I’ll disinfect,’ I say weakly. ‘The boss is your mother?’
He shrugs.
‘But you call her Val!’
‘Always have.’
‘You didn’t think to mention this before I told her we kissed?’
He smiles slightly. ‘Sorry.’
Focus on the conversation, Delilah, not the smile . ‘Would she really have docked your wages last night if you’d missed your shift?’
‘She’s running a business, not a charity. Did your dad pay you at the pub?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Not much but – yes.’
‘And there were rules about not knocking off early or generally taking the mick?’
‘I guess.’
‘We have more in common than you think.’
I lace my fingers together. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.’
‘Girls don’t usually run away when I kiss them,’ he says wryly. ‘One minute we were moonstruck, the next you were legging it like a greyhound. Was it Studs? That mutual friend he mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you seeing this mutual friend?’
I stare. ‘No! No, that’s not— the mutual friend’s the guy I dumped.’
He looks confused. ‘So why was it a problem?’
‘My ex was seeing someone else the whole time we were together. Studs was there when I found out . . .’ I swallow. I haven’t had any practice in saying this stuff out loud. ‘I didn’t take it very well. I’m still not taking it very well, to be honest.’
The clouds in his eyes evaporate. He steps towards me. ‘I’ve been going nuts, wondering.’
I raise my hand, placing it on his chest to stop him getting any closer, feeling his warmth radiating through my palm. ‘I’m not looking for . . . any complications in my life.’ I cringe inside as I say this. It sounds extremely naff. ‘That’s why I ran away. So I’m telling you now, please don’t try and kiss me again or do anything to make me like you because I don’t want to like you.’
‘OK,’ he says slowly, looking down at my hand. ‘No complications. Check.’
I laugh, a combination of embarrassment and nerves.
He turns away to serve a cluster of customers who’ve suddenly come into the bar. I want to say something else, but don’t know what. So I suck it up and get to work.
It isn’t long before we are drowning in a blur of beer and Twiglets. I fetch glasses, fire the soda gun, count change, ring the till, change the music, change the music back, distribute beer mats, wring out bar towels, twist off Coke lids, take empty crisp boxes round the back, learn the knack of the hand-held swipe machine and the way the vodka optic dribbles sideways, blush and mumble my way past some of the friskier customers, scarf a packet of crisps for my dinner and grab precisely one visit to the loo. It isn’t even that busy, punter-wise. Val watches me throughout; Jem, not so much. In fact, not at all.
‘So much for the lull during showtime,’ I gasp in the kitchen, wiping my sweaty forehead with my sleeve as Jem calls last orders.
‘There’s no show just now,’ says Val.
‘Oh,’ I say, now feeling stupid on top of tired.
‘We have the annual amateur Musical in a Month starting next week, with a performance around Hallowe’en,’ she adds. ‘That’ll perk things up.’
Musical in a Month sounds as much fun as a harpoon through the neck. Mum did am-dram, leaving a toxic trail of high kicks, ambition and melting vinyl records in her wake. I still can’t hear Chicago without breaking into a sweat. I try to focus on what Val is saying.
‘Kids with stage ambitions and enough energy for long rehearsals come from the college. They get in a couple of pros to give it some weight. The theatre lends costumes and props and expertise. It’s good publicity working with amateurs, and big business for the bar at a quiet time of year.’ She smiles a little evilly. ‘Think you can take the pace?’
I give a fixed smile. ‘No problem.’
By the time we have put the dishwasher on for the final load of the night, it’s close to midnight. Val gives me my
He shrugs.
‘But you call her Val!’
‘Always have.’
‘You didn’t think to mention this before I told her we kissed?’
He smiles slightly. ‘Sorry.’
Focus on the conversation, Delilah, not the smile . ‘Would she really have docked your wages last night if you’d missed your shift?’
‘She’s running a business, not a charity. Did your dad pay you at the pub?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Not much but – yes.’
‘And there were rules about not knocking off early or generally taking the mick?’
‘I guess.’
‘We have more in common than you think.’
I lace my fingers together. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.’
‘Girls don’t usually run away when I kiss them,’ he says wryly. ‘One minute we were moonstruck, the next you were legging it like a greyhound. Was it Studs? That mutual friend he mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you seeing this mutual friend?’
I stare. ‘No! No, that’s not— the mutual friend’s the guy I dumped.’
He looks confused. ‘So why was it a problem?’
‘My ex was seeing someone else the whole time we were together. Studs was there when I found out . . .’ I swallow. I haven’t had any practice in saying this stuff out loud. ‘I didn’t take it very well. I’m still not taking it very well, to be honest.’
The clouds in his eyes evaporate. He steps towards me. ‘I’ve been going nuts, wondering.’
I raise my hand, placing it on his chest to stop him getting any closer, feeling his warmth radiating through my palm. ‘I’m not looking for . . . any complications in my life.’ I cringe inside as I say this. It sounds extremely naff. ‘That’s why I ran away. So I’m telling you now, please don’t try and kiss me again or do anything to make me like you because I don’t want to like you.’
‘OK,’ he says slowly, looking down at my hand. ‘No complications. Check.’
I laugh, a combination of embarrassment and nerves.
He turns away to serve a cluster of customers who’ve suddenly come into the bar. I want to say something else, but don’t know what. So I suck it up and get to work.
It isn’t long before we are drowning in a blur of beer and Twiglets. I fetch glasses, fire the soda gun, count change, ring the till, change the music, change the music back, distribute beer mats, wring out bar towels, twist off Coke lids, take empty crisp boxes round the back, learn the knack of the hand-held swipe machine and the way the vodka optic dribbles sideways, blush and mumble my way past some of the friskier customers, scarf a packet of crisps for my dinner and grab precisely one visit to the loo. It isn’t even that busy, punter-wise. Val watches me throughout; Jem, not so much. In fact, not at all.
‘So much for the lull during showtime,’ I gasp in the kitchen, wiping my sweaty forehead with my sleeve as Jem calls last orders.
‘There’s no show just now,’ says Val.
‘Oh,’ I say, now feeling stupid on top of tired.
‘We have the annual amateur Musical in a Month starting next week, with a performance around Hallowe’en,’ she adds. ‘That’ll perk things up.’
Musical in a Month sounds as much fun as a harpoon through the neck. Mum did am-dram, leaving a toxic trail of high kicks, ambition and melting vinyl records in her wake. I still can’t hear Chicago without breaking into a sweat. I try to focus on what Val is saying.
‘Kids with stage ambitions and enough energy for long rehearsals come from the college. They get in a couple of pros to give it some weight. The theatre lends costumes and props and expertise. It’s good publicity working with amateurs, and big business for the bar at a quiet time of year.’ She smiles a little evilly. ‘Think you can take the pace?’
I give a fixed smile. ‘No problem.’
By the time we have put the dishwasher on for the final load of the night, it’s close to midnight. Val gives me my
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