Million Love Songs

by Carole Matthews

  I’m thinking about him now. I miss him. I miss him for so many reasons.

  If I’m honest with you, I don’t miss diving. If I never see the bottom of a swimming pool again it will be too soon. But I do miss the outings with the dive club. They’re a nice bunch of people – even though they get over-excited at the prospect of messing about in a murky gravel pit for fun. And I’ll never see Joe again stripped down to the waist in his wetsuit which, frankly, is something that often troubles me in the wee small hours.

  I’m sitting on the bench outside the Butcher’s Arms watching a noisy bee trying to get some joy out of a garish pink flower that’s growing by the bins. Maybe he’s finding its nectar wanting as it just seems to be making him cross. At least he’s not been fooled by one of the wasp catchers around the garden which are filled with sugar water to lure the wasps away from the diners’ fish and chips or cheesecake. At this stage in the summer, they’re already half-filled with a disgusting mulch of dead wasps and we haven’t even reached the point where the wasps are bad-tempered and will sting anyone who looks at them twice. I don’t know whose job it is to clean out the wasp catchers, but I’m glad it’s not mine. It’s half an hour before my shift and I’m having a cheeky roasted vegetable panini and a diet Coke to see me through the day. I know how to live.

  I have been thinking about Mason too. A bit. We haven’t seen each other since the night he stayed over at my place – on the sofa. That was fun and we do get on well, but … I don’t even know what the ‘but’ is. But there is a but. If you know what I mean. We’ve been texting each other though – half a dozen times a day. Mason is busy with the club and another restaurant business that his father has started in London, so he hasn’t been around. Which is fine. I don’t want to rush into anything at the moment. I just want to nuture myself and hope the hurt will eventually go away.

  Charlie’s car pulls into the car park and I watch her as she walks towards me. There’s a spring in her step, a sashay to her hips and I don’t think it’s just because Take That have got a new album out. Though it actually might be. She hasn’t mentioned Nice Paul for days and I don’t like to ask.

  ‘Hey, chummie,’ she says. ‘What’s occurring?’

  ‘Not much,’ I tell her – which is true.

  She joins me on the bench, giving me a friendly dig in the ribs as she does. ‘What are you doing out here on your tod?’

  ‘Waiting for you. Thinking.’

  ‘You do far too much of that,’ she says. ‘It’s bad for you.’

  ‘I know. I can’t help it.’ Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, I’m trying to form a plan for my future. My future and not a future that includes anyone else. But it’s like trying to grab at gossamer strands that always seem to be out of my reach. I give up.

  She roots in her handbag and pulls out all the vaping paraphernalia that lurks in there. ‘You should try vaping. It’s almost like meditating. Want a go?’ She offers me her e-cig.

  ‘No thanks. I think white wine works for me.’ I break my panini in two. ‘Do you want half of this?’

  Charlie shakes her head. ‘Fast day. I’ve just had a fresh air sandwich and a piece of virtual cake.’ She leans back, pushing her sunglasses onto her head, closing her eyes and letting the sun warm her face while she puffs out clouds of vapour towards the sky. ‘So what are you thinking about this time?’

  I don’t say Joe as I’m sure she’s bored to death of me talking about him. ‘Just wondering what to do with my life.’

  She opens her eyes to look at me and pulls a face. ‘Deep.’

  ‘Mid-life crisis looming, probably. I’m at that funny age.’ Charlie goes back to her sunbathing, even though she’ll complain when her face is bright red later. ‘Don’t you feel as if you could have done more with your life?’

  ‘Not really,’ Charlie says. ‘I like being a waitress. The world would fall apart without waitresses. This is a nice place to work. The pay’s rubbish, obvs, but I get good tips. I don’t want a Ferrari or holidays on a cruise ship, so it covers my needs. Mostly. I don’t need to join a gym as I get enough exercise by being on my feet all day. And I go home after my shift and don’t have to stress about work. When it’s done, I’m done. There’s a lot to be said for that.’

  ‘I haven’t really achieved anything. I haven’t been anywhere.’

  Charlie realises that she’s not going to get any peace while I’m in this mood and sits upright, putting her sunglasses back in place. ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I pick at my roasted vegetables, which have lost their appeal now. ‘I’ve thought about packing it all in and going to Spain.’

  ‘There’s nothing in Spain.’

  ‘There’s not much here.’ I think what I really want is to go anywhere that I’m not likely to bump into Joe and his family.

  ‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘You can’t leave me.’

  ‘Perhaps I could take a course. Studying something.’

  ‘What?’

  I let out an unhappy breath. ‘I don’t know.’

  Charlie laughs.

  ‘It’s OK for you,’ I say more crisply than I intend. ‘Gary Barlow is all that you need in your life, but I want more.’

  ‘What you mean is that you want Joe.’ She sighs at me. ‘Well, lovely, you can’t have him. That boat has already sailed.’

  ‘I could say the same about Gary. You devote your life to him, yet he’ll never be yours. How can that make you happy?’

  ‘He’s a fantasy,’ she says. ‘I know that. You know that. Part of the attraction is chasing that elusive dream. I don’t have to put up with his moods or do his dirty washing. I don’t have to listen to him moan or cook his dinner. I get Gary on my terms.’

  ‘It isn’t enough though, is it? Joe wasn’t a fantasy. He’s real-life flesh and blood. I want to be there for him when he’s a grumpy old bugger or has man flu. That’s what I want. And he was mine – if only for a fleeting moment.’

  ‘Now we’re both chasing what we can’t have,’ Charlie says and she sounds more sad than I’ve ever heard.

  I hug her to me and kiss her cheek. ‘Now I’ve made you miserable too.’

  ‘You’ve made me think,’ she says. ‘That’s different. But damn you all the same.’

  ‘I guess we’ve just got to learn to be content with what we’ve got.’

  ‘You will get over him,’ Charlie says. ‘In time.’

  ‘I know.’ But I wonder how long that will take.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  It’s a few nights later when Mason turns up at the Butcher’s Arms. He catches my arm as I’m rushing past with three sharing platters for table six.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ I say. ‘They’ve been waiting ages for these.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you, Brown,’ he says. ‘Work. Business. Life.’

  ‘Me too. I’ll catch you later.’

  ‘Can you stay around when we close up?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’ll put Ryan Gosling off.’ And I’m away to deliver my platters before my diners complain and cut my tip.

  Then I spend the rest of the evening rushing round and don’t give Mason a second thought. I’m knackered and it’s late when we finish.

  He’s helping to tidy up when I finally go through, stacking some glasses and setting out bottles on the bar. When he’s done, he turns the lights down low and, as all the other staff have gone, we have the place to ourselves.

  ‘You look knackered, Brown.’

  ‘I am knackered. But thanks for pointing it out.’

  ‘I have the very thing.’ He flips a glass in the air and catches it with a flourish.

  ‘Wow.’ I find the nearest armchair and park myself in it.

  ‘I’ve been on a bartending course,’ Mason says.

  ‘You didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I don’t tell you all my secrets.’ He does another fancy glass flip thing. I try not to look impressed, but I am. ‘I’m thinking of sen
ding all the bartenders at the club on a course, so I thought I’d try it out myself first. It was great fun. There are things that I can do with ice that would make your hair curl. I’ve mastered the technique of free-pouring …’

  I look at him blankly.

  ‘You don’t use measures and I can handle four bottles at once.’

  ‘Huh. I’ve been doing that with wine for years.’

  Mason laughs at that. ‘Let me mix you something.’

  ‘I remember last time we had cocktails it ended very badly.’ I think I might never touch rum again.

  ‘I remember it ended with me having a bad back for days from sleeping on your rather small and inhospitable sofa.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry about that.’ And I am a bit as Mason was actually very nice that night.

  ‘Live dangerously,’ he urges. ‘We haven’t had a chance to see each other since then. I have stuff to tell you. Besides, it’s work. I’m thinking of putting some of these on the menu.’

  ‘My shift has officially ended. Does that mean I get overtime?’

  ‘Whatever you like, Brown. Just say yes.’

  ‘Taxi home too?’

  ‘It goes without saying.’

  I give in and grin at him. ‘Yes.’ I’m on the evening shift for most of this week, so if it all goes Pete Tong then I can have a lie-in tomorrow morning. ‘You’re a bad influence on me, Mason Soames.’

  ‘Good.’

  I have to smile. The man is shameless.

  ‘What do you fancy? I have a repertoire of a dozen different cocktails.’

  I hold up my hands. ‘You choose.’

  ‘A little Sex on the Beach for you then, madam.’

  ‘Mason!’ I look at him as you would a naughty schoolboy. ‘Must you be so bloody obvious?’

  ‘It’s harmless enough,’ he promises. ‘And I’ll make a small one so you can try something else. Vodka, peach schnapps …’ He pours as he reels off the ingredients. ‘Cranberry and a soupçon of orange juice.’ He adds ice and a slice of orange before he brings it over to me.

  ‘No colourful umbrella?’

  ‘That’s so last year,’ he informs me.

  I taste my drink. ‘Hmm. Nice.’

  ‘And it has three of your five a day,’ he says.

  ‘Nothing for you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says and peruses his bottles. ‘A Singapore Sling, I think. Made to the original Raffles Hotel recipe. It’s one of my favourites. I’ll make one for you as a chaser too.’ He concentrates as he pours a little of this, a bit of that. ‘I’m seriously thinking of packing all this in and opening a beach bar in the Caribbean, Brown. I’d be quite happy doing this for the rest of my life. Coming with me?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’ It actually sounds quite appealing.

  When he’s finished juggling a dozen different bottles, he brings the drinks over and I take a sip.

  ‘Blimey.’ I give a theatrical cough. ‘That’s like rocket fuel. Just how much alcohol is there in that?’

  ‘Maybe too much,’ he says as he tries his. ‘We’d have to charge a fortune for it. But it’s good, right?’

  ‘Very good.’

  This is so strong that I can feel it melting my bones. But after a long, hard day on the front line of hospitality, it feels good to put my feet up and be waited on. Mason comes to sit next to me and he talks about what he’s been up to, plans for the business, his bartending course and, to be honest, I don’t really listen to him. I let it all wash over me and try to nod in more or less the right places but, if he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s actually nice to be sitting here with him getting slowly trollied. It’s nice not to think about Joe for once. It’s nice to have someone making a fuss of me.

  When we finish our Singapore Slings, Mason rubs his hands together. ‘Now what?’

  And I don’t know what possesses me, but I leave my chair, go over to sit on Mason’s lap and kiss him deeply.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  The next minute we’re in the kitchen and Mason lifts me onto the massive stainless steel table that chef uses for preparation. It’s the only place that’s not covered by CCTV, Mason tells me and, at the time, I don’t question how he knows this.

  I can’t tell you exactly how we got from the lounge to here, but we shed some clothes on the way, bump into furniture and the bar. My lips are bruised from some very enthusiastic kissing. Mason makes short work of unbuttoning my blouse and hitching my skirt up. As I’m struggling with his belt, his jeans, I think that chef would go mental if he could see us. I’m going to have to go over this with Dettol when we’ve finished.

  We have rushed, drunken and sleazy sex on the table, my skirt rucked up round my waist, Mason’s still wearing his socks. When we’ve finished, we lie on our backs and we both start to laugh.

  ‘I’m glad you’re my boss,’ I say to Mason, giggling guiltily, ‘because I would so sack my arse if I found one of my staff doing that.’

  ‘You’re such a tart, Brown,’ he teases, fingers still trailing over my body. ‘That was fun though. I must ply you with cocktails more often if this is the effect it has on you.’

  ‘I think cranberry juice must be an aphrodisiac.’ Though it may be the half a dozen or more shots of alcohol that we quickly downed. My head is certainly spinning.

  Then there’s a hammering at the front door of the pub, loud in the still of the night. My heart leaps to my mouth and I’m suddenly very sober.

  ‘Shit,’ Mason mutters. ‘Who the hell can that be?’

  I don’t know, but whoever it is, I don’t want them finding us here without most of our clothing. ‘It can’t be Jay, he’d have his key.’

  He jumps down from the table and finds his jeans which were kicked off in the scrabble. ‘Where are my fucking shoes?’

  The knocking comes again. More insistent this time.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he grumbles as he pulls his jeans on. I see his pants on the floor, but he’s not bothered with those. There’s no sign of his shoes or mine. ‘Keep your hair on!’

  ‘Suppose it’s burglars?’ I suggest, heart pounding.

  ‘Do burglars normally knock?’ he asks as he hastily buttons his shirt.

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s late.’ I don’t know what time it is as I’ve no idea where my phone went during our frenzy. ‘Why else would someone come here at this time of night?’ I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

  ‘Shitshitshit.’ Mason looks round and grabs a knife from chef’s knife block.

  ‘No, no! Not a knife,’ I say. ‘You might get hurt.’

  ‘I’m planning on hurting them,’ Mason points out.

  ‘Take the rolling pin instead.’

  ‘They might think I want to bake them a pie.’ Nevertheless, he puts the knife back and grabs hold of the rolling pin in a menacing way. All the time the knocking is continuing. ‘Stay here,’ Mason instructs. ‘If it sounds like it’s going horribly wrong, phone the police.’

  That will mean finding my phone. So I slide to the edge of the table and jump down as Mason heads for the door.

  ‘Be careful,’ I offer.

  He rolls his eyes at me and mutters another curse under his breath.

  Oh, God. Why did we ever think this was a good idea? I shimmy my bra back to where it should be, button up my shirt. My pants are entangled with Mason’s so I leave them where they are. I’ve got hold-up stockings on which, currently, aren’t holding up at all and are round my ankles. I yank them back into place, then pull my skirt down and smooth it. You’d never know what we’d been up to now.

  I hear Mason unbolting the front door and think that I should be right behind him in case the burglars rush him. Plus I think my phone might still be on the table in the bar.

  So, tentatively, I follow him and am glad to see that he’s got the rolling pin poised for action. As he’s opening the door I hear him say with surprise, ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Joe is standing at the door, lookin
g bleak. Mason stands aside so that Joe and I are facing each other.

  He looks at me, then at Mason, then at me again. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he says and he sounds upset, cross and sad all at once.

  When I find my voice, I ask, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, Ruby, this was a really bad idea. I can see that you’re … busy.’

  My eyes follow his and I can see that he hasn’t failed to notice that in my haste to dress, my blouse is buttoned up all wrong. One side is longer than the other, the lace of my bra very much on show. The fact that both Mason and I are both barefoot and looking dishevelled only adds to my air of being caught in the act. To help matters further, one of my hold-ups slowly slithers its way down my leg to my ankle. Both Mason and Joe follow its progress while I try to pretend it’s not happening.

  ‘I should go,’ Joe says. ‘It wasn’t important.’

  But I think that it must be if he’s turned up here after closing time looking fraught.

  ‘I’ll make myself scarce,’ Mason says, evenly. ‘It seems as if you two have things to talk about and I have a pie to bake.’ He holds up the rolling pin and then, with a glance at me, heads back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe says. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward for you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I tell him when, quite obviously, all is far from fine. ‘Shall we go and sit in your car?’

  ‘We can do.’

  So I follow him out into the night in my bare feet, trailing a stocking. I’d like to stop and take them off, but I think it would only attract attention to the fact that my stockings are not where they should be.

  We get in Joe’s car and sit side-by-side under the security light, both uncomfortable now. The fact that my blouse is misbuttoned is like an elephant in the room.

  ‘I should have phoned,’ Joe says again. ‘Coming here like this was ridiculous.’ He stares out of the window, not looking at me.

  I touch his arm gently, but he moves it away from me. ‘You still haven’t said why you did.’