The Cocktail Bar

by Isabella May

  He’d tried over the years, as a male does when he needs to ‘relieve’ himself, to re-play their forbidden tryst under the black velvet sky (and Blake’s canvas) that starry festival night. But the strange thing was: he couldn’t remember it, not her touch, or her moves, or the way she encouraged him to do the little things that turned her on, gently guiding his hand to her erogenous zones. Sure, it was a long time ago, and a one night stand, but lately, ever since her return to be more precise, he was starting to question whether it had really happened at all. Perhaps it had been Much ado about Nothing, a Chinese whisper intercepted by a sulky bewitched teen, who knew not really what he’d witnessed himself, drunk as he would have been, doped up on joints as he also could have been – the Mr Innocent charade Blake had the audacity to transmit when it came to his past use of recreational drugs, didn’t wash with River, who knew full well he’d certainly inhaled his fill of marijuana with the rest of them back in the day.

  Maybe he should just confront Alice? Perhaps that would somehow help them both move on with their lives, unpeeling the Band Aid, giving air to the wound that was imperceptibly holding them back from their destinies. Could it be that was what Mercedes had alluded to when she’d spoken of missing puzzle pieces? But if that was one piece, where was the other?

  Jane Austen brought him back to the present like the pique from a bee’s sting.

  “I’m going to go for it tonight. The time is right. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “You know my rule, Cassandra,” (now she was a regular every fourteen nights, River had of course learnt of her real name), “no more than two cocktails of an evening, pace yourself.” He added a wink.

  “Oh yes, but I’m only intending to drink the one… whilst we dissect Catherine Cookson’s Feathers in the Fire. I’m going to savour it you see. Such an idyllic sounding cocktail deserves only the fullest of my taste buds’ attention.”

  She needn’t have continued, or placed her intonation on the number of beverages she’d be consuming that evening. River was looking at The Chosen One Numero Uno. And in case he wasn’t clear on the duty he was bound to, Mercedes’ double marched past the window, peering inside to make direct eye contact with him at the very table he was serving in the process, rendering him absolutely speechless and dizzy all in one fell swoop. He tried to disguise his stunned expression and lack of coordination with a coughing fit.

  “Are you all right, dear boy?” said Cassandra.

  “Fine,” the word finally rolled off the tip of his tongue before he could think to keep his disdain in check. But Cassandra was too entranced by the drink’s description to notice:

  “The Magical Mañana,” she whispered. “Ooh, it sounds like an affirmation of good times to come… and just look at the ingredients, all my favourite liquid sensations, all blended into one drink. Why hadn’t I spotted this before? How very queer: what’s it doing playing hide and seek in the middle of the menu?”

  “Print error,” River managed to compose himself, firing out the two words he’d long ago decided could be the only explanation he’d give when somebody did stumble across the hidden cocktail, whilst the real temptation was to spit feathers… in the fire. How bloody apt was that read! “And the rest of you lovely ladies?” he couldn’t wait to look at somebody, anybody else, palpitations at the dozen in the terrifying realisation that he now had to remember just how to construct the mystical drink.

  “We’ll stay traditional and go for a quartet… not each… that would break your rules on a school night.” They all laughed then, as irritatingly in tune with one another as the London Philharmonic. River offered a half smile, too narked off to care if it looked false. “No, I mean we’ll each of us have a Brandy Alexander… just like two weeks ago, four weeks ago, and six; so four of those in total.” Cassandra’s friend looked expectantly at River who was now supposed to flatter them with what had become the trademark line:

  “But you look too young, even for a Brandy Alexander, why… are you sure your parents know you’re out gallivanting at this hour?”

  A ‘one-liner’ whose meaning would only be understood if you were a woman of a certain age, who liked to be reminded she was merely twenty-one again, or a geek of a bartender who knew the social history of every cocktail in the book, and how it got its name.

  ***

  Shutting up shop could not have come sooner. He was famished, tired and just needed to get his head straight. But before he could rewind the evening in his head as he began his short trudge up the High Street from bar to hotel, he spotted Georgina in the next door bakery, leaning across the counter, in that hypnotic way of hers, this time talking to Zara. Both were completely unaware of his presence as he cupped his hands against the bakery’s window pane like makeshift binoculars to block out the sun’s fading rays, their backs were turned, shoulders slumped and hunched over what looked like reading material on the counter. Probably a copy of OK Magazine – that would be about right. Georgina was spending way too many of her increasingly frequent breaks gawping at the lives of the rich and famous, camped outside in the backyard on a stray bar stool. An image which was as big a turn off as a supermarket can of Singapore Sling.

  He smiled anyway and left them to it. So nice to see Georgina was making a friend. She was a little bit of an oddball in that way, since they’d started ‘seeing one another’ she’d made no mention of female mates; all a bit peculiar for somebody who’d spent their life in this town, ex spitfire or not.

  It took a lot to spook him out, but the way Mercedes’ twin had walked past the window at the exact same moment he was taking Jane Austen’s order; that was freaky, inexplicable, even to somebody as spiritually in tune as his mother – and there was no way he was ever going to divulge any of this crazy tale to her. Heather had mellowed of late after the bizarre incident with Lennie, and he didn’t wish to encourage her otherwise. That ‘date’ of sorts with Terry had seemingly grounded her more than an entire batch of her ginger biscuits. Whilst Georgina had reported Heather having the opposite effect on Terry:

  “But in a good way,” she’d reassured River who could sense the apology mixed with alarm colouring his face. “For a man who’s never left the country, Dad happening to walk in for his paintbrushes on travel group night was a very fortunate thing. At first I thought it was just the hangover talking,” she’d paused to roll her eyes dramatically, “but even days later he was full of it, couldn’t stop gassing about the first group planned excursion to the Prague Christmas market and all the things he wants to buy there. He’s even working some extra days to put some money by… I don’t think I ever recall him beaming like that from ear to ear. Not that the idea of my dad and your mum doesn’t make me want to reach for a bucket… But, as a friend, a companion, she’s certainly bringing him out of his shell. Of course we haven’t said anything to Blake yet…”

  Blake.

  He was a mystery all by himself, a little too quiet for River to feel comfortable, a little too accepting of his sister’s job for it to be believable. And as for his mum, befriending Terry so readily; yes, he was pleased for her if it was genuine. But what if she was doing it out of some strange subconscious psychological need to feel buffered from Lennie? A goddess she may have been, still he sensed she was on the hunt for a half-decent man to play bodyguard. But River filed both Blake and Heather away in the back of his mind, they could be revisited later, he’d more pressing issues going on right now.

  Mercedes’ apparition was kind of oddly reassuring too though. Now the assignment really had begun and he was curious to see what would happen to Cassandra. He must start thinking of Jane Austen as Cassandra from this moment on, he decided. One of these days he was going to put his foot in it, ask her to sign a copy of Sense and Sensibility, crack a joke about Mr Darcy or something equally silly.

  Anyway, Cassandra had seemed to enjoy the rich base notes of Tequila, Sherry and orange. As far as cocktails went, it was one heady concoction, and sexist as it may seem, a littl
e strong for a lady, those ten pipette drops of Mexican elixir presumably only enhancing the taste sensation and upping the throttle. River wished he could go there himself, but it was against the rules for him to partake, even in a sip, Mercedes hadn’t needed to spell that out. His head had berated him as he’d prepped the mix, sneakily disappearing to the skittle alley’s cupboard where he’d dropped ten beaded globules into a tiny ink-sized bottle, stuffed that into his trouser pocket and then returned again to the bar to add it to the base and give everything an almighty shake.

  What would happen next? Where would the story take Cassandra? Where would it take him?

  His questions trailed behind him like the potent exhaust fumes of his car as he pushed open the door of The Guinevere, acknowledged the receptionist with a nod, took in the sight of the gent hidden behind The Times in the red velvet chair by the redundant fireplace, and made for the stairs.

  The paper crackled as his right foot made contact with the bottom step.

  “Mr Jackson,” said a familiar voice in its disturbingly unique blend of Cockney crossed with The Bronx, “I’ve been expecting you…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ALICE

  Unfortunately, Alice knew her current career was very much position filled the exact moment River suggested a role in the bar. It made sense, it was money coming in, and it would get her out of the ‘boutique’ hotel room that was now driving her crazy – funny how one soon got used to the banality of one’s new trying-to-be-original-like-everybody-else IKEA furnished surroundings, conveniently forgetting the hideous tie-dye clad room one had come from. Plus she didn’t want to sound ungrateful in retrospect, or to hurt River’s feelings, not when her own emotions seemed to be increasingly dependent on them.

  But it was an undeniable risk. For by spending more time with the man who, try as she might, she could not wash out of her hair, she would have to face the harsh reality that was Georgina, see the whole hideousness of her flirtation play out in the bar, night after night after night; followed of course, by the inevitable music making, echoing down the corridor at her, the screams of his name torturing her till dawn.

  It was a chance she had little option but to take. Not only for the money but because the growing fear ebbed and flowed at her like the tide: Georgina was a scavenging, backstabbing opportunist. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if this missing envelope and whatever it contained within was the exclusive work of his mistress. She hadn’t even come face to face with River’s Alluring Charmer yet, but the other thing about growing up on the ley lines, is you never question your intuition. That was an insight Heather had passed on to her all those years ago when she’d inspired her vegetarian shape shift, and she’d strangely reiterated it days ago too, as she’d packed her bags for her Goddess convention tour, bound for Stonehenge.

  “It’s a feeling you just can’t shrug off, Alice. When something is right, your gut will let you know, it takes its communication from the solar plexus.” She’d let her hand hover over her own stomach by means of a demo. “It’s no coincidence that particular chakra lies so close to your belly. And vice versa of course too… when something feels off, or out of kilter, your stomach will give you a sign. Always listen to that signal, even over and above your head.”

  Shame River wasn’t taking note. Then again, Alice supposed it was all too easy to get caught up in somebody’s web of deceit when they were buttering you up this way and that, hell, she’d fallen for it enough times over the years when it came to men.

  But not only was this an opportunity to save up some money, with which to chase her own dreams, getting any further with her parents would require a degree in Anthropology, and so it was that she accepted the premise: a little hard graft and sacrifice in return for a future paddock.

  Alice gingerly opened the hotel door; the sudden and inexplicable commotion downstairs luring her to the staircase, where she peered down at the ever-decreasing snail’s shell of spirals trying to make head or tail of the noise which had invaded her thoughts.

  “In slightly the wrong position to play whizzing down the banister now, boy,” a familiar voice laughed sadistically, echoing higher and higher. “We’re going to stay here until we sort this out.”

  Shit, Lennie!

  How did he know River would be here? How could they have been so gullible as to think he’d never return? The cushioning of rural life had lulled them both into a pathetically naïve sense of security. Here in Somerset it was ten times easier to track someone down than in the mazes and labyrinths of London, L.A., or New York.

  “Has he paid you or something?”

  That was River, and there was no doubt he was directing his question at the receptionist, whose silence spoke louder than words, a facsimile of Alice’s previous thoughts as to her loyalty.

  But there was no time to run down to his defence. The sound of a very distinctive pair of footsteps on the stairs, heading ever closer and upwards, told her all she needed to know. Georgina was in residence.

  As Alice hot footed it as quietly as possible back to her room, and sank to the floor behind the safety of the door, the questions flapped and flew at her just like the pigeons had done in St Mark’s Square when they’d kicked off with their very first Italian show in Venice. Why had Georgina said nothing? How could she pretend to be a random guest, leaving River there to fend for himself, after all he’d evidently done for her? How could the receptionist sell her soul so easily even if Alice had second-guessed she would? What if River caved in… told Lennie she was hiding upstairs? What if Lennie already knew that and was just going to hang about until Alice turned herself in, or died of starvation?

  One thing was for sure: staying at The Guinevere was clearly no longer an option.

  Chapter Fifteen

  GEORGINA

  “And pray tell me what in the hell is this?”

  Georgina froze initially at the photograph stuck to the fridge with the Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch souvenir magnet. She was going to have to think, and she was going to have to think epically fast.

  A glossy snap of herself and River in the rain-spattered front window of The Cocktail Bar stared back at her accusatorially; his arms around her waist, indicating she was very much his possession, her ridiculously short skirt almost showing her knicker line as she slid that stupid book club night poster higher up the window pane.

  “Look, I was going to tell you sooner, I promise.” Her heart pounded in disbelief that she’d been found out. “I just didn’t want you jumping to the wrong conclusion, Blakey,” she continued without turning to face her brother, whose presence loomed larger than life in the doorway behind her.

  “Do not Blakey me, and I have asked you a question, to which I expect a bloody fantastical answer. What are you playing at? You’re showing the family up… and with him of all people, he who hath screwed up my life!”

  “Oh give me some credit, will you.” She turned ready to fight fire with fire, if that’s what it was going to take. “I have, as it happens, reason to believe he is up to no good again, no good for his customers this time, no good for this town. But what did I tell you about the enemy, Blake? Keep your friends close and your enemies even clo—”

  “So you take that as carte blanche to jump in his bed!”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like? Because from where I’m standing, your options look rather limited, shall we say?”

  “I need a key, okay… a key to access a certain something. And if I can’t get a key, then I need to do something else, something drastic, something massive… to get him found out… all of which obviously requires an intimate knowledge of his daily life, movements, and his complete and utter trust. Then… once the job is done, and he’s paid me – us – for his silence, he is out of this town, out of our lives… everything can get back to normal. Justice prevailed.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t see me,” Blake seemed unnaturally satisfied, calm in an ins
tant. “I was crouching behind a car boot on the opposite side of the street. Perfect shot, don’t you think? Maybe I’m in the wrong profession?”

  And with that he disappeared upstairs.

  Georgina exhaled deeply. What a sneak.

  And yet part of her admired him for it. There was no mistaking they were siblings through and through.

  She ripped the photo into tiny pieces, binned it and berated that small part of herself whose heart pined for River’s touch. They’d been damned fools with that little charade. Clearly anybody could have been watching – even in bad weather. And why couldn’t it have been the media who’d spotted them? Now that kind of coverage could have done her all sorts of favours… leading to a stint on Big Brother or Gogglebox perhaps. Oh, make no bones about it, she loathed these ridiculous lowlife shows, but you had to be cold, business-like about the opportunity to make a quick fortune. In and out, five minutes of fame, blending neatly back into mainstream obscurity but living a lavish life as the claim-to-fame-fix for the locals. What could be better for a girl’s self-esteem? That magical feeling of turning out the lights one by one, just like on Paddy McGuiness’s hellish show, all of the local men wanting a piece of Gorgeous Georgina, none of them succeeding.

  And it turned out ‘Gorgeous Georgina’ was more than a smooth operator in the bedroom, or just with men. Women too, whom she had long kept at arm’s length thanks to her mother abusing her trust, were equally easy to manipulate.

  For weeks now she’d been calling into Zara’s bakery, a couple of Cornish Pasties to take home for Dad and Blake’s tea/breakfast (organic of course, she was getting good at playing the Earth Mama game); a piece of carrot cake here, a pumpernickel bread there (yuk, she would not be making the mistake of buying that loaf of dried corrugated cardboard again), and Zara was almost in her pocket. Georgina was also supplying her with free cocktails on a Friday, smuggled over the backyard wall whenever River was meticulously building an operatic creation. That seemed to suit Zara well; she could waltz down her own backyard after she’d got everything ready for her early morning bakers, sip at her leisure and return the empty glass. Any trace of guilt Georgina momentarily felt for coaxing this unlikely friendship into bloom evaporated in a haze when she thought of all the pounds she was saving her, and all the moments of pure Caribbean-tinged relaxation she was providing her – with the exception of the deckchair, that was Zara’s own accessory.