menus lying on the bar and she began to flick through its pages in reverse. River, who had taken to polishing glasses in a bid to divert her adoration, almost dropped the tumbler he was buffing.

  For crying out loud, no; it’s not meant to be you, anybody but you. Start at the front, lady!

  He gulped as she immediately ceased fingering the twenty-something blank pages and flipped the menu to its front cover. Heather was right. He did have a knack for telepathy. And thank god. He knew, as he flashed back again to Mercedes in her agave-studded field where she stood waving him off with the bottle, that none of this was up to him; he was simply The Messenger. Whoever chose the elixir chose it. But it didn’t stop River being judgmental. Surely there were better candidates to have their life, as they knew it, changed for ever?

  “So what is your favourite book, my good man, when you do get time to read?”

  Back off lady, less of the my.

  “See that’s a question that always has me torn.” He smiled becomingly. “With so many worthy authors in the world, how can we possibly choo—”

  “For me it’s quite simple, anything about cats, starring cats, cats walking past in the background, a hint of a feline title; an author with cat in their name, matters not a jot,” she said.

  “Okay… I see you’re fond of… err… cats then?”

  “Fond of them, she’s stark raving bonkers about them, twenty-six of the things in her house and the surrounding fields, at last count any rate,” said her friend, looping her arm in Jane Austen’s and pulling her back to the table. “Come along now, dear, we’re waiting for you to get proceedings started. Everybody’s champing at the bit to share their reviews on A Street Cat Named Bob.”

  “You do attract them,” said Georgina, propping herself most foxily across the bar, almost making him jump.

  “Yeah, well, let’s just hope this group grows significantly to dilute the madness,” said River, distracting himself from her provocative pose with the realisation that he’d not checked in on Alice for twenty-four hours.

  She was still staying at his mum’s, apart from the first couple of nights after her arrival, when he’d managed to dampen Georgina and her appetite, sneaking Alice into his penthouse, trading his relative luxury for an unplanned return to his now loud and tie-dye print bedecked bedroom, courtesy of Heather’s makeover idea. The hotel would only have a larger room available as of the weekend, so Heather had kindly agreed to Alice’s temporary move into River’s back bedroom. He was sure she was glad of the company anyway. Since The Lennie Thing, something she had declined to talk about whenever he brought the subject up, she either seemed to want to constantly surround herself with other people, or throw herself into her latest definition of art.

  “Listen, can you manage here for ten minutes? I’ll be back… quick call to make, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, course,” she said. “I’ll go see what the bookworms would like to drink.”

  He patted himself down to check he had his mobile, wandered halfway down to the double gates of the backyard, a quick pit stop at the skittle alley to check up on the bottle in the cupboard, careful to look over his shoulder in case Georgina should be anywhere in sight. But there it lay, reassuringly so, just as it had every time he had thought to look in on it, snuggled beneath the heavy tartan blankets he’d taken from Heather’s ottoman. He peeped his head to the left and right outside the rickety door, and then left once again as would a child learning the Green Cross Code, exited the alley and paced confidently to the back gates, his eyes now surveying the car park for passers-by instead. The town’s market may have finished at midday but he couldn’t get too lax about anything when Lennie – and heck, even Bear and Alex – could be on the prowl. And then there was the press. A lone C-list band member sailing off into the sunset was one thing, he could already sense his five minutes of fame fading into delicious obscurity. But two members, male and female, the latter heroin to the camera’s lens, that made for a very different scenario indeed; the juiciest of stories, Sambuca to Lennie’s fury.

  The truth was he had two obligations now: The Holy Grail and Alice.

  Chapter Ten

  ALICE

  Alice finally moved into The Guinevere on a Sunday morning, the sun throwing a spotlight of new beginnings on her slender frame as she hopped out of River’s retro Citroen 2CV and onto the doorstep of her new home.

  “Tell me something, Riv: why did you never treat yourself much when you were in the band? I mean, that’s your old car parked out by the pavement, from the days before we got famous. Didn’t you ever think of upgrading it, going for something a little more swish or reliable?”

  She found River such a curiosity in that way. Obviously, Heather’s matriarch and flower power influence helped to keep him down to Earth, but to all intents and purposes, the bar was his biggest luxury after all those years earning all that money. He put her in mind of one of those hoarders who won the lottery, yet still carried on working at the local D.I.Y superstore, still holidayed in Blackpool every August, only splashing out on a slightly upgraded Skoda – oh, and a new garden shed. If you couldn’t enjoy what you had, what was the point? That elusive Rainy Day might never ever come.

  “There’s just one very small thing I need you to be aware of,” said River, completely disregarding the interrogation as he helped her with her case up the stairs, the lift having allegedly broken for the seventh time that week. “I hadn’t mentioned it before because, well, it didn’t seem relevant.” He strained to haul the case’s heavy bulk onto the final step and rolled up his sleeves before attempting it again, like that might make all the difference to the power of his biceps. “Georgina will be flitting about.”

  “And why would I have an issue with that?”

  Alice wasn’t even completely certain who this apparently infamous Georgina was. Sure, River had inserted her name into conversation here and there, paper clipping her like a convenient accessory. And sure she had also noted the spare toothbrush and girlie-packaged shower gel adorning the bathroom in River’s hotel room when he’d let her stay there, giving more than a hint that ‘love was in the air’. She knew that Georgina was working in his bar, and gathered she was the attractive younger sister of Brooding Blake, the guy whose pubescent and constantly ogling eyes used to freak her out – especially the one and only time she was stupid enough to take that LSD tablet – his desperate face having swum around her ‘trip’ all night. But try as she might, she could not remember him having a sibling. That’s what also freaked her out, the extent of her gruelling years on the road, boozing, schmoozing and light recreational drug dabbling at parties, meant that now she was back, all those faces from her past morphed into remnants of a dream, so that she half-remembered one person, and only vaguely recalled another.

  “But from your perspective, it’s probably best to keep a low profile anyway… what with photographers, reporters, and I hate to say it… him, Lennie.” River’s insistent tone brought her back to the present. “Just for the time being, I haven’t mentioned to Georgina that you’re back yet, you see. Not that there’s anything going on between you and I… or me and her, I mean we’re all just good friends… you and I,” he scratched at his beard, “and she and I.”

  “River, you don’t owe me a rundown of your private life,” said Alice impatiently, inserting her key into the lock and entering the front door to her new home, for however long that might be. After the headache-inducing décor of River’s bedroom (how had he ever coped with the assault of that luminous pink tie-dye?), her ‘penthouse’ at The Guinevere was positively paradise. Completely incomparable to the kind of pampering she’d grown used to elsewhere, of course, but a Shangri-La all the same – and all paid for by River. Would any of the excuses for men in her past have gone to such lengths? She doubted it. Unless they’d netted themselves a golden handshake in the process, or a tennis mat
ch on the helipad of the Burj Al Arab with Federer, or a free Lamborghini Huracán. One gave to receive in the world she’d just left behind, and quite often one simply did the taking. The man stood beside her now couldn’t be more different, even in spite of his stretch in the limelight.

  “I made a pig’s ear of explaining that,” said River, hiding his face in his hands.

  Alice threw him a stern look, momentarily forgetting how much she adored him.

  “Sorry, not the right terminology… how could I forget you’re a veggie? What I mean is, Georgina might pop up to my room from time to time, but it’s nothing serious, she just needs a place to escape from her brother… and her dad and his depression; a bit of downtime since she’s turned into the mother figure of the house.”

  “Like I said, your private life is just that: private. Mine too… not that I’m going to be remotely interested in men for a very long time.” She peeled back the voile draping the windows and realised she was going to like this view a lot. What better way to reacquaint herself with this ditzy little town than via a spot of people watching?

  Though the seed of possibility of ‘them’ tainted the vista, consuming her body in a dull aching thud, Alice was smart enough to know there was indeed something going on. This man was protesting way too much. Yet she also knew – better perhaps than River knew himself – that he didn’t sound remotely enamoured. And as much as she wasn’t here to stir things up, as much as she’d come back because this was her home and ironically she sensed that Glastonbury would re-birth her, help her come to know the Alice she truly was beneath the layers of Dior and De Beers; if that journey rewarded her with requited longing from a former band mate, then tough luck, Georgina.