“How’s Hunky Dunky?”
Her smile says it all.
“Seeing him tonight?”
She nods vivaciously.
“Have a good time.”
She suddenly goes bright red and I don’t need to say anything else.
Despite it taking forever to answer the reader feedback, the afternoon drags. I’m desperate for an early night, so hope Innes doesn’t show. I won’t be mad enough to do my dunce act again for another hour, but positive thinking, Izzy. It’s going to be fun.
At five o’clock you can’t see me for dust. I leave Donna in her pool of drool while she thinks about her date with HD.
Mike’s on duty as I walk past the security office and he looks morose. I can’t resist knocking on the door and popping in.
“Hi, Mike,” I say cheerfully.
“Hello,” he drones. Yes, he’s definitely not himself. Not that he’s the world’s brightest spark, but everything about him is grey. Even his foodless blue uniform looks dowdy today.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
He’s not a good liar either.
“Okay.” I go to leave when he speaks again.
“Is Donna upstairs?”
Given the amount of CCTV around the place I’m sure he knows she is, but I humour him. “She is.”
“Is she…”
I wait for him to continue, but it would appear I’m supposed to know what he’s planning on saying next. It’s not forthcoming, and I repeat, “Is she…?”
“Is she happy?”
“Deliriously.” Oh dear, that came out a little too easily. Still, he was the one who messed things up, playing all caveman-like.
It’s then I notice there’s no sign of any food. Not even a half-eaten morsel, no packets of tempting delights, nothing. I look at the bin by his feet and while there are scraps of paper (which, by rights, should be in the recycling box) and cellophane from the newly opened blank DVDs sitting on the desk, there are no telltale signs of recent feasts partaken. This isn’t like him.
“Is she seeing that guy again?” he blurts.
“That guy?” We both know who he means, but I’m not ready to spill any beans he’s not aware of (up to now I’d have thought he’d have eaten those as well).
“Daniel.”
“Duncan.”
“That’s it. And he makes her happy?”
“So far, yes.”
“Good,” Mike says solemnly, and I feel slightly sorry for him; he’s finally realised what he’s lost.
“Yes, it’s nice to see her happy. There’s someone out there for you, you know.” After the last three and a half weeks, I feel qualified to say that.
“I’ve been reading your column,” he says.
“You have?”
“Given me a few pointers.”
“Ah.” I can’t think how, but I’m hoping he’ll enlighten me.
“Think I might try the lark myself.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you’re being positive.”
“May as well do something until Daniel dumps her and she comes running back to me.”
Spoke too soon.
He then opens a drawer to reveal an eighteen-pack of mini croissants, a bag of chocolate misshapes and a box of Maltesers. The little bit of sympathy I was mustering for him dissipates and with a half-hearted smile, I leave the office as his right index finger hovers over the buffet.
At home, I get ready for the Shipman’s. Although I’ve never been in, I’ve walked past often enough, so go for casual.
I take a deep breath as I clutch the door handle. The pub sounds rowdy.
I’m not wrong.
The second thing that hits me is the heat. Thankfully the place only smells of beer.
The third is the number of women. We match the men one to one and, although three sheets to the proverbial wind, everyone looks so at home I can’t help but smile.
An arm appears from nowhere and drags me towards the bar.
“Hey!” I shout out instinctively.
“It’s all right, love,” the bushy-bearded man says. “You look lost. Come join the party.”
And that’s exactly what it is: a birthday party.
“Who’s celebrating?” I shout to Beard, looking around at the colourful ‘35’ banners and embarrassing baby photos.
“Him over there.” He points to another beard-swathed patron, who raises his bottle.
“Izzy!”
“Innes?’
“That’s me.”
“You’re the birthday boy?”
“Not really a boy anymore, but I’m what the fuss is all about, yes.”
“I hadn’t realised, I’d have…”
“Ah no. I’m too old for all that. I get cards, though they take up too many trees. Besides, there’s only one way to celebrate.”
And I can see they’re having a damn good try.
“Charlie, get Izzy here a drink, will you? What’ll you be having, my girl?”
It’s been a while since I’ve been called a girl, but I like it. I soon see it’s going to be the hat trick of good nights, and wish I hadn’t driven.
I’m soon persuaded to get a cab home. Offered a choice of Flying Scotsman (whisky, Italian vermouth, bitters and sugar syrup), a Robbie Burns (whisky, Martini and dashes of Benedictine), or Rusty Nail (Drambuie and whisky), I opt for the latter… for starters.
Innes is sitting at the end of the bar and is more observing than taking part, but looks to be in his element. He lifts his bottle of Red McGregor at whoever catches his eye, and they do likewise with whatever they’re drinking.
“You seem to know everyone in here,” I say, a little envious. “Do you work here?”
“Yes, I do,” he says, raising his bottle again before taking a hearty swig.
A rather drunk and equally Scottish voice from behind me says, “Ach, he owns the place, hen.”
Before either of us can say anything, one of the barmaids leans over the bar and whispers something in Innes’s ear. He jumps off the stool and goes behind the bar.
This amuses me no end, as I realise he’s about five feet tall and can barely see over the bar. He reminds me of the villain from the Shrek movie – the third one? – brilliantly played by John Lithgow, who I’ve admired since he freaked out about the creature on the plane’s wing in the Twilight Zone movie.
I finish my Rusty Nail and order another from the barmaid.
“He’s just gone to change a barrel,” she informs me.
“It’s fun watching everyone having a good time,” I say as Innes returns.
“Isn’t it? It’s often like this though. Any excuse for a party. Usually they don’t need one, but…”
A chap walks up to Innes and says something I don’t understand.
Innes replies and they both laugh.
“What language was that?”
“Russian.”
“Russian?”
He smiles. “My mother is Russian.”
“Wow.”
A Russian-speaking Glaswegian running a pub in Northampton seems to be a waste of his talent, but I’ve not seen anyone love their job in such a long time, perhaps with the exception of Donna.
“It’s a pity you don’t speak Polish – there don’t seem to be many Russians in Northampton.”
“You’d be surprised, hen. Once word gets round… they all come flockin’.”
“Flockin’ for a lock-in,” the familiar drunk voice says to the back of my head.
“Is it true this pub is haunted?” I ask Innes.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I remembered when you mentioned the venue.”
“There was something that happened a few years back, before I bought the place.”
“Something like… someone dying?”
“There was this guy…” He leans forward as if he’s going to tell me a deep dark secret, and I lean forward, as much as my bar stool will allow.
“Harry Franklin, a for
mer manager, committed suicide in gruesome circumstances.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. We’ve had all sorts of poltergeist activity since then, and I reckon it’s all his doing.”
The voice beside me pipes up with a childish “Oooh” then bursts out laughing, spraying lager down his front.
“How did he…?”
“Die?”
Innes leans in closer. “Hanging… by the neck.”
I wonder if there’s any other way. “So he haunts the pub?”
“Aye. His bodiless head searching for the rest of him.” He looks deadly serious.
Then he and the drunk guy behind me burst out laughing. I duck to avoid any spray that might be coming in my direction.
The sober me would have felt a bit of a fool, but the me with a stomach full of liquor finds anything funny.
Chapter 27 – Vance at the Deers Leap
What did I learn from last night? That it’s not what you know, but who you know.
I’d left home hoping for a pleasant evening, half expecting an average one or pessimistically thinking I’d be stood up again, but, for the third night in a row, I had a ball.
I stumbled into a birthday party and there’s one thing about the Celts, they know how to party. The car was abandoned in favour of a taxi home, and a variety of weird and exotically named concoctions passed my lips over those few hours – I admit to having lost count of how many, but feel like I’ve had no sleep at all, so it must have been quite a few. However, what I lack in slumber was more than compensated by the wonderful company, which, without exception, was high-spirited, but well-behaved.
My ‘date’ was in fact the birthday boy and the centre of attention. It soon became clear that he was well known by everyone in the bar, except me, but that was swiftly rectified. Although we ended the night being nothing more than friends, I was treated like a princess. Even if I obviously can’t say where we were, because that wouldn’t be fair on him, if you’re in a pub in the town centre and it feels like you’re stepping back in time, and you’re invited to join the clan, you’ll know you’ve found this ‘home away from home’.
Apart from being incredibly tired, I’m surprised I don’t have the slightest hint of a hangover. Typing without making mistakes is another issue, but that’s what spell-checkers and auto correct are for. Besides, all those red and green squiggly lines make a monochrome screen more interesting, don’t they?
I’m on my third cup of tea by ten o’clock and there’s still no sign of Donna. Marion doesn’t know, or isn’t telling where she is. I daren’t ask Mike and no one in the office has a clue, so the only person who might is Chloë in HR.
I’m about to knock on her door when I notice the horizontal metal slide bar has been moved from ‘Free’ to ‘In Meeting’.
“Bugger,” I say aloud.
“Language.”
I swivel round and there’s William.
“Sorry.”
He opens his mouth to speak as the reception doors fling open and in scurries Donna, jacket half off.
“Did we get dressed in a hurry?” William asks, looking her up and down.
“Err…” she says.
I desperately scrabble around for something to say in her defence.
“It’s fine,” he says. “You’ve put a lot of effort in recently.” He then looks at me. “You both have. Just don’t tell the boss.” With that he smiles and strides into the HR office, immediately curtailing the conversation within it.
He shuts the door behind him, leaving Donna and me in the corridor.
“Spill,” I say. “Where have you been?”
The smile gives her away.
“Three nights in a row?”
She nods. “We drink lots of wine and talk.”
“Uh huh.”
“We do!” She feigns hurt.
“Now what was that saying about the lady doth protest?”
“It’s true. I want to, but…”
“Cuppa?”
“God, yeah. I’m as dry as a fairy.”
An expression that can only come out of Donna’s mouth. I didn’t know that fairies were particularly dry, but no doubt it makes sense in Donnaland.
We make a drink and return to our desks. Donna’s keen to get back to Operation Optic and I’m curious to see if I have any more messages. Although I’m knackered, things will seem a little dull without all the dates. The variety of gadgets are piling up around my desk though, much to Karen’s annoyance as her ‘presents’ are neatly stacked in a cupboard behind her desk, one of which I don’t have thanks to the all-in-one fax/copier/scanner/printer that has to be there because it’s the nearest point to the kitchen. I know, I don’t get it either.
I’m sipping the last of my tea and clicking on ‘View new messages’ when William saunters past whistling a familiar tune – a mixture between Grange Hill and Rhubarb & Custard – and, like the last thing you hear when you get out of the car, it sticks in my brain.
I’m still humming it when Donna comes over. She leans forward, looking very serious.
I stop humming. “What are you doing?”
“Do it again.”
“What?”
“That tune.”
“Which tune?” I ask.
“The one you were humming.”
So I hum it again.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Where did you get it from?”
“William.”
“Ah ha,” Donna says again.
“Ah ha, what?”
“Sorry theme tune – he likes his UK Gold.”
“Is that where it’s from?” I should have recognised it, it was one of my favourites the first time round.
There’s a fake cough from behind me and I swivel round to face Karen.
“You’re so obvious,” she says to me.
“Eh?”
“You and William.”
“What do you mean, me and William?”
“You fancy the Bruno Banani off each other.”
“The what?”
“Underwear… pants.”
“Don’t be silly, he’s the boss.”
“And?”
“He’s… well… William.”
She bursts out laughing. “Sorry, just teasing. Of course you don’t fancy him. He’s stuffy.”
I feel a little defensive, so turn back to look at his office. I can only see the top of his head and it’s shaking in a firm, ‘No’.
“Earth calling Izzy.”
Donna winks at me and I blush. I’ve got my back to Karen, but I can tell she’s smiling.
Next thing I know, unnecessarily, I feel, Donna scuttles back to her desk. William walks past mine towards the kitchen without saying a word, and I catch the tail end of Sorry’s theme tune again.
The office is surprisingly busy for a Saturday, and, apart from the clue of everyone in casual dress, I almost forget it’s the weekend. Monday’s a bank holiday again, so I assume there’s work to be done to make way for the long weekend.
I finally get to log into NorthantsDating to check my messages, and there are three. WellyY35 and StevieBoy have replied and both sound keen, which is great. The third is from Bully4U. Pete Bull’s my age, which is a bonus after the mix this month, and loves ‘to have a laugh’. I notice he’s not online, but the other two are, so Pete gets a quick ‘touch base’ message with the others warranting proper concentration-with-a-cup-of-tea replies.
Welly, Stevie and I play message tennis and soon dates are set for Monday (Welly has no family commitments) and Tuesday lunchtime (Stevie works nights which is ‘cool’).
So that leaves one more date for the thirty-first, and by the time I’ve checked and dealt with my other emails, Pete’s come up trumps.
With everything pretty much up to date, I decide to scarper around lunchtime. I know better than to go into town on a bank holiday Saturday. Long weekends are like the end of the world and the place will be heaving. The town centre’s op
en on a Sunday and parking is cheap (or free, I can’t remember; the council keeps changing its mind). The place is usually deserted on a Monday anyway, so this crowding on a Saturday doesn’t make sense to me, but Mr and Mrs Public know best. I shouldn’t slate them as they pay my wages, but speaking my mind and thinking afterwards is a tried and tested Izzy MacFarlane trait.
What happened to this afternoon? It was just before two when I got home and it’s nearly seven.
I’m sitting in my car in the packed car park of the Deers Leap, and am people-watching to kill a few minutes so I’m not too early and end up sitting alone in the pub (or standing as the seats will probably have already been taken) and appearing desperate, which, of course, I’m not.
I spot a guy on his own, so casually get out of my car and walk to the front door. He doesn’t see me because I’m a second or two behind him, so he’s already at the bar when I go in. He turns as I approach and smiles.
“Izzy?” He looks even younger than speed dating’s Rebel Hell.
“Hi, Vance.”
“How are you?”
I immediately warm to him. He’s not my usual type – light mousey hair receding at either side, a distinctive Roman nose (which I can relate to), v-shaped canine teeth (ditto), and meet-in-the-middle eyebrows which remind me of Mr Hairy Softie.
“Very good, thank you,” I reply. “Two days off work.”
“Lucky thing, I was supposed to be going away, but I’m going back in tomorrow to do some overtime.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“Call centre customer services. It’s boring, but it pays the bills.”
“So you do shifts?”
“Just finished nights, and am back on days from tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t your body clock go all over the place?”
“I’ve been doing it ever since I left school, so I’m used to it.”
“So you’ve been in the same job for…?” I purposely pause so he can fill in the gap.
“About twelve years.”
I don’t know whether to feel sorry for him because he’s been bored nearly half his life or clip him round the head for being so stupid, but decide the best course of action is to change the subject.
“So you were supposed to be away this weekend?”
The Serial Dater Page 28