One Glass Is Never Enough

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  “What is it?”

  “An aerator! Ah, the very chap to try it on…”

  Claire grinned as Neville Norton, already flushed, pushed open the door. “Good evening, sir, would you like a glass of your usual claret – with our new innovative oxygenating service?”

  Neville blinked across the bar, bemused, as Claire selected a large glass and poured wine through the little plastic gadget. It sprayed out like a small fountain, sending forth a shower of fine red droplets that filled the glass at a rate that was clearly too painfully slow for Neville. He was visibly twitching. Gaynor laughed. “That’ll go down a storm at last orders when there’s twenty people waiting.”

  Claire laughed too. “They also do one that plays God Save the Queen!”

  It was busy for a Tuesday night. Most of the front tables were filled with couples or small clusters of friends. A table of fourteen – an impromptu night out for the ‘Fishing Club’, they told Gaynor – hadn’t booked, but came in on the off-chance. Claire had to disappear downstairs to help Sarah and Benjamin in the kitchen, leaving Gaynor alone to man both bar and restaurant.

  “I’m sorry,” said Claire breathlessly, coming up to hand round starters while Gaynor served the small crowd that had appeared at exactly the same moment the kitchen buzzer sounded. “It was dead last week. Ah Jamie! Just at the right time…”

  Claire’s boyfriend – still in his suit from the train – was despatched behind the bar. Gaynor, carrying stacks of dirty dishes downstairs, paused and smiled at him. He looked young and tired. “Long day?” she asked.

  Jamie yawned. “I was up at five.”

  But he still got home to see Claire in the evenings. Didn’t feel the need to live in town half the week to recuperate. As she came back up to the bar, Gaynor wondered how long it would be before Victor suggested staying up in London permanently. She knew many people would think she had a blessed life, with her lovely home and no money worries and this bar, and she herself sometimes felt guilty for not being happier, but…

  “…and a white wine and soda.”

  “Sorry?” She looked up to see a young couple looking quizzically at her. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, realising she’d been staring into space. “What was it you wanted…?”

  “Takings are well up this week,” said Claire, deftly emptying the till, when the last customer had left at the end of the evening. “That big table left you twenty quid, Gaynor.”

  “Stick it in the pot,” said Gaynor. “You two share it.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Sarah leaned over the bar and pulled the tip jar towards her. “There’s lots in here – we’ll split it between all of us. Here Benjamin…” she leant out and pushed a couple of notes into the boy’s hand as he came past, with his crash helmet under one arm. “We like it when Gaynor’s waitressing don’t we – all the blokes cough up double.”

  “Charming,” said Claire, smiling, as Benjamin left after gravely thanking them all. “Nobody ever tips me, then!” She pushed a wad of notes into a cloth cash bag. “I’ll just go and put this in the safe. Then shall we have a drink? Jamie will be fast asleep by now and I’ve been sent some new samples to try.”

  Sarah pulled the blinds down and turned the lights low. The three of them sat on stools at the bar, a bottle of Australian Chardonnay, a white Rioja and a Chilean Merlot lined up in front of them.

  “Ugh,” said Gaynor, sipping, swirling and putting down her glass in disgust. “Tastes German.”

  “I rather like it,” said Sarah, swilling the Chardonnay about.

  “That,” said Gaynor, prodding her, “is because you have no taste. You liked that awful Rosé stuff they sent us. It’s all sweet and fruity. All these new world wines are the same.”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing special.” Claire wrinkled her nose. “But it’s what people like. I was reading Wine Buyer Monthly. Guess what the top-selling supermarket wine is?”

  “Liebfraumilch!”

  “Worse than that!”

  “Nothing’s worse than that. Ummm...Bottled cat’s pee?”

  “Lambrusco!”

  “Ugh! Yuck! Wouldn’t clean the loo with it! This is nice, though.” Gaynor poured a large glass of the Rioja.

  “Didn’t even know there was a white one.”

  “It’s quite expensive…”

  “I’ll just finish this, then.” Sarah giggled as she poured more of the Australian white into her glass.

  “I don’t care about white wine at all, really,” said Claire, opening the Merlot. “Apart from champagne, of course.”

  “Of course!” Gaynor put her glass down and looked at Sarah. “Are you getting pissed there?”

  Sarah giggled again. “Maybe – I hardly ever seem to drink these days. Funny, isn’t it – surrounded by the stuff all day. I suppose it’s like working in the kitchen. Puts you right off food. All this booze and I barely touch it.”

  “Doesn’t have that effect on me,” said Gaynor, taking another mouthful of Rioja.

  “We’ve noticed!” Claire grinned and took a sip of her own wine.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Gaynor, “how different we all are. Claire here, so efficient and you, Sarah...”

  “Yes?” Sarah raised her eyebrows, her face mock-threatening. “Be careful now.”

  “No, really.” Gaynor waved her glass around expansively. “I mean we are really different people and Claire and I didn’t even know each other to start with and we’ve all got such varied lives and situations yet…” She looked around the dimly-lit bar, breathing in the warm, smoky, end-of-night aromas, feeling a sudden rush of love and appreciation. “We work ever so well together, don’t we?” She suddenly wanting to hug them both. “We…” She paused, struggling to think of the right word. “We… complement each other…”

  Claire smiled.

  “Yes,” grinned Sarah. “I think that T-shirt really goes with your eyes…”

  Gaynor kissed them both as she left and stepped out into the dark street. “You sure you’re going to be OK walking?” Claire asked. “My car’s just up by the church.”

  Gaynor nodded. It was nearly 1 a.m. but if Sam’s light was still on, she’d take it as an invitation. Victor was away of course and she didn’t feel like going home to a cold, empty house just yet. She felt keyed up, slightly drunk, and she wanted someone to talk to.

  Sam didn’t look particularly surprised to see her. While he went to put the kettle on, she told him about the funny calls.

  “Will the police do anything?” she called, as she sat on his sofa, wriggling her toes. “Oh, my bloody feet. I hope I’m not going to get varicose veins with all this standing.”

  Sam came in from the kitchen. “Depends who you get, what else they’ve got on their desk, how much fuss you make.”

  “Sarah’s pretty rattled by it.”

  “I expect she is. I know it’s not much comfort if she’s on her own there, feeling scared, but it’s very unlikely, the sort of profile to make a call like that, would actually do anything.”

  “That’s what I told her, but you know…” She shrugged.

  “Yes, it’s nasty.” He handed her a cup of tea.

  “I should have brought you some wine.”

  “Hardly ever drink it and you look like you’ve had quite a bit already.”

  “Not that much. A couple of customers bought me one

  – I had a couple more when we were clearing up…”

  “I do hope,” she said later, with a smile, “we get interviewed by some strapping young constable. I like a man in uniform.”

  “Authority figures, eh? From what you’ve told me about your father, hardly surprising.”

  She grinned at him. “I wish I’d seen you in yours.”

  “It was very ill-fitting.”

  She looked at his hands wound around his mug, at his shirt, the way he trailed his fingers down Brutus’s spine as the handsome grey cat jumped on to the arm of the sofa.

  She was in that peculiar place again, wh
ere she knew exactly what she was saying, but was touched by that sense of abandon only several large wines could bring. “I expect it would still have done it for me.”

  He turned his head to look at her.

  She took a mouthful of Darjeeling. “Sorry – you don’t want me to flirt with you, do you?”

  He smiled ruefully. “It’s very appealing.” He looked down again as he stroked Brutus, who was now stretched out along the length of his thighs. “I’m attracted to you too, Gaynor. When I first met you, I didn’t think you were my type at all.” He looked up and grinned. “You scared the life out of me! But once we talked properly – once I got a glimpse of the real you…”

  He was serious again. “When I talk to you – for the first time in a long time I feel alive inside. I’ve missed you in the last three weeks. I’d started to look forward to you coming round – hoped that you would. You’re such a funny mixture

  – sophisticated woman and wayward child. I want to look after you, protect you.”

  Her heart was beating hard – she wanted to curl up with him, feel his arms around her again, his voice making soft soothing sounds as she buried her face in his shoulder. He went on stroking the cat, his voice even and measured.

  “But you’re married and, frankly, I’m afraid. I don’t want to be falling for you – don’t want to feel need or be out of control. It’s so long since I’ve been near a woman there’s all sorts of waking up to do and I can feel it happening already but I don’t want to come round like Rumplestiltskin only to find you reconciled with your husband and me sitting here with a cat for company feeling bitter and lonely. That’s why I can only be your friend. I can give you a cup of tea and a hug when you’re down, but nothing more.”

  She felt a lump in her throat. She wanted him to hold her hand. She wanted to lean out and take his. She tried to keep her voice steady but heard it wobble. She said: “But, sometimes, I think I might want more.”

  He smiled at her sadly. “But sometimes, Gaynor, we can’t have everything we want.”

  12. Sauvignon Blanc

  Robust and forceful with a penetrating nose.

  “Hello, sweetie!” The tall figure on the doorstep posed dramatically against a backdrop of blue-grey sea, clouded sky, and the black iron railings of the front gates, before sweeping into Gaynor’s hall, beaming. “I’m back!”

  Lizzie threw her bag to the floor and her arms around Gaynor, jewellery jangling.

  “I can see that,” Gaynor said, hugging Lizzie hard. She stood back and grinned with pleasure, taking in the familiar, bright, kohl-ringed eyes, the long glossy mane of black hair with its red henna-sheen, the mass of silver bangles and coloured glass beads. Lizzie had a deep tan and had lost weight. Above the quarter-length embroidered jeans, a cheesecloth top was tied, exposing her brown stomach. A red jewel winked there, matching the red-painted toes peeping out of her worn leather sandals.

  The whole place suddenly seemed bright and energised.

  Gaynor hugged her again. “You look great. Did you have a good time?”

  “Bloody fantastic. Touch of Delhi-belly, but nothing terminal.”

  “Good – where’s my present?”

  Lizzie kicked at the big leather holdall at her feet. “In there. Where’s my drink?”

  “It was wonderful,” Lizzie said, putting her glass down, shaking off her shoes and lying the length of Gaynor’s sofa. “Had to slum it a bit at the end when I ran out of money but I had a brilliant time. I met the most amazing people.” She sat up and grabbed her wine again, grinning wickedly. “Really amazing.”

  Gaynor smiled. “So you got shagged, then.”

  “Mmmn, did I?”

  “Brought him back with you?”

  “Him? There was more than one!”

  Gaynor laughed. Lizzie prided herself on her ability to love ’em and leave ’em. “Don’t want any of that messy love stuff,” she’d say. “As long as they’re good in the sack and don’t hang around, I’m happy.”

  Lizzie propped herself up on one elbow. “There was one, though. This guy Ravi – he was travelling about too. We spent a few days together. He was a sweetheart. I mean I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him – he’s a bit of a dope-head, full of stuff about the crystals and catching your dreams, out in India in his search of his spiritual home, you know the sort of thing – but we had a great time. And he was really good to me when I was ill. One night, I’d got this terrible cold. I was streaming and coughing and spluttering and blowing my nose constantly – it was all disgusting and I looked delightful. Shiny red hooter, little piggy eyes, hair needed washing, every man’s dream. I woke up in the night and I was groping about for tissues, my nose running like a tap and he turned over and put an arm out and stroked my back. He said: “Are you OK?”

  Gaynor looked at her quizzically.

  Lizzie nodded. “That’s it, just – are you OK?” She took a big mouthful of wine. “He wasn’t even properly awake, you know, he was all sleepy, but he reached out and checked I was all right.” She shook her head, as if bewildered, and looking for a startling moment as if she might cry. “He sounded so concerned. And I thought, that’s what I miss out on being single. It’s not the physical stuff.” She paused and laughed. “You can get that anywhere – it’s someone being there in the middle of the night and looking out for you.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Gaynor thought about Sam with a sudden pang. Then Lizzie laughed, her old flippant tone returning. “It’s what you married people get in compensation for not having sex any more.”

  Gaynor reached out for the bottle and topped up both their glasses.

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “Some of us don’t get sex OR anyone giving a damn.” She suddenly felt tearful herself.

  Lizzie sat right up and looked at her. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with Victor?”

  “Hmmm,” she said, when Gaynor had finished and they’d both got new drinks. “Never mind Saint Sarah. I’m with you, honey – no smoke without fire. Sounds to me as if the bastard’s up to no good at all, but we need to find out for sure.”

  “How?” Gaynor asked miserably. “You know what he’s like – he always comes up with an excuse and just makes me feel stupid. The teddy thing disappeared from the bedroom and after a few days I did tell him I’d seen a package and asked him what it was. He got all funny at first and then he said it was a present he’d bought for me but he’d taken it back ’cos he’d made a mistake. And then he went on about what I was doing in his wardrobe anyway and made me feel all guilty for being jealous and suspicious.”

  Lizzie looked sceptical. “So if it was a mistake, why didn’t he bring it back in the right size then, huh?”

  Gaynor shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t bother next time if I was only going to be paranoid.”

  “Pah! I like Victor,” said Lizzie. “He can be lots of fun and I’m fond of the old bugger, but he’s a slippery sod, isn’t he? All those years creating beautiful lies with which to dupe the unsuspecting public – it’s bound to give you a certain flair for deceit. And if he keeps staying away…”

  Gaynor frowned. “There was one time when he’d told me he was staying in Scotland overnight but I found out he’d come back to London early evening and could easily have come home, but he didn’t.”

  Lizzie sat up straighter. “And? Did you tell him you knew?”

  “Oh yes. But he had an answer, of course. Said he’d needed to have a debriefing with Laurence.” Gaynor could hear him now. He’d seemed perfectly relaxed about being asked. “We got away sooner than we thought in the end,” he’d said. “But it was such an intense two days, I just needed to get my head together – talk it through while it was all still fresh. We had a bottle of poo and a bit of dinner and I hit the sack. I thought you’d be working anyway.” He’d smiled at her apologetically. “And I didn’t fancy the crap of getting home on a Friday night from town.”

  It had sounded perfectly plausible
. Victor had looked her straight in the eye. “I did believe him,” she said now to Lizzie. “But, I don’t know – something still doesn’t feel right.”

  Lizzie considered. “What about having him followed?”

  Gaynor gave a wry smile. “I thought about that. I even phoned up an agency I found in the yellow pages, but do you know how much it costs? And Sam said…”

  “Sam?”

  “He’s just a bloke I know – he did the sign for the wine bar and we’ve sort of become friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes, friends,” said Gaynor defensively. “You know, we have cups of tea together, that’s all, and he’s a good listener and I told him about Victor ’cos I was a bit upset and

  – Lizzie, why are you looking at me like that?”

  Since the evening after the threatening phone call, she’d made a conscious effort not to flirt with Sam or go there when she’d had too much to drink. But she knew she’d begun to depend on him. Where once she would have twittered away to Victor, now it was Sam she went to with her angsts and preoccupations.

  When her mother had called to say David was going through a lot of anxiety again and her father was low, she’d called him the minute she put the phone down. When Chloe had sent pictures of her first scan and Gaynor had been shot through by such exquisite pain she felt her legs would give way, it was to Sam she ran in tears. She opened her mouth to try to explain to Lizzie how he didn’t make her feel like an empty-headed bimbo, as Victor was inclined to, how he took her feelings seriously, how he would comfort her and make her feel not only safe and warm but that her feelings were valid. That she was, indeed. How, strangely he’d churned up all her feelings up while soothing them. How he’d taught her to cry again…

  But she couldn’t say any of it.