by Karen Swan
Jules stood in the hallway for a moment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go put the kettle on,’ she called, making her way over to the stairs. ‘And let’s just say it’s a “maybe”.’
Chapter Four
‘Get that down you, then – you’ll feel a lot better,’ Tom said, placing the steaming plate on the table in front of her.
‘Thanks, Tom,’ she said weakly, looking down at the heap of saturated fat. ‘Tomorrow, definitely fruit tomorrow,’ she resolved.
‘Refills?’ he asked, picking up their empties, knowing the drill.
Jules gave him a thumbs-up and a wink but couldn’t reply – she was already eating.
Nettie watched him go with a stab of poignancy. She’d been like him once – working behind the bar here during the university holidays. Saving up to move on to bigger and better things. Now she was just another punter, one of the locals who spent as much time – if not more – here as at home.
‘I know. Nice bum, right?’ Jules said, watching her wistful gaze.
Nettie began to eat, her eyes roaming the room. It was too cold to sit outside. The wind was still meting out punishing smacks, and every table in the Engineer was taken, the log fire crackling and throwing out a drowsy heat that was already making the bushy Christmas tree in the opposite corner droop. The flamboyant designer wallpaper contrasted with the rustic waxed tables (theirs had all their initials carved in the sides), and coloured-glass light globes hung from the ceiling. As ever, they were sitting beneath ‘their’ lamp – the green one – at ‘their’ table. She knew almost all the faces in here. ‘Heard from your Canadian fella?’
‘Ha! What d’you think?’ Jules asked with a roll of her eyes. ‘He’s in Austria now.’ She chewed not so quietly for a bit. ‘I’m not bothered anyway. He kept doing this weird—’
‘Don’t!’ Nettie held her hand up in a ‘stop’ sign. ‘It’s hard enough trying to get my food down.’
Jules shrugged. ‘Well, anyway, onwards and upwards.’ She dunked a chip in the ramekin of ketchup, stabbing it thoughtfully in the air. ‘Good body, though. I think athletes might be the way to go.’
Nettie pulled a face. ‘Nup. They’re always training all the time, and they can’t drink. Disaster for you.’
‘Oh yeah, true,’ Jules agreed with a disappointed expression as she chewed on the chip. A sudden glint sprang to her eyes. ‘Still, not a worry for you. International heartthrobs don’t come with caveats like that. Yours is as hard-living as we are.’
Nettie smiled as she was reminded yet again of her extraordinary new status and she wondered whether people could tell just by looking at her. She felt as mysterious as she had after losing her virginity. ‘He is not mine, sadly. I wish.’
‘Hey, we should post something right now,’ Jules grinned, leaning in over the table and getting ketchup on her jumper. ‘Let’s take a photo.’
‘Of what? My lunch? Hardly thrilling stuff.’ Tom came back with their virgin Bloody Marys and she took a sip. ‘Unless, of course, we start a food fight that turns into a riot.’
Jules winked excitedly. ‘You should go into the loos and take a photo with your top off. You’ve got lovely boobs. That’d make him sit up and take notice!’
Nettie spluttered on the drink. ‘What? And post it to the thirty thousand other people following me? I don’t think so.’ She wrinkled her nose, looking at her friend. ‘You don’t do that, do you?’
Jules shrugged.
Nettie felt shocked. ‘But what if it got out somehow?’
‘Why would it?’
‘Uh, bad break-up? Boasting? Any number of reasons.’
Jules shrugged again. ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. It’s no biggie. You’re just a prude.’
‘I’m private – there’s a difference,’ Nettie tutted. ‘Besides, you wouldn’t be so relaxed about it if your mum saw. Or Mike—’
Jules grimaced. ‘Eugh. Don’t put me off my lunch.’ She narrowed her eyes, leaning over the table to her. ‘I bet he has sex with his socks on.’
‘You girls talking about me again?’ a male voice asked, stopping beside them just as something warm sat on Nettie’s feet.
‘Oh God, here’s trouble,’ Jules groaned, slumping back in her chair as the two spares beside them were scraped out and filled with a couple of tall, lanky frames.
Dan immediately nicked one of Nettie’s chips as she bent down to pat Scout’s head. He was the only dog allowed inside – a discretionary agreement that acknowledged and recognized Dan’s lifelong, and practically daily, patronage of the pub.
‘Hey!’ she said, smacking his hand. ‘Get your own. This is an emergency.’
He draped an arm round her shoulder and squeezed it fondly. ‘And how are you feeling now?’ He raised an eyebrow at Jules. ‘You do not want to know what she looked like first thing this morning. Smelt like Stig of the Dump, and with hair to match.’
‘Hey!’ she said again, joshing him in the ribs with her elbow.
He collapsed with a laugh.
‘Dan was telling me all about your new celebrity status,’ Stevie said, ripping open a bag of crisps. ‘I expected to find you sitting over there with David Walliams.’
Nettie stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Ha, ha.’
‘Actually, it’s not so improbable,’ Jules said, speaking with her mouth full. ‘Our Nets has got her own celebrity following now.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Stevie laughed. ‘Who? The Teletubbies?’
Dan laughed again, one hand cupped round his pint of lager, his long legs splayed in his battered jeans.
‘Jamie Westlake, actually.’ Jules said it with no small amount of pride.
‘Yeah, right,’ Stevie grinned. ‘And I’ve just accepted a friend request from Selena Gomez.’
‘See for yourself if you don’t believe me,’ Jules said, pushing her phone into the table, set to the exact spot on Nettie’s Twitter page where Jamie had commented – ‘Cool’ – exactly thirteen hours earlier. ‘And before you say it’s not him . . .’ She pointed to the blue tick beside his avatar, tapping it with her finger. ‘Official.’
Both men looked sceptical, then impressed.
‘Get you,’ Stevie grinned. ‘I knew we’d graduate to top table in this place one day,’ he laughed to Dan.
‘See if he can get me a signed Gooners shirt, then, will you? You know, next time you see him. Ha! I can’t wait to tell everyone about this.’ Dan grinned, stealing another of Nettie’s chips. ‘What?’ he asked, his face an expression of innocence as she slapped him again.
‘No! No one must know. You mustn’t tell anyone, ’ Jules said bossily.
‘What? About Westlake?’
‘Any of it. Strictly speaking, we didn’t have permission to post the film, and Nettie’s job is precarious enough at the moment. It’s best that no one knows it was her on that film.’
The boys looked back at her sceptically.
‘But who here’s gonna care about Nettie’s secret life as a thrill-seeking bunny?’ Stevie laughed, cracking himself up.
‘I mean it.’
Dan groaned. ‘Yeah, fine.’
Stevie frowned. ‘Obviously you don’t mean Paddy, though?’
Paddy was the third spoke in the boys’ wheel – an old school friend with more ambition than Stevie or Dan, currently flying by the seat of his pants as a broker at BarCap and usually the one picking up the tab on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.
‘No one,’ Jules said firmly. ‘You won’t be telling Em, will you, Nets?’
Nettie shook her head, wishing her other friend hadn’t bailed on her last night; it would have meant today was so much less painful.
‘Anyway, who’s coming back to mine to watch the match?’ Stevie asked. ‘I’ve got fresh Pot Noodles and everything.’
The girls guffawed, knowing he was quite serious.
‘Might do,’ Jules said. ‘As long as I get a sofa to myself. I’m going to need to nap after this.’
Nettie’s phone b
uzzed on the table and she jumped as she saw the name on the caller ID.
‘I’m in. I’m knackered,’ Dan said, yawning and stretching out further on the chair so that he was almost a six-foot-long line. His job as a plumber meant he often had late-night call-outs, particularly at this time of year, when boilers kept breaking down and pipes kept freezing.
‘Surely . . . surely you don’t mean to suggest you’ve actually been working, Dan?’ Jules gasped.
He chucked a paper napkin at her, one eyebrow cocked.
‘Nets?’ Stevie asked.
It was a moment before she heard him, her eyes glued to the message, which, as ever, told her nothing. ‘Just checking in – nothing to report here. Hope you’re well. Call me if you need to talk.’
‘Sorry, what . . . ? Oh, uh . . .’ She hesitated, keeping her eyes down. ‘Yes, I’ll drop by later maybe.’
Jules looked sympathetic. ‘Oh crap, you’re not working at the library today, are you?’
‘No, but . . .’ Nettie shook her head quickly, sensing the stares being passed round the table. ‘I’ve just got some bits to do, you know.’
There was a silence. Then Jules reached suddenly for the phone and saw Gwen’s name. She sat back in her chair like she’d been pushed.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Jules said, irritation and concern bringing a scratch to her voice. ‘You agreed to cut back. Sundays only, you said.’
‘I know, but . . .’
Dan looked at her, folding in the middle slightly and bringing himself up to a more standard sitting position. ‘You can’t go out in this weather anyway. Even Scout doesn’t want to go for a walk.’
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘Nets, it’s bloody freezing. The wind chill is minus five.’
‘Which is why I won’t be long,’ she said again.
A silence began to bloom.
‘Fine, well, then I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘We all will,’ Jules said, prompting a panicky look from Stevie, who was in just jeans and a sweatshirt, and had obviously nipped in from parking his van outside. She took a deep breath and Nettie could detect the sallow, hung-over tinge in her skin, beneath her tinted moisturizer. ‘I’m quite up for some fresh air.’
‘Thanks, but . . .’ Nettie inhaled sharply. ‘Look . . . I’ll just come by later, OK?’ Her tone made it clear her wish was final.
It was a moment before anyone responded. Clearly it wasn’t OK.
‘Sure, yeah . . . whatevs,’ Jules nodded, forcing a smile. It was the only time, all day, a laugh wasn’t sitting on her lips or in her eyes.
‘If that’s what you want,’ Dan said after a moment.
‘It is. Thanks.’ Her voice was quiet, her smile strained. The hangover made it harder to pull off her usual low-key languor. She looked at Stevie, trying her best to dissipate the tension. ‘I might even bring some Ben & Jerry’s.’
His brown eyes twinkled as his face softened into an easy grin. ‘Oh right, we’re going posh, are we?’
‘Well, now that I’m friends with the rich and famous, I’ll be getting freebies left, right and centre,’ she said with affected nonchalance. ‘Diamonds, dresses, expensive ice creams – they’re all open to me now.’
Dan leaned in. ‘I meant it about the Gooners shirt, you know. And a season ticket would be nice too.’
‘I’ll have to see what I can do,’ she grinned, the pub door opening and her eyes darting to it as ever.
‘So spill the beans, then – what was it like going down that racecourse?’ Stevie asked, folding his arms on the table interestedly and clearly wanting all the gory details.
‘Quick,’ she quipped.
‘You hit those corners at some speed.’
‘Yep.’ She pushed up her jumper sleeve and showed off the livid bruises along her upper arms.
The men both winced and groaned sympathetically, as Jules had earlier.
‘Shit,’ Stevie laughed. ‘I bet you’ve never been so terrified, have you?’
‘Nope,’ she grinned, keeping the smile in place this time.
It was only half a lie.
Forty minutes later she watched them go, the three of them huddled and braced against the wind as they walked towards Stevie’s van and headed for his flat in Chalk Farm, on the other side of the railway tracks.
Dan kept turning back to see if she was still there – still OK – but she just gave him a jaunty wave, forcing him to give reluctant nods and waves back. He knew her too well to know she’d be dissuaded otherwise.
They slammed shut the van doors, Jules sitting between the two guys on the bench seat, and after several phlegmatic turns of the ignition, trundled past her with concerned expressions before turning right, out of sight. She stood alone in the cold, her black Zara puffa doing its best against the biting temperatures, knowing that she had to put one foot in front of the other and do this. There was no other way. This was simply what she did.
She began walking to the bus stop, but she was wearing leather-soled boots, for once not her beloved Puma trainers, and the cold seeped through them, chilling her bones.
She tried keeping the hood of her coat up, but the wind blew it back and off with effortless gusts, and having left her beanie at home, she resigned herself to the onset of cold, throbbing ears. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets were quiet, the bitter temperatures driving everyone inside, and only the hardiest families with young kids were venturing out onto the hill.
Just ahead of her, a striped cat trotted along the pavement, its long, plush tail hovering above the ground as it moved with silent purpose for a hundred yards before springing onto a low, ivy-covered wall and disappearing into the hunting grounds of the garden beyond.
Nettie walked quickly with the same resolve, her eyes continually drawn to the leached sky, where clouds tumbled overhead. It was beginning to grow dark already, even though it was only just after two, and she knew she wouldn’t have long today. Deep in her pockets, she dug her nails into her palms, castigating herself for having wasted so much time on her hangover this morning. It was precisely why she hadn’t wanted to go out last night.
There were a couple of people at the bus stop and she joined them, standing with an apprehensive expression as she stared along the empty road, willing the bus to appear. Every minute mattered; she was already on a countdown.
She blew out through her cheeks, impatient and increasingly agitated, stamping her feet and trying to keep the blood flowing. She’d been stupid, so stupid, indulging in her hangover when she had known – in the back of her mind, always – that this wouldn’t be put off.
She turned, walking towards the few shops that dotted this stretch of the road. Maybe if she didn’t look for the damned bus . . .
She stood outside the estate agent’s window and listlessly scanned the details of the brick and stuccoed Georgian and Victorian houses that had been going for a song when her parents had bought, forty years ago, and were now far out of reach for normal people like her.
It was a moment before she saw that the man inside was waving to her. She held up a reluctant hand in greeting, protesting as he motioned for her to come in and trying to indicate she was waiting for the bus. Instead, he jumped up from his desk and came to the door.
‘Hello there, Nettie,’ he smiled, holding the door wide. His hair was wiry grey, and he was wearing a brown tweed suit with brogues that looked like conkers.
‘Hi, Lee. How are you?’
‘You’re just the person I wanted to see,’ he said, pleased, rubbing his hands together.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’ve got it this time, I know it. Come in and I’ll show you.’
‘Uh, well, the thing is, I’m waiting for the bus and I really can’t afford to miss it. I’ve got to stay out here, in case it comes.’
He was unfazed, his enthusiasm undimmed. ‘Just a sec, then.’ And he darted back inside the tiny office, typing something on his keyboard, before disappearing into a room at the ba
ck.
Behind her, Nettie heard the familiar low rumble of the bus. Typical!
‘Lee! The bus is coming!’ she called through.
‘Coming!’ he called back. ‘It’s just printing now.’
She turned again to find the bus pulling to a stop, the doors hissing open.
‘Lee . . .’ She saw the other passengers getting on and she began walking backwards towards the bus. She couldn’t afford to miss it.
‘Coming, coming,’ he panted, running awkwardly through the office with a sheet of paper in his hands. ‘Probate sale. Just through in the past hour. Perfect for you.’
‘But—’
He thrust the particulars into her hand just as she stepped, sideways, onto the bus. ‘I’m listing it on the market on Monday. I’m on viewings for the rest of today, but I can see you there tomorrow, about four-ish, and you can have an exclusive preview, OK? First refusal.’
‘But—’
‘I promise you, Nettie. This is the one.’ He smiled at her, his cheeks thread-veined, his bushy moustache making up for the lack of hair on his head.
‘Are you getting on or what?’ the bus driver asked, prompting her to turn.
‘Uh, yes, yes,’ she said, pulling out her Oyster card and showing it to him.
‘Not valid till it’s scanned,’ the driver said with impressive boredom, as though she’d never been on a bus before.
She turned back to Lee as she held the card to the reader. ‘Fine. I’ll see you there tomorrow, then,’ she said as it beeped.
‘Four-ish,’ Lee called as the doors immediately closed and the brakes were released. ‘Don’t worry if I’m late!’
She gave him a thumbs-up sign as the bus pulled away and she swayed her way down towards the seats at the back. The bus was less than half filled and she sank into a seat by the window and stared out, her eyes up to the sky again; a gauzy tendril of violet was beginning to inch across now, backlighting the clouds. She calculated that with fifteen minutes to get there – depending upon the traffic, of course – she’d have an hour and twenty minutes, maybe slightly more, before the light went completely.
She bit her lip as the bus stopped at the lights on Prince Albert Road and pedestrians began to cross, deliberately slowly, it seemed. Two feet below her, she watched as cyclists passed by the bus and stopped right in front of it.