‘It’s nothing like this.’
‘Eh?’
‘New York,’ I explain, turning to Maeve. ‘You asked me what it was like.’ I pause, trying to work out how to describe it, then give up. ‘It’s a million different things to a million different people. You should go experience it for yourself.’
‘Aye, I’d love to,’ she says dreamily, her eyes bright behind her glasses.
And for a brief moment it’s as if I can see a real spark inside Maeve, the spark of a young girl, the spark of someone with big dreams and possibilities.
‘Maybe if I was younger, if I had my time again, eh?’
But now it’s gone again, and she’s got that resigned look back on her face. It’s almost as if she’s determined to put herself down, not to get her hopes up. I wonder why? What’s she so scared of? What could have happened to Maeve to make her give up on everything? To leave her with zero self-esteem. To make her so goddamn sad?
But of course I can’t ask her, can I? I’ve barely known her two minutes. And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it? Who do I think I am – Dr Phil? And reaching for the handle, I push open the wooden door and we go inside.
Chapter Ten
We’re greeted with a rush of noise, heat and cigarette smoke. The ceiling is low with thick, gnarly beams running across it, and the uneven walls are painted a dark maroon and hung with horse brasses, faded sepia photographs and sets of antlers. A Christmas tree stands in the far corner, fighting for space among the wooden benches and tables.
It looks like the entire village is crammed in here. Middle-aged couples eating bar food, groups of older men downing pints and a bustling crowd of twenty-somethings in skinny jeans and full Friday-night make-up.
And there was me expecting a few sleepy locals, I realise, feeling slightly taken aback to see such a modern crowd. A couple of ruddy farmers maybe, with muddy boots and flat caps, playing dominoes, like in the James Herriot books.
Which were set in Yorkshire, not Hampshire, during the Second World War, reminds a little voice inside my head.
Embarrassment twinges. Honestly, talk about being the cliché of an American tourist. If I’m not careful I’ll soon be wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and calling everything ‘quaint’.
‘What can I get you?’
After finally manoeuvring our way to the bar and squeezing between a couple of elbows, I manage to attract the attention of the bartender – sorry, barman.
‘Maeve, what would you like?’ I ask, tugging off my hat and gloves and making a start on peeling off the numerous layers of clothes I’m wearing. But before she’s had a chance to answer I hear a male voice.
‘I’ll get these.’
I turn sideways. A man in a checked flannel shirt is standing next to me, smoking a pipe. He looks really familiar but for the moment I can’t place him.
‘Ernie. Your coach driver,’ he explains, seeing my confusion.
‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I smile. ‘Sorry, for a minute there . . .’
‘I know. Mine’s an easy face to forget,’ he jokes, his eyes twinkling.
Instantly warming to him, I laugh. ‘I’m Emily . . . and this is Maeve.’ I gesture towards Maeve, who blushes at her introduction.
‘Maeve? Now that’s an interesting name,’ replies Ernie, giving her his full attention.
Maeve looks as if she wants to disappear through the stone-flagged floor. Avoiding his eye, she looks instead at her feet.
‘It’s Irish,’ she says, her voice so quiet it’s practically lost in the din of the pub.
Puffing on his pipe, he nods. ‘It means “intoxicating”,’ he adds evenly.
Startled, she looks up and meets his eye. He smiles warmly, and finding herself caught, Maeve has no choice but to smile back.
Watching from the sidelines, I get the feeling that didn’t just happen by accident on Ernie’s part. Still, I’m impressed. That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from Maeve all night.
‘Now, then.’ Turning his attention back to both of us, Ernie asks brightly, ‘What can I get you two ladies to drink?’
I’m not usually indecisive – I’m strictly a Corona, Sauvignon Blanc or Jack and Coke girl – depending on whether I’m in the mood for beer, wine or liquor. But on this occasion I’m faced with something different: cider. Not that they don’t have cider in the bars in New York, but usually it’s just a choice between apple or pear. Here they’ve got all kinds of different varieties, called such bizarre names, like, for example, Old Pig’s Squeal, Punch Drunk, Badger’s Brew . . .
I summon up my courage and go for one called Legless but Smiling.
‘So, how is it?’ asks Ernie, raising his bushy eyebrows.
I glance at my half-pint of cloudy amber liquid and take a tentative sip. It’s warm and sort of wheaty and makes my teeth feel furry, like they do when I’ve eaten rhubarb. I swish it around my mouth for a minute, then swallow. It’s got that kick at the end that you only get when there’s serious amounts of alcohol involved.
‘Trust me, it’s not called Legless but Smiling for nothing,’ quips the barman, who’s leaning on the bar, also waiting for my response.
‘Well?’ echoes Maeve, who’s sipping a sherry.
‘I like it,’ I decide after a moment.
‘See, what did I tell you? This New Yorker’s got balls,’ cheers Ernie proudly.
Shaking his head, the barman throws me a look of respect. ‘There’s not many that can stomach that brew, I have to tell you.’
‘In that case, I’ll have a pint.’
A voice cuts into our conversation and all four of us turn to see where it came from. I spot a familiar figure further along the bar and my heart sinks. Great. It had to be, didn’t it? Spike frigging Hargreaves. Where did he spring from?
Seeing us all staring at him, he nods amiably. ‘And whatever these two ladies are having,’ he continues to the barman, ignoring Ernie.
Because obviously he didn’t see him, I assume, but then I notice a look pass between them. What the . . . ? And I thought outside was icy.
‘Why, thank you, but I’m fine . . . We’re fine . . . thank you,’ replies Maeve, while Ernie looks down and mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘troublemaker’.
My ears prick up at once. ‘Are you talking about Spike?’ I hiss.
Ernie gives me a look that says I shouldn’t have heard that.
‘Why do you say that?’ I persist, intrigued.
‘Journalists. Always sticking their nose into other people’s business.’ He shrugs, but I get the distinct feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.
‘Oh, no, you must have got Mr Hargreaves wrong,’ protests Maeve, leaping to Spike’s defence. ‘He’s not like that. He’s always been so charming.’
‘Not to me he hasn’t,’ I retort. ‘He’s been an asshole.’
I look at Ernie, who nods in silent agreement. I’m dying to quiz him more, but Maeve, I notice, is now looking quite disconcerted. Reluctantly I drop the subject, but as Ernie changes the conversation to grandchildren, I can’t help watching Spike taking a sip of his pint of cider. Honestly, how pathetic. Ordering a whole pint because I ordered a half. Feeling all riled up again, I watch him a moment longer, and then before I know what’s come over me, I hold my breath and swig back the rest of my cider.
‘Actually, I’ll have the same again,’ I manage to croak as I gulp down the dregs. Putting the empty glass defiantly on the bar, I throw down the gauntlet. ‘This time make it a pint.’
I can feel glances flying around me, but I ignore them.
‘I thought you Americans didn’t drink,’ smirks Spike from across the bar. ‘Being fitness freaks and into all those faddy diets.’
‘That’s LA. I’m from New York,’ I reply dryly.
Like you’d know the difference. Moron.
‘Great,’ says Spike tightly. ‘Well, in that case, why not make it a pint this time?’
Boy, is he pissed off about those b
raised carrots.
‘Yeah, why not?’ I reply, forcing my brightest of smiles.
As I watch the barman draws two pints of frothy I feel a twinge of concern, but I brush it aside indignantly. Please. I spent three years at college drinking Jägermeister. No need to worry about me. I’ll be just fine, I tell myself, as my pint is placed in front of me.
‘Cheers.’ Holding his own aloft, Spike looks me directly in the eye.
It feels like a game of chicken.
‘Cheers,’ I reply archly, picking up my pint and steadfastly meeting his gaze.
I mean, c’mon. How much stronger than Jägermeister can this stuff be?
Quite a bit, actually.
Ten minutes later I’m chatting to Ernie and Maeve when my lips start feeling a bit funny. It’s the strangest sensation. A bit like when I go to the dentist and he gives me an injection to make my mouth go numb.
‘. . . and that’s Theresa. She’s a bonny lass. Nearly nineteen now, I’ll be damned, and studying to be a nurse . . .’
And I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Ernie’s produced pictures of his grandchildren from his wallet, but I can feel myself zoning out.
‘. . . and little Thomas, only six and already a rascal. Do you have grandchildren, Maeve?’
‘Um . . . no, no, I don’t.’
Maybe I should try to mingle, meet some people my own age. Yeah, that sounds like fun. I peer woozily around the bar. Hmm, saying that, everyone here seems to know everyone already. It could be kind of tricky. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Go up to a complete stranger and tap them on the shoulder?
Someone taps me on my shoulder.
I twirl round unsteadily and come face to face with a tiny, ebullient blonde wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and a disarming grin.
‘Um . . . hi.’ She gives a little wave, then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her combat pants. ‘Your friend told us you’re staying up at the Old Priory . . .’
‘My friend?’ I repeat, puzzled.
‘Yeah.’ She nods, gesturing over to Spike, who’s now deep in conversation with a tall, shaven-headed guy.
‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t call him a friend exactly,’ I confide.
She looks triumphant. ‘I knew it!’ Dipping her head to hide her face behind her hair, which I can now see has all these tiny little braids woven in it, she leans closer and hisses, ‘I said to Lee, there’s no way those two are just friends.’
Er, what?
‘I could just tell. Straight away.’
The cider has dulled my reactions so it takes me a moment to realise she’s completely misunderstood.
‘I’m like that, you know. I can just read people.’
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean—’
‘I’m Caroline, by the way.’
‘Oh, hi, I’m Emily.’ I smile, concentrating hard on appearing sober. I’m fast realising why this cider got its name.
‘Friends call me Cat. Like Cat Deeley, you know, on the telly—’ She breaks off and tuts loudly. ‘Bloody hell, I’m such a dummy. You probably won’t know who she is, will you? Being from America . . .’
‘Actually, she presents some show in the States.’
‘Does she really?’ Cat greets this news with such genuine, wide-eyed fascination you’d think Cat Deeley was a personal friend. ‘That’s great. I really like her. And she’s so pretty. In fact I wish we shared a bit more than a name.’ She lets out a snort of laughter and quickly covers up her nose with her hand. I notice she’s got a little tattoo of a star between her thumb and forefinger.
‘Yoah, Cat.’
We’re interrupted by a loud yell from across the pub and I turn to see the shaven-headed guy standing with Spike over by the pool table beckoning her over.
Cat breaks into a huge smile. ‘That’s Lee, my boyfriend,’ she explains. ‘We’re coming,’ she yells loudly, then turns back to me sheepishly. ‘I’m supposed to be inviting you to join us for a game of pool, but once I get talking . . .’ She rolls her eyes. ‘So, are you up for it?’
Her invitation catches me by surprise. Am I? On the one hand I don’t want to be within a snooker cue of Spike Hargreaves, but on the other hand Cat seems really lovely and a game of pool does sound like fun . . .
‘Yeah, sure. That sounds great.’ I smile, tipsily. ‘Um, but there’s just one thing. About Spike—’
‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ she interrupts, her face suddenly serious. ‘I won’t let on I know. I can be very discreet when I want to be.’ And before I’ve got a chance to explain, she links her arm through mine and begins steering me towards the pool table.
Four games later I’ve eaten my first ever packet of pork scratchings – which I thought were going to be gross, then I tasted one and discovered they were gross, but also delicious – learned that Cat loves Lee, the Killers and Topshop (that’s the second time I’ve heard about this place. Like Stella, she referred to it in a hushed, reverential voice) and finished my pint of cider.
Which in total means I’ve polished off one and a half pints and I’m feeling quite drunk. Or, as Cat taught me they say here in England, pissed. But it doesn’t matter, as I’m actually playing really well. Funny, as for the last three shots I haven’t even been able to focus on the ball without getting double vision, but it’s not a problem as I’ve worked out a really easy way to fix that. I just close one eye. Clever, huh?
Screwing up one eye, I watch Cat, who’s zipping around the table, potting ball after ball with alarming skill and ease. At the moment we’re winning – girls against boys.
‘Whoo-hoo, you go girl,’ I cheer, raising my empty pint glass. ‘Get ’em by the balls.’
Oh, my God. That’s so funny, isn’t it? Balls. Pool. Men. I suddenly get the giggles.
‘Hey, come on, Cat,’ whines Lee, pretending to beg as she goes to pot our last ball. ‘Have mercy on us.’
‘Oi, speak for yourself,’ grumbles Spike, looking over at me with this really sour expression as if he’s just sucked on a lemon. I don’t know why but it makes me giggle even harder. ‘We don’t need any favours.’
‘I think we do, mate,’ smiles Lee good-naturedly. ‘Cat’s a pub champion.’
‘True, but she’s got a handicap,’ says Spike pointedly.
‘Oh, is it like golf?’ I cry excitedly, though I’m not exactly sure why as I don’t play golf, or know anyone who plays golf, or is even remotely interested in golf for that matter. Grinning, I direct my question at Lee, who like Cat, is totally adorable. I mean, really. I just love these guys. They’re such a sweet couple. In fact, I think I’m going to invite them to stay with me in New York.
‘Um, no,’ replies Lee awkwardly. He throws Spike a look.
‘But then I don’t understand . . .’
I trail off. Oh, I get it. I’m the handicap.
‘Bugger. Missed it,’ gasps Cat, grabbing everyone’s attention before I’ve got time to come back with a crushing put-down for Spike. Because I’m sure I’d think of one, it’s just it’s escaping me right now.
We all look at the table, just in time to see our last ball gliding past the pocket in the far corner and gently tapping the side, where it comes to a halt.
‘Bad luck, ladies,’ tuts Spike, who’s doing this thing of stretching the cue behind his shoulders. His shirt tails pop out of his trousers and I suddenly catch more than a glimpse of his pot belly, which is all freckly and covered in blond fuzz. It runs all the way down past his navel to—
Oh, yuck.
‘You were so near.’
‘And yet so far,’ finishes a grinning Lee. Ducking a playful punch from Cat, he looks at Spike. ‘So, who’s gonna show them how it’s done?’
Shrugging, Spike puts down his cue.
Thank God.
‘Leave it to me, mate.’ He winks.
We all wait as Spike begins circling the table, working out his next shot. Back and forth he goes, leaning across the table from one side, then from the other, until finally satisfied, he stands upri
ght and begins making a big show of rubbing chalk on to his cue as if he’s Tom Cruise in The Color of Money.
Oh, please. And this from a man who’s so far managed to pot just three balls. Two of which were ours.
‘For Christsakes, just get on with it,’ I can’t help muttering under my breath.
At least I thought I muttered it, but it must have come out a bit louder as Spike looks up and shoots me daggers.
Oooh. Grumpy.
Looking away, I catch Cat’s eye, who throws me a ‘secret smile’, as if to say, ‘Aw, look at you two, pretending to argue.’ I pull a face and try shaking my head to show her she’s got completely the wrong idea, but she just grins all hippy-dippily and wraps her arms drunkenly round Lee.
For a wistful moment I watch them, all coupled up and happy, and I get a sense of hope that maybe there are some decent guys out there, then I glance back at the table. About to take his shot, Spike is leaning so close to the table his belly is almost resting on the baize. In fact – uggh – it is.
As Spike flashes me his naked stomach yet again, an image of the stranger I met this afternoon in the museum suddenly pops into my head. I bet his belly wouldn’t rest on the table, I muse, imagining the six-pack that was no doubt lurking underneath his shirt.
I watch Spike sliding the cue through his fingers.
He has bitten fingernails. I hate bitten fingernails.
That’s one thing I really remember about the guy in the museum. He had lovely hands, with long fingers like a piano player. In fact, I know I’m supposed to be off men, but this guy was different. There was something really – how can I put it? – dignified about him.
Unlike Spike, who’s now making a noise like a pig.
Honestly, the man really is a slob, I think, letting out a burp. Oops, excuse me. This cider is making me a bit gassy.
‘Uggghhh.’ Grunting, Spike hits the white, misses his ball and instead pots the black.
‘Oh, shit, mate,’ gasps Lee, but his voice is drowned out by Cat, who erupts like a shrieking volcano and rushes over to me.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 10