by Lucy Lord
A couple of local drunks staggered through the door, letting their eyes become accustomed to the gloom. One of them, a Hispanic chap called Pablo, had a fearsome black moustache and a serious tequila problem; the other, whom everybody called Paddy (he’d forgotten his real name years ago), had three missing teeth and a penchant for flowery whimsy.
‘Sheet, man,’ whispered Pablo as he spotted Damian still propping up the bar. ‘The Eenglishman is steel here. If I have to leesten to him talk about his broken heart again, I weel keel myself!’
‘Duck!’ Paddy whispered back, with impressive presence of mind, considering how few brain cells he had left.
But too late; just as they were attempting to duck behind a couple of chairs that afforded them no cover whatsoever, Damian looked up from his conversation with – no, make that monologue at – the barman. With enormous relief, the barman went to serve another (imaginary) customer.
‘My friends,’ Damian shouted, slurring and opening his arms. ‘What are you doing down there? Come and have a drink! Whiskey and tequila, yeah?’
Never ones to refuse a free drink, Paddy and Pablo answered in the affirmative.
After several toasts, Damian, inevitably, went all misty eyed.
‘Guys, guys, you are the best friends I’ve ever had. Have I told you about my wife?’
‘Eeees she blonde and beautiful and successful?’ asked Pablo, grinning. He was happier to indulge the loser, now that he was being bought tequila.
‘Wow! How did you guess?’ said Damian, gesturing to the barman for more drinks.
‘A floating little faerie from the Emerald Isle, a leprechaun looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,’ said Paddy. ‘She dances with flowers, that’s what she does. A faerie queen indeed.’
Damian wasn’t sure if Paddy was actually referring to Poppy, but he smiled soppily nonetheless. He hadn’t shaved for over a week, and the effect, combined with the soppy smile and seriously bloodshot eyes, was faintly disturbing. Even in this company.
Poppy, Bella and Lars, 270 miles away in a bar called the Texas Tavern, weren’t quite as drunk as Damian, but they were giving it their best shot.
After the tedium of Kansas, they had all needed to let their hair down a bit, and Poppy had started to panic, now that they were, apparently, so close to her husband.
‘I mean, what if I’m completely wrong and he really doesn’t ever want to see me again?’ she had asked, through a mouthful of incredibly hot chili con carne. It was served by the bowl, pint, quart or gallon. Both girls had gone for the bowl, while Lars, bravely, had attempted a quart. But even he had been unable to finish it, though it had been delicious, in a revolting kind of way.
‘Really, what level of lunatic would you have to be to eat a gallon of it?’ Poppy had asked, sotto voce.
Their stomachs had been too full to finish the beers they’d initially ordered, so Bella, in a moment of divine inspiration, had said with glee, ‘Margaritas! That’s what we need!’
‘YESSS! MARGARITAS!’ Lars had shouted, and they had all laughed with a certain degree of manic anticipation.
And so it was that, four margaritas each later, they were all talking much more loudly than they’d intended.
Somebody approached their table, and the room fell silent.
Fuck, thought Bella, looking up at the Hell’s Angel looming over them (he was even bigger than Lars, if that were possible). His black leather trousers squeaked and his Guns ’N Roses T-shirt rode up over his vast, hairy belly. Tattoos covered every last inch of flesh, from fingertip to throat, and his long, bushy beard still bore traces of the chili he’d consumed earlier.
‘Did you just say, Damian?’
‘Uh – yeah,’ babbled Poppy, who was looking cute as ever in skinny jeans and a blue-and-white-checked shirt, in a nod to the cowboy territory in which they found themselves, her hair hanging just above her delicate shoulders in silky blonde pigtails. ‘We’re not talking about the devil or anything like that …’ (Did Hell’s Angels believe in the devil?) she panicked ‘… it’s just that he’s my husband … I mean, Damian’s my husband, not that the devil is my husband … and we’re looking for him – Damian, I mean, not the devil …’ she trailed off, flushed.
The Hell’s Angel smiled slowly, giving her the once-over. He held out his hand.
‘You must be Poppy. Yeah, he described you well enough.’
‘What? You mean he was here? In this bar?’ The tracker hadn’t picked that up – Damian clearly hadn’t switched his phone on in the Texas Tavern.
‘Hell, yeah! Your husband won the annual Roadkill and Rolaids Chili Cook-Off just a couple days ago …’
‘What?’ Poppy repeated, her usual eloquence deserting her completely now. ‘Roadkill?’ How fucking insane had Damian actually become since she’d last seen him?
The Hell’s Angel laughed. ‘It’s only a name, honey bunch. Us Americans can do “irony” too, you know.’ He settled his huge frame into the last chair left at their table. ‘Your Damian …’ he drawled the word out … ‘sat here, right at this very table. And man, did he talk about you. He was so goddamn boring that we asked him to take part in our annual chili cook-off, just to shut him up. Man, his spices were good … We didn’t think you English guys knew how to cook …’
Poppy, Bella and Lars looked at one another for a few seconds before collapsing in hysterical giggles. Poppy and Bella were holding their sides, gasping and spluttering; Lars was thumping the table.
‘That’s because he’s half Indian,’ Bella spluttered eventually, wiping her eyes, and Poppy and Lars both cracked up again.
‘Roadkill Chili Cook-Off,’ Lars gasped. ‘Oh, Damian – oh, man …’
‘So what did he say about me?’ asked Poppy, once she could get her breath back, her heart overflowing with love at the idea of Damian beating all these chili-obsessed freaks at their own game with his wonderful spices.
‘It would make your ears burn, beautiful. He loves you. Man, does he love you. But we, the whole Dalhart community, we love that guy. Tell me you didn’t do it with his old friend Ben?’
Suddenly the Hell’s Angel looked at Lars, menacingly. ‘You ain’t Ben, are ya? Don’t look much like him, from what my friend Damian say-ed.’
‘No, no, my name is Lars. Damian is my good friend. I am from Sweden.’ Lars got out of his seat, drawing himself up to his full 6 foot 7, and proffered his hand.
‘Sweden? My wife is from Sweden,’ said the Hell’s Angel, shaking Lars’s hand in his equally enormous, but somewhat more calloused one. ‘Hey, Gunilla,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Got one of your countrymen round front here.’
A ridiculously pretty blonde woman, also in full leathers, appeared from behind the bar. Smiling, she started to talk to Lars in Swedish. Poppy and Bella stared at them, trying (with unsurprisingly minimal success) to follow what they were saying.
Eventually, the gorgeous Swedish Hell’s Angel smiled sweetly at them and said, in the deepest US hick accent that one could possibly imagine:
‘Sorry ’bout that, ladies. I don’t have many opportunities to talk to people from the ol’ country. How’s about I get some schnapps for y’all?’
Riding along in their automobile, the three Musketeers sang along to Chuck Berry at the tops of their voices. Despite their schnapps hangovers, they were enjoying the route to Albuquerque from Dalhart more than they had enjoyed any of the roads so far. Truth be told, they were probably all still pissed, but Poppy and Bella had absolute confidence in Lars to drive them safely to their destination.
‘Look!’ Poppy squawked, pointing at Lars’s phone. ‘He’s still there! Still in that bar! I love the fact that my husband’s such a bloody drunk!’
‘Can’t blame him for staying there,’ Bella shouted over the music, cracking open the third beer of the afternoon. ‘This is a bit more bloody like it!’
And it was.
The Texas-to-New Mexico highway was proving an awful lot more satisfactory tha
n the Midwest one, road trip-wise. All around them was scrubby desert dotted with proper, multi-pronged cacti, some of them even taller than Lars. Bella half expected Clint Eastwood to leap out from behind one and start shooting at them. In a good way. The rugged Sandia Mountains glowed terracotta in the distance as the sun started to set.
Ah, yes, the sunset. They had ended up getting so drunk with the Hell’s Angel and his Swedish wife that none of them had surfaced until midday. Poppy had been furious with herself, until she’d seen that Damian was still in his motel room in Albuquerque.
‘Oooh, we’re on his tail, we’re gonna get him,’ she now shouted with glee.
‘You do realize, Pops,’ said Bella, ‘that there’s absolutely no fucking way we’d have found him without Lars’s brilliant phone-tracking thing?’
Poppy turned around in the passenger seat and stuck her tongue out.
‘Piss off, Palin.’ Then she slumped back against the seat. ‘Yeah, I know. Even though I knew what route he’d take – I did know that, Belles, you’ve got to give me that? – it might have been a bit “needle, let me introduce you to haystack”.’
Bella laughed and stretched out her arm to squeeze Poppy’s shoulder.
‘No worries, lovey, that’s all hypothetical now, isn’t it? We’re nearly there now.’
Lars looked at Bella again from his rear-view mirror and smiled.
It had been touch and go at times, but it seemed like the girls’ friendship was back on track.
‘I cannot stand talking to him a moment longer,’ said the formerly chatty barman. ‘Jeez, I feel like I know his beautiful blonde wife better than I know my own.’
‘No worries.’ Pablo grinned from behind his enormous moustache. ‘I have brought in a distraction. If my little niece Juanita does not distract him, then the man is beyond hope.’ He staggered slightly and wheedled, ‘Tequila, please, amigo?’
On cue, Juanita slinked into La Hacienda, turning every male head in the joint. At the grand old age of 19, she had been fully aware of her effect on the opposite sex for at least three years, and dressed to accentuate her youthful attributes in tiny denim miniskirts and strappy vest tops that showed off her slender dusky limbs and bouncing bosom. Shiny black hair snaked all the way down to her waist and large dark eyes sparkled with mischief in a heart-shaped face.
Following her uncle’s instructions, she danced over to where Damian was sitting, and slumped against the bar. Giggling and talking incessantly, she climbed up onto his lap, as he tried to work out what the fuck she was on about.
‘Ayayayayayayayy!’ she finished, tossing back her black shiny mane and laughing up into his face.
‘Ayayayayayyayay, to you too!’ he eventually managed, laughing back at her. Fucking hell, she’s gorgeous, he thought, as she snuggled up to him like a playful little kitten, practically purring as she writhed about on his lap.
Thanks (partly) to his dark good looks, Damian hadn’t been short of female attention during the course of his road trip, but he had been too caught up in his self-pitying melancholy to take any of the various hookers and good-time girls up on their offers. Besides, he’d have lost the moral high ground. Even if Poppy never knew, he knew that he would know, and that would pretty much nullify his enormously high dudgeon.
But he was starting to get just a teensy bit bored with high dudgeon.
‘Cómo te llamas? What is your name, handsome man? Your skin, it is the same colour like mine …’
The gorgeous little thing put her arm against Damian’s, and he realized, with a moment of what felt like clarity, but was probably just lust, that she was right. He had always liked the contrast of his skin against Poppy’s, but maybe that was stupid; maybe it was time for him to be with somebody whose skin resembled his own …
As they drove downhill into Albuquerque, Poppy, Bella and Lars belted out the words to ‘Route 66’. What they lacked in harmony, they made up for in enthusiasm and volume.
In the last couple of hours they had passed canyons and mountains, Native American pueblos, strange roadside sculptures and cactus after cactus after cactus, all bathed in a rich golden light. The excitement in the car now was at an all-time high as they approached the city, which glittered with promise in the early evening dusk.
‘We’re going to follow GoogleMaps straight to the bar, right?’ said Bella. ‘I must say I’m intrigued to see this place where Damian’s been spending so much time.’ Shit, I hope it’s not a brothel, she thought suddenly, then banished the thought as quickly as it had entered her head. No, Damian wasn’t like that.
They drove on until they reached the Old Town – a charming, bustling area full of pueblo-style buildings housing cafés, shops and galleries with window displays of Native American jewellery, rugs, pottery and sand paintings.
‘Oooh, I like it,’ said Poppy. ‘Bit of a hippy-Ibiza vibe.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Bella, smiling. ‘No wonder Damian seems to have taken up residence. It would be nice to stay on a few days once we’ve found him – though of course, we’ll give you both a bit of privacy, Pops. Promise not to dog your every move …’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m so grateful to you – both …’ Poppy looked around at her companions, her eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘I’m not going to abandon my partners in crime just because I’ve found my stupid bloody husband …’
‘Let’s play it by ear, huh?’ said Lars mildly.
They continued to follow the map on Lars’s phone, leaving the charming Old Town and entering a significantly grottier area.
‘Might have guessed,’ muttered Poppy.
At last, they drew up outside La Hacienda, a building for whom the word ‘unprepossessing’ would have been outrageous flattery. All of its windows were blacked out and its sign was hanging at what might have been a rakish angle, had it not been obvious that this was due to neglect, rather than design.
‘OK, here we go,’ said Poppy, visibly steeling herself for what she might find within.
‘We’re right behind you, Pops,’ said Bella, giving her a brief squeeze from behind and kissing the top of her head.
They entered the bar, and everything went quiet.
‘Shit, that’s her!’ whispered the barman to Pablo. ‘I bet you ten dollars that’s his beautiful blonde wife.’
The only man in the whole bar who hadn’t looked up at their entrance was Damian, who was indulging in an incredibly enjoyable snogging marathon with little Juanita in a corner. As Poppy clocked them, an extraordinary sound came out of her mouth and she ran over to them as fast as her feet would carry her.
‘Get your hands off my husband, you fucking tart!’ she screamed, prising them apart with her surprisingly strong small hands.
‘You owe me ten dollars,’ said the barman to Pablo.
‘Qué?’ asked Juanita, bemused.
‘What the fuck …’ said Damian. ‘Poppy?’ He looked at her through bloodshot and crossed eyes and Poppy burst into tears.
‘You bloody idiot drunk,’ she sobbed. ‘Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?’
Juanita, looking quickly at them both, realized it would be in everybody’s best interests for her to bugger off.
‘Adios!’ She gave a little wave, then jumped off Damian’s lap and ran, nimbly, out of the bar. Tio Pablo owed her one. Big time.
‘I did nothing with Ben,’ said Poppy, standing with her hands on her hips, tears streaming down her face. ‘Or Jack bloody Meadows. Why didn’t you listen to my messages, you dickhead? I could have explained everything. But no, you had to go running off like some bloody prima-donna drama queen, switching your phone off, scaring us all shitless. If it wasn’t for Lars, we’d never have been able to find you …’
Lars? Hazily, Damian saw that his enormous Swedish friend was standing near the entrance of the bar. And was that Bella with him?
‘Poppy …’ he started, trying not to slur.
‘When are you going to get it into your thick head that I lov
e you?’
‘Ahhh,’ said the assembled drunks. Poppy glared at them over her shoulder.
Looking at her angry, tearful face, and realizing how much he had missed her, Damian stretched out his arms.
‘I love you too.’
‘God, bloody bad timing,’ Bella muttered to Lars. ‘Poor Pops, to have seen him snogging that girl, quite so – um – enthusiastically.’ She grimaced. ‘Pretty cool of her not even to have mentioned it though. I’d have been absolutely distraught. Livid too,’ she added, as an afterthought.
‘Yes, she is a clever girl, not to show she is bothered by the indiscretion.’ Lars was smiling slightly. ‘But I think that from now on, this marriage will be conducted on more of an equal footing.’
Bella laughed.
‘You really are a wise old sage, aren’t you? Thanks for everything this last week, Lars, you’ve been wonderful. Love you loads!’
Lars embraced her in an enormous, manly hug.
‘Love you loads too.’ He was feeling a little sad that their adventure was over. It had been nice to feel wanted and appreciated once more – even if it had only been for his phone. And he had come to love these two girls – though only in the most honourable of ways, of course. He pulled himself together. Poppy had found Damian – that was the most important thing.
‘And after all that, kiddo …’ He smiled at Bella. ‘I think we deserve a drink.’
Chapter 23
Sam was happy to be home. Yesterday, she had helped her mum do the Christmas tree, as they listened to Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole and Slade. Little Ryan had made it difficult, of course, but he had been so sweet, proffering his homemade decorations and clapping with glee every time Sam had hung one of them onto a branch, that nobody had had the heart to be cross with him. Even when he’d had one of his ‘episodes’ and hurled himself at the tree, screaming, trying to bring it down to the ground.