by Alix Kelso
“Why can’t Gregor do it?” Chrissie yelled back up.
“He went over to the neighbour to find a tool to fix the bathroom towel rail.”
Sighing, Chrissie glanced at the bottle of wine she’d set out on the counter last night in anticipation of her relaxed afternoon at home.
“You can still be mine,” she told the bottle. “And you will still be mine.”
2
“There’s something floating in my lager.”
Keith McGraw looked up from the bottles he was stacking beneath the bar at The Crooked Thistle and frowned at Jimmy Pearson, who was peering into his pint glass. “What are you talking about?”
Jimmy pointed into his glass. “There’s something floating in my lager.”
“Where?”
“There!”
Keith squinted at the thing he now saw on the surface. Scowling, he called to his young barman. “Aidan, come here a minute.”
Aidan scuttled over from the table he’d been clearing. “What’s up, boss?” he asked. He had a look on his face that reminded Keith of an adoring Labrador puppy that hopes you’ll forgive it for having once again eaten your slippers.
Keith pointed to Jimmy’s glass. “We’ve got a floater in this pint, son.”
Aidan’s smile faltered as he stared into the glass. “Oh no, Mr McGraw, I’m so sorry!”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes at the floater. “It looks like a chip to me.”
Aidan’s cheeks coloured. “I poured this pint for Mr Pearson and while it was settling I lifted a couple of lunch plates off the bar counter. A chip must’ve fallen into the glass and I didn’t notice.”
“Okay, son, calm down,” Keith said, seeing how Aidan was getting himself worked up. “No harm, no foul. Just pour another pint for Jimmy and be more careful in future, okay?”
“Okay, Mr McGraw.”
“And for the hundredth time, call me Keith.”
“Yes, sir.”
Keith rolled his eyes and returned to his bottle restocking while Aidan poured another pint and set it down in front of Jimmy.
“Seeing that floater has made me hungry,” Jimmy said. “Think I’ll have a plate of fish and chips.”
Keith stared. “You’re an odd one, Jimmy.”
“That’s why I come in here.”
Laughing, Keith took Jimmy’s order to the kitchen. Once he was back behind the bar, he stood for a minute looking around the pub. Sometimes it was nice just to take it all in.
The Crooked Thistle was a comfortable neighbourhood place where people could enjoy a bar meal and a few drinks, watch sport on the big screen, read the newspaper and pass the time with the bar staff or the other punters or, if they were so minded, just keep to themselves. It was welcoming without being over-friendly, comfortable without being twee, and Keith McGraw was a smart enough publican to have taken the place from strength to strength over the last thirty years while countless pubs around Fairhill and beyond had gone under.
The pub business wasn’t easy, but nor was it rocket science. You had to give the people what they wanted at a price that they were willing to pay, and be sure that price was high enough to make it worth your while. Keith had the place running like a finely tuned machine and was also smart enough to understand when it was time to add new cogs to that machine to keep it in good working order.
Turning, Keith looked at his newest cog and grinned. Last summer, he’d invested in a Scotch whisky collection to add to The Crooked Thistle’s standard offerings. Now, four dozen beautiful bottles of single malt were displayed on gorgeous new shelving, while the special lighting he’d had installed picked out the glorious amber colours inside. Keith had also put together little whisky menus, describing the malts and the distilleries where they came from.
Now that spring had arrived, Keith planned to visit some of the Highland distilleries and add to his whisky collection and menus. His first trip, on a special VIP whisky tour of one of his favourite distilleries, was booked for this weekend and Keith was looking forward to getting out of the pub for a few nights. He’d trained up a staff member, Sophie, to take over manager duties in his absence.
As Keith rocked on his heels, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the leaflet describing the VIP whisky distillery tour on which he was about to embark. He’d been carrying the leaflet around for days in anticipation. It showed an alluring montage of images – romantic Highland glens at sunset; a cosy pub fireside; glasses filled with warming drams; a stag standing proud against a mountain backdrop…
“Earth to Keith!”
Keith glanced up and saw Jimmy Pearson sniggering at him. “What?”
Jimmy nodded to the leaflet. “I take it you’re looking forward to your trip.”
“You can say that again. We’ve got a VIP distillery tour, special tastings, excursions to view the local scenery, dinner laid on at the hotel with paired whiskies. We even get complimentary whisky-infused chocolates in our room. How does that sound?”
“Like you’ll be drinking a lot of whisky,” Jimmy chuckled. “Don’t forget to pace yourself. You’re not a young man anymore, Keith.”
Scowling, Keith tucked the leaflet back into his pocket and looked along the bar at the empty stool next to Jimmy. “I haven’t seen Big Kev for a few days.”
Jimmy shook salt and vinegar over his fish and chips, which had just arrived, and turned to the empty stool. “Aye, you’re right.”
“He’s usually in every day. Do you think he’s okay?”
Jimmy shrugged and ate a chip. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
Just then the pub door swung open, and when Keith looked up, Big Kev was walking in.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Keith said. “You’ve been missing in action, Kevin. I thought we’d have to put together a search party.”
“Aye,” Jimmy said as he sliced into his fish, “I’ve missed the sweet smell of halitosis wafting over from your bar stool.”
Keith expected Big Kev to deliver an immediate retort to this quip, but instead he just strolled over to the bar and stood smiling.
“Keith, Jimmy, how’re you doing?” he said.
“I’m fine, Kev. How’re you?”
Big Kev grinned and shrugged off his coat. “I’m brilliant, Keith. I’ll have my usual. And I’d like to buy a drink for Jimmy and one for you too, Keith.”
Keith stared, an empty glass suspended in his hand beneath the lager tap. Jimmy turned on his stool and looked Big Kev up and down.
“Are you feeling okay, mate?” he said.
Big Kev spread his hands. “Like I said, I’m brilliant.”
“But you’re buying drinks for other people,” Keith said. “This is unprecedented.”
“Did you fall and hit your head?” Jimmy asked.
But Big Kev only laughed. “Don’t be daft. It’s my pleasure to buy you both a drink.”
Jimmy’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you and what have you done with our miserable, cheap friend?”
Big Kev laughed again, as if this was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while.
“Seriously,” Keith said, “what’s going on?”
Big Kev hoisted himself on to the bar stool and grinned. “I’m engaged!”
Jimmy peered. “Engaged?”
“Aye.”
“To be married?” Keith said.
“Of course to be bloody married!”
Keith frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m bloody sure!” Big Kev said, his smile now faltering.
“We didn’t even know you were seeing someone,” Jimmy said.
“Well, I am. I asked her to marry me a few weeks ago, but didn’t tell anyone because I thought she might come to her senses and back out.” He shrugged and ran a hand over his head. “I mean, look at me, I’m not exactly a catch. But it’s happening and I couldn’t be happier and today I decided to tell folks about it.”
Keith and Jimmy stared at one another a moment longer, and then Keith grinned. “Big Kev’s enga
ged! Congratulations!”
Now Big Kev’s smile returned to full wattage. Keith poured pints for the two men and a whisky for himself, and they raised their glasses in a toast.
“So who’s this female you’ve got yourself engaged to?” Jimmy asked.
“Her name’s Fiona.”
“And when do we get to meet this poor woman who doesn’t yet realise what she’s let herself in for?” Keith said, sipping his whisky.
“Soon, but not before I have your word that you’ll be on your best behaviour. This woman’s going to be my wife and I won’t have you two making her feel unwelcome.”
“Don’t be daft, we’d never make her feel unwelcome. I’m sure we’re going to love her. It’s you we don’t like.” Keith smiled again. “You’re really getting married?”
Big Kev’s face softened. “Aye, I am.”
“That’s brilliant, son.”
They beamed at one another for a moment. Finally, Big Kev cleared his throat.
“Actually, Keith, I was hoping you’d let us have our wedding reception here at the pub. I know you don’t do functions, but maybe you’d make an exception.”
Keith frowned. “Your new missus doesn’t want something a bit fancier?”
“We’re getting married quickly and we’ve already arranged the ceremony for a week on Tuesday, and—”
“That’s fast!” Jimmy Pearson said around a mouthful of chips. “You’ve not already got the poor woman pregnant, have you?”
Big Kev scowled. “No, and don’t be disgusting.”
“Nothing disgusting about bringing new life into the world.”
“There is the way you say it.” Big Kev waved a hand. “Look, we don’t want a long engagement and we don’t want a wedding that’ll bankrupt us. It’ll be close friends and family only. That’s why I’m hoping we can have the reception here, Keith. We could take that alcove in the corner. It’ll be nice and relaxed, and better than being stuffed into some soulless hotel function room.”
Keith smiled. “You’ve put enough money in my till over the years, Kev. I’d be glad to have you. When the lunch service is over, I’ll get Marek out of the kitchen and talk to him about putting on a buffet for your guests.”
Big Kev grinned. “Maybe we could put up some wedding decorations, too? Hang some bunting, that kind of thing. I think my Fiona would like that.”
Keith waved a hand. “That’s fine.”
“Where should I go to buy stuff like that?”
“Maybe a party supply shop?”
Big Kev pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and squinted at it before writing on a page already scrawled with notes.
Jimmy Pearson laughed. “You’ve got a wedding-to-do list? This Fiona’s got you well trained.”
Big Kev shrugged. “There’s a lot to sort out, even though we’re keeping it low-key. Fiona’s dealing with her dress and my suit and the ceremony and the flowers, so I’m dealing with the rings and the reception and the honeymoon.” He glanced down at his notes, then back at Keith. “Could Marek make a wedding cake for us?”
Keith shook his head. “Marek’s a chef, not a baker.”
“There’s a cake shop over on Caledonia Road,” Jimmy said, waving his fork towards the windows. “You’ll get one there.”
“Brilliant, I’ll phone them,” Big Kev said and made a note in his laboured handwriting.
Keith looked at the task list on the young man’s pad. He could see it had begun as a short list, but now the page was covered with arrows and reminders. Having himself been a groom on three previous occasions, Keith was well qualified on the subject of wedding planning and understood the sheer effort involved. Watching Big Kev’s brow creasing in concentration as he wrote on his pad, Keith felt a tug of unexpected affection for the young man. He knew that Big Kev didn’t have much family and was only ever seen in The Crooked Thistle in the company of Jimmy Pearson. Keith guessed that the groom-to-be was likely struggling with the responsibility of planning a wedding without the cushion of helpful family and friends.
“You said you’re sorting out the honeymoon, too,” Keith said. “What have you got planned?”
Big Kev blew out a breath. “Nothing yet, I figured I should sort out this reception stuff first.”
“Sort the honeymoon first,” Keith said. “Believe me, if you can impress your new bride with a honeymoon she enjoys, you’ll be starting married life on the right foot. And while you do that, I’ll organise your wedding decorations for this place, and your cake.”
Big Kev’s eyes widened. “You’d do that for me?”
“The big day’s not far off and it sounds like you could use a hand.”
Big Kev stared for a moment and then leaped from his bar stool and threw a meaty arm around Keith’s shoulders. “You’re a pal, Keith, a real pal.”
“Ach, get off me, you big lump,” Keith said, laughing. “Right, Jimmy, you’re in charge of this wedding bunting business.”
Jimmy’s eyes flew wide. “Me?”
“Aye, you, and if I hear any complaints, I’m repossessing that bar stool you’re always sitting on and you can drink somewhere else.”
Jimmy pouted. “Fine, but you didn’t need to threaten me. I would’ve offered to help.”
“And pigs might fly out of my backside and start dancing the Hokey-Cokey on the bar counter.” Keith turned back to Big Kev. “What kind of wedding cake does your new missus want?”
The young man frowned in concentration as he peered at his notes. Finally, he found the information he needed on a scrawled page near the back of the pad. “She says she wants a heart-shaped cake in pink icing.”
Keith nodded. “What’s your budget?”
“As cheap as possible, knowing this guy,” Jimmy said.
“No, I don’t want as cheap as possible, cheeky sod,” Big Kev said, slanting a look at Jimmy. “We want the cake to be special, so it’ll look good in our photos. But I don’t know what wedding cakes usually cost.”
“I’ll get some figures,” Keith said, then turned to Jimmy. “Where did you say that cake shop was?”
Jimmy once more pointed his fork in the general direction of the windows. “Caledonia Road. It’s next to Frank Jackson’s appliance repair shop.”
“I didn’t know there was a cake shop over there,” Keith said. “Is it new?”
Jimmy shrugged and ate the last chip on his plate. “I don’t think so. I’m surprised you don’t already know all the local wedding suppliers, given your track record.”
“Hey, you really are a cheeky sod today,” Keith said and scowled.
Jimmy laughed and held up his hands. “Given how long it’s been since your last failed walk down the aisle, I thought you’d have more of a sense of humour about it now.”
“Well, I don’t.”
It was true. Keith knew that a man who’d been married and divorced three times should expect to be the butt of all kinds of jokes about his terrible luck and even more terrible judgement when it came to women and matters of the heart. And of course, people were free to say whatever they wanted to say. But Keith had never been able to laugh off his romantic misfortunes. He’d loved the women he’d married, totally and completely, and had been shattered when they’d broken his heart. Although those heartbreaks belonged in the past, the scars they’d left behind were deep.
Maybe he would’ve been able to laugh about things if he’d moved on, but since the end of his third marriage five years ago, he’d had no serious relationships. Last year he’d come dangerously close to falling in love with a friend he’d known for decades. But when things had sparked up between them, she had already decided to leave Fairhill and find a new direction in life elsewhere. Although it had hurt at the time, Keith was glad she’d gone before he’d fallen any harder.
Now, Keith was alone and had given up wishing that things could be different. He’d never found The One, and now that sixty was on the horizon, he guessed he probably never would. True forever love was not meant for him.
And so he’d decided he’d just get on with running The Crooked Thistle and keeping his punters happy and living his life while being grateful that he had that much.
Keith cleared his throat and jabbed a finger at Jimmy Pearson. “It’s bad luck to talk about other people’s failed marriages when we’ve got a groom-to-be here.”
Jimmy held up his hands in surrender. “Nobody around here can take a joke.”
Soon, Jimmy Pearson and Big Kev were finishing their drinks and leaving. Keith glanced around the bar and saw that Sophie and Aiden had things nicely under control. Now might be as good a time as any to slip out and visit this cake shop Jimmy had mentioned. With the ceremony so close, there was no time to spare.
Grabbing his jacket, Keith headed out on to Shaw Street and turned in the direction of Caledonia Road. Hopefully whoever ran this cake place would be good enough to squeeze in a booking for a confused last-minute groom who needed all the help he could get.
3
It had just gone noon and Chrissie was still in her cake shop. She should’ve known that her theory about only popping in for half an hour would never work out that way in practice.
Her disorganised bride-to-be, Eva Collins, was perched on a chair by the window, flicking through Chrissie’s cake folders. This was the fifth time the young woman had gone through them. Beside her on the table sat a stack of albums filled with cake photographs that Chrissie had clipped from wedding magazines over the years, along with pictures of the cakes she herself had baked for customers. The folders and albums usually helped brides pin down the kind of cake they wanted for their wedding day. But in Eva Collins’s case, the carefully curated binders seemed only to be confusing things.
She’d begun glancing through them enthusiastically enough. But that had been almost two hours ago, and since then Chrissie had watched her new customer shift through a spectrum of emotions from excitement to uncertainty, and now to total despair.
“I’m so sorry!” Eva wailed. “Everything you’ve shown me is lovely. I can’t decide.”