Read Online The Accidental Time Traveller by Sharon Griffiths - Free Book Online

calm. And there was a woman here – a middle-aged couple were sitting in one of the corners beneath a picture of a hunting scene. I’d be all right here. I walked up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. There was a different barman, older. He was wiping glasses.
    ‘A large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
    He carried on wiping glasses.
    I waited for a moment. I was still getting myself calmed down from the other bar. But then the barman stopped wiping glasses and started stacking bottles on the shelf.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I said in my Like-I’m-here-can’t-you-see-me? sort of voice. ‘Could I have a vodka and cranberry juice please?’
    This time he did at least bother to look up. He put his hands on the counter and looked around the room, towards the door.
    ‘You on your own, madam?’
    ‘Yes and I’d like a large vodka and cranberry juice please.’
    He looked at me, not particularly pleasantly.
    ‘Two things, madam,’ he said. ‘First, we haven’t got any Russian drinks. And second, we don’t serve unaccompanied ladies, madam. I’m sure you understand why.’
    I was gobsmacked.
    ‘No I don’t actually. I haven’t a bloody clue.’
    ‘Language, madam, please. I can’t serve you and I must ask you to leave.’
    I looked towards the middle-aged couple, thinking they’d be sympathetic and help me out here. But they were suddenly intent on the pattern on the table.
    ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said, getting really angry now. ‘If you haven’t got vodka, then give me a large glass of Merlot.’
    He leant forward menacingly and said, ‘I’m not giving you anything, madam.’ Then, in a fierce undertone, ‘Now just sling your hook before I call the manager and get you put out. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want your sort in here.’
    My sort? What did he think I was? A tart touting for custom?
    And then it dawned on me. That’s precisely what he did think. The idea was so ridiculous I started to laugh, despite myself. I slipped off the stool and made quite a good exit. But outside I was shaking. It was ridiculous but it was also insulting. I still hadn’t got a drink. And Will had got a wife. Not a good day.
    I headed back to the Browns’. I desperately needed to talk properly to Will. This was a challenge too far, no joke. I remembered his blank look and started to panic again, wanted to cry. But no, it was a game, a TV show. It wasn’t real, I reminded myself firmly. It’s not real. We’d sort it all out tomorrow.
    I blew my nose on the silly little lace-edged hanky I’d found in my jacket pocket and headed for home. I wasn’t sure of the way but I strode out purposefully and kept my head held high and my expression determined. I even tried to smile – just in case those cameras were watching.

Chapter Five
Oh they’re clever, whoever’s doing this. Clever and crueltoo. But I must not let them get to me. I’m not going to let them. Whatever nasty sneaky tricks they pull.
    I thought the 1950s house was going to be about practicalthings – like doing without decent wine and hotshowers, wearing scratchy underwear and not being ableto do my hair. Not psychological warfare. But then Iremembered a piece Caz wrote last year about how cruelreality TV was getting. Every new series pushes thebarriers a bit further. The last one locked people alonein the dark for days on end. They were so disorientatedthey lost all sense of reality and of who they were. Publicexecutions are the next step, Caz reckoned. But I thinkshe’s wrong. I think it’s mind games to see who can copebest. That’s why there was no warning, no preparation.Well, no one’s going to make a victim of me. Certainlynot for a TV programme. Certainly not for a TV programme I didn’t ask to be in. Not even after theirlatest trick.
    We marched into work, Peggy and I, walking together, umbrellas up against the suddenly fierce spring rain, neither of us in the best of moods, neither of us saying a word. Not only