The Gin O'Clock Club

by Rosie Blake

  ‘Lottie.’

  ‘Oh thank God.’ I was so relieved it was her voice, having imagined a paramedic or a doctor in a hospital desperately trying to get through to a friend. ‘Amy, what’s wrong, what’s happened?’ I turned away from the traffic under the awning of a shop so I could hear her properly.

  ‘It’s the brooch,’ she said.

  I thought I’d misheard, the worry and panic subsiding as I tried to understand what had happened.

  ‘Are you working in central London today?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just in court but I’m heading back to chambers.’

  Amy took a breath. ‘Right, is there any way – you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I have to run the inset here on Assessment for Learning and I can’t get out of it and the woman in the shop is threatening that if I don’t pick up the brooch after 3 p.m. today but before 5, I can’t pick it up at all . . . ’

  Words were running into other words and I was distracted by someone moving past me into the shop, a toddler bucking and crying in a pram at the same time as text messages were making the line momentarily freeze.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s sprung it on me this last-minute, it’s ridiculous. I should have used someone else.’

  ‘Right, sorry, Amy, you need me to do what?’

  A motorbike roared past in the street, the smell of diesel in the air, the sound fading into the distance.

  ‘Do you remember – my mother gave me that brooch that Grandma wore at her wedding and it’s this tradition within our family, and I went to have it repaired with this antique dealer, and she is suddenly going to visit family for weeks on end that she failed to tell me about and is just shutting her shop so if I don’t get it today then it’ll be too late. I can send you the address on an email.’

  I caught sight of my reflection in the shop window, two deep lines in between my eyebrows as I tried to follow Amy. ‘That’s fine,’ I said, widening my eyes so that the lines became a little shallower.

  ‘Can you really? Oh, that would be lifesaving . . . ’

  Were those lines new? I wondered, moving my face again and staring intently at my reflection.

  ‘Thank you so much, Lottie.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, frowning again as I noticed another call on the line. ‘Amy, I have to go, there’s a call waiting . . . ’

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll email now, thanks again, I need to go anyway, inset starts in ten minutes, God I hate teaching teachers things . . . ’

  ‘Oh, poor you,’ I said, biting my lip as the other call continued to distort her voice.

  The toddler in the pram emerged from the shop clutching a rice cake in his fist. I smiled distractedly at the mother as she set off down the pavement. The other call ended.

  ‘Right, thanks so much, bye.’

  Amy had hung up and I frowned at the other missed call. It must be one of the clerks in chambers – they always called me on an unlisted number.

  The text message was from Toby, the solicitor who had given me the brief. Heard how today ended, c’est la vie. Drink sometime soon? My finger hovered over the Reply button but I felt an unease nudge at me, something about him making me think I could be walking a fine line. Was this purely professional?

  An email popped up, the address from Amy, which I opened and scanned. Another email followed, a clerk in chambers wanting me to check in immediately, the tone bolshie, commenting on the recent missed call. I felt the usual frisson of panic and immediately phoned them back.

  ‘Lottie,’ the clerk dived in, no time for pleasantries, ‘can you get over to Slough for a last-minute appearance this afternoon?’

  ‘Today?’ I asked pointlessly, my nose wrinkled. Although last-minute appearances weren’t unheard of, this seemed to be cutting things fine. ‘What is it?’ I asked, assuming it would be something straightforward, a request for an adjournment or similar.

  ‘It’s a new case. The client has fired George Thorpe on the first day of the damn trial and Alan recommended you take it on.’

  George Thorpe was one of the other barristers in our chambers, quite an abrasive character when butting up against the wrong person. People described him as ‘old school’ when they were being polite, other things when they weren’t.

  ‘It would mean a lot to Alan, shore up the damage done.’

  My brain was full. This could be a tricky, prolonged case, stressful and complicated. I had heard George discussing aspects of it last week, a GBH with a number of witnesses. I was being thrown in at the last moment, felt the swirl of worry at the lack of preparation. Then I thought of Alan, a man in charge of my career and possible promotion. The excitement when I heard he thought I had it in me to become the youngest silk in chambers had spurred me on to work harder than ever in the last year or so. He would be so pleased. And if I did step in now the judge might be impressed too and give me a reference when the time came to apply to become a QC.

  I agreed without more thought, the clerk sighing with relieved satisfaction.

  ‘We’ll courier the papers over to you now, and contact the court letting them know you’re on your way so they can move things around. You can get the train there from Paddington.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, already heading off to hail a taxi to Paddington. As I walked I noticed another unread text, this time from Luke, sent an hour earlier. Striding purposefully towards the kerb looking out for a black cab, I glanced at the message.

  2 words, first word 7, second 5. Tonight. Love you x x

  Frowning, it took me a second to realise it was a reminder of the parlour games later that evening. It felt silly next to all the other messages and calls. I’d call him, let him know I might be a little later than I said.

  Then I paused in the street, a strange moment where I felt as if I’d forgotten something important. I checked my bag for my wallet, checked the time on my mobile. Shrugging off the feeling I pressed Luke’s name, still scanning the road for an approaching cab as I waited for him to answer.

  ‘Hey,’ I said launching straight into the call. ‘Where are you?’ I asked, hearing voices in the background.

  ‘I’m with Geoffrey and Arjun,’ he said, sounding distracted. A girlish giggle, high and loud.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  Why did I feel Luke could hear me perfectly well? ‘Who was—’

  ‘Luke,’ a voice called, interrupting my question. A woman. Something familiar in her tone.

  I frowned into the phone. ‘What are you guys doing?’ I asked.

  Luke sounded distracted as he burbled a response. ‘Um, we’re not doing much, I just thought I would see how Arjun was getting on.’

  Why did he sound so strange? Stilted and guilty. It made me bristle a response. ‘All right for some. Work going well then?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he said, clearly not picking up on my tone.

  I hoped the next time he went to the Tube the screen announced the next train was eight minutes away.

  ‘Well, I was just letting you know I’ve been asked to take on a case at the last minute. I might be a bit late tonight.’ Luke was saying something to someone else, his distracted tone making me bristle more, a cab heading towards me in the distance. ‘So that’s it, I have to go, the taxi’s here . . . ’

  ‘Right, sorry, OK, see you lat—’

  The taxi pulled over next to me as I jabbed at the call. Job done. I needed to head to the train station. As I stepped inside the cab I suddenly realised where I had heard that girlish voice before: Storm. But how? Why would she be with Luke if he was visiting Arjun? It made no sense but I didn’t have time now to unpick it.

  The afternoon was a blur: meeting with the client, reading up on the case, trying to get a handle on the statements I’d read. The judge, a middle-aged woman with tortoiseshell glasses, had thanked me for stepping in and although things had been up in the air I felt heroic on leaving the courthouse a few hours later. The moment I headed back to London on the train I want
ed to rest my head against the seat and fall asleep. I knew I should cancel the night ahead, I had so much to do. The thought spurred me on to drag my eyes over the documents in front of me.

  Paddington was just getting busy as I grabbed the escalator, passing adverts for West End shows I would never have the time to see, books I would never read. I froze as the escalator went to spew me out on to the bustling floor, people jostling around me, some pushing past, bags and briefcases pressed to their chests. I froze to the spot. Oh my God. That was the niggle in the back of my mind today: Amy. The brooch.

  I stared back up at the escalator, at the stream of people. Did I have time to head back outside, get to the shop? What time had Amy said? Maybe I could make it, if I raced back up, ordered a taxi from there, prayed the rush-hour traffic was less than normal? I checked my watch, feeling a sinking sensation, knocked off balance by someone tutting as they passed me. It was five thirty. The shop would be closed. I had forgotten. I couldn’t move from where I stood, chewing my lip as if I could will time to move backwards. I thought of Amy’s words, her desperation, the ultimatum. And this wasn’t something I could replace.

  Someone else tutted as they skirted me.

  I started to be pulled along by the crowd, moving in a daze as I ran through any options I had left. I wanted mobile reception. Maybe the woman would agree to a later time, perhaps she had been exaggerating and could open it tomorrow? How early was her flight? I could try. It wasn’t over yet.

  I felt desperate as I headed to Grandad’s. Amy never really asked for anything. She was absurdly capable and efficient. She was always the one turning up with a lasagne because she knew I would burn whatever I offered, the one who booked tickets for things when I expressed an interest in wanting to go. She would arrange the holiday details, flights, hotels and make everything ridiculously easy for me, needing only to transfer her half the cash with a click of my mobile.

  She juggled the problems of kids and parents; she had been like a mother to me when my own mother was on the other side of the world. She had never let me down. I felt acid churn in my stomach, knowing at some point I was going to have to dial her number, tell her that I had forgotten, that I had completely failed to come through for the one thing she had asked me to do.

  ‘Parlour games,’ Luke chorused as I stood on the doorstep of Grandad’s place.

  He was holding a glass in one hand, looking casual, relaxed and happy. It made me feel even more taut.

  ‘Charades are beginning. Thank God you got here when you did – you might have missed it.’

  I could barely raise a half-smile.

  ‘I’ve got you a gin and tonic. The gin’s got black pepper in it but don’t worry, it’s nicer than it sounds, and we’re just running through the rules for the eighteenth time with Howard . . . he is struggling with the not-speaking element of the game.’

  I should have told Luke there and then about the day I’d had. Luke would understand, he knew what Amy meant to me. But I couldn’t, the shame building within me: what would he think?

  ‘Come on. Arjun’s up, two words, it’s a film. I’m frightened it’s going to be Free Willy, he has form.’

  In that second I wanted to turn and head straight home. Luke’s mood was so completely at odds with mine. Why couldn’t I shake off this irritated gloom and give him the smile he wanted? I could still ring the shop tomorrow, it wasn’t completely hopeless. I should just explain my unsettled mood and—

  ‘Is that Lottie?’ I could hear Grandad’s voice from the living room as I wearily stepped inside the house.

  ‘Tall! Big! Very big!’ Howard’s voice was booming out.

  ‘Stop guessing for a second, Lottie’s here,’ Geoffrey was saying.

  ‘Very, very big!’

  ‘Howard!’ everyone shouted.

  I couldn’t face heading into the living room. The energy and high spirits was too much. I looked down the corridor to the door of the kitchen, imagining for a second pushing it open, stepping inside to spill all my troubles on to the sympathetic shoulder of my grandma. She had always known how to bring me round, listening with her pale blue eyes trained on my face, moving in for a sympathetic cuddle before a few stern words, rallying and inspiring to put things into perspective. A photo of her taken on her sixty-fifth birthday stared down at me from the wall of the corridor, a laughing shot of her clutching a full glass of Pimm’s next to the barbecue in the garden, smoke haloed around her, Grandad looking on in admiration.

  She wasn’t here any more and the pain hit me all over again, as it did sometimes at the strangest moments, taking my breath away. She simply didn’t exist. She wasn’t in the kitchen fixing up a drink, grumbling about the men not knowing a coaster if it hit them in the face, singing, badly, along to the radio that she always had turned up too loud.

  ‘Lottie!’ Howard called. ‘Arjun’s pausing his frankly disastrous performance for you. Two words. A film, apparently, although I’m not convinced.’

  I took a breath, stepping into the living room to see Arjun, his back to the group, hands hovering over his flies as if he was genuinely planning to drop his trousers. He then turned back to the group as if he’d forgotten something, cupping one hand behind his ear. Everyone was frowning at him in confusion, staring at the hand lingering at his crotch. I wanted to loosen up, accepting the drink from Luke with a quiet, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Glad you’re here,’ Luke said, squeezing my shoulder.

  ‘None of that, Luke. Lottie can be on our team,’ Howard said, beckoning me to sit next to him. ‘Sit on the pouffe here. It’s two words, a film apparently. I think the first word is something to do with something being tall or big.’

  ‘What’s he doing with his ear?’ Geoffrey muttered to Grandad.

  ‘Ear!’ Howard shouted. ‘Hearing aid! Face!’ As if all the words might add up to the right answer.

  ‘Hearing difficulties,’ Teddy threw in, sounding as confused as I felt.

  ‘EAR!’ Howard screeched, perhaps assuming it was missed the first time.

  Come on, Lottie, say something: it’s not all about you.

  ‘I think he’s trying to say it sounds like,’ Luke said slowly. Arjun gave him a grateful nod.

  ‘No nodding!’ Howard barked, clearly determined to follow all the rules now that he had learnt them.

  Arjun turned back around again and stared pleadingly at the group, both hands back over his crotch, reaching for his zip. He wiggled his bottom at everyone.

  ‘Sounds like . . . bottom?’ Luke hazarded a guess as Arjun turned away from them.

  ‘Cotton!’ Howard shouted.

  ‘That in no way sounds like bottom,’ Geoffrey stated.

  ‘Mottom!’

  ‘And that’s not a word, is it?’ Geoffrey added.

  ‘Flotsam!’

  ‘Wiggle!’ Grandad barked suddenly. ‘Very Tall Wiggle. Arjun, are you sure it’s a film we know?’

  Arjun had undone the buckle on his belt and was starting to fiddle with the top button, all the time wiggling his bottom and staring round at them.

  ‘Bloody impossible,’ Howard huffed, throwing himself back in his armchair, arms folded as Arjun continued to move from side to side, one hand undoing his fly. He pulled down his trousers to reveal a conker brown bottom. It was weird that this wasn’t the first time I had seen it. It was fast becoming a habit.

  ‘High Noon! High Noon!’ Grandad had sprung to his feet.

  Arjun turned to Grandad, grinning. ‘Exactly.’ At the same time that the rest of the room shielded their eyes.

  ‘Arjun!’ Geoffrey shouted. ‘You can pull them back up now.’

  ‘Christ,’ Howard said.

  ‘Oops, sorry, High Noon, I knew you’d get there in the end,’ Arjun said, fiddling with his zip again.

  Luke was clutching his sides in mirth.

  I wanted to take part but found I was always thirty seconds behind. I noticed that Grandad was distracted too, a strange sad smile on his face, before the noise of everyo
ne else prompted him to join in. I tried too, my smile fixed, too bright, feeling that I was outside the group looking in. I took another sip of my drink, hoping to blend into the background of the evening, surround myself with the noise and the fun before slinking back to our flat and bed and the worries circling inside me. Then a sentence made me freeze in my tracks.

  ‘Lottie, your turn, show us how it’s done,’ Geoffrey said, giving me a gentle nudge.

  I slopped gin over the side of the glass. ‘Oh no, I’m really not r—’

  ‘Yes, come on, Lottie, we’re in desperate need of a win,’ Howard said, removing the glass from my hands.

  ‘No, honestly, I’m—’

  ‘Lottie, Lottie,’ Luke had started chanting, clapping his hands twice in between saying my name. He was pissed, eyes squinting as he grinned at me. I felt disproportionately furious with him, hoping then and there that the next time he went online to buy something he wanted they only stocked it in every size that wasn’t his.

  The others had joined in the chant. Even Grandad was now clapping and saying my name. The living room was alive with it and I stood up wearily, not reacting to the great cheer that followed.

  ‘She’s up.’

  ‘Give her space.’

  ‘Remember it’s a book or a film or a television show,’ Howard stressed, topping up his own glass, ‘but don’t make it something we won’t know, something only young people know, like Love Island. Or Tattoo Fixers.’

  Geoffrey looked across at him. ‘What are they?’

  Howard clapped his hands together, making me jump. ‘See! Old fogeys don’t know what these things are. It’s only because I’m such a culture vulture that I stay up on what’s hot and what’s not.’