For some reason, Maisie had expected Patrick to be able to belt out a tune as good as any of the locals but ouch. He really was terrible. So awful, it was actually funny.
An embarrassed silence settled over the pub as he warbled out the first few bars of the song, and regulars exchanged grimaces over their pints. Maisie cringed as Patrick soldiered on. He was out of tune, off key and had to keep humming when he forgot the words but boy, he was giving it his all, and acting as if he was Frank Sinatra which made his performance all the more hilarious.
‘Myyyyyy wayyyyyeee!’ he howled.
People started to laugh and egg him on. Will wolf-whistled and Patrick threw out his arms and waved a glass cloth like Pavarotti.
The inn descended into uproar. Maisie stopped wincing and started smiling. Patrick was obviously enjoying himself and the regulars were wiping tears from their eyes. She raised her glass of water at him in tribute as he bellowed out the chorus at the top of his voice.
‘My wayyyyy!’
Tears ran down her face and she knew her mascara would be a mess. Although his singing was laughable, she also admired him for having a go. Finally, the song finished and the customers burst into applause. Will whooped and whistled and even Adam Pengelly gave him the slow handclap.
‘Sounded like a cat was being strangled,’ muttered Archie as the hubbub subsided.
‘Well it is a full moon,’ said Will.
The police officer shook his head. ‘I think I may have to arrest you for crimes against popular music.’
Patrick gave a deep bow. ‘I’m here all winter, folks, apart from the O2 next weekend. It’s sold out, but if anyone wants tickets, I can get you a back-stage pass.’
‘Only if you’re paying us, mate,’ Will roared. He slapped Patrick on the back. ‘Little piece of advice: don’t give up the day job.’
Maisie shook her head, relieved that Patrick had survived his baptism of fire and secretly a little bit proud of him. Jess leaned over the bar, a sly smirk on her face. ‘Well, he won’t win the X Factor, although I have to say I’ve heard almost as bad on there. But he’s definitely a big hit with the customers.’
‘So it seems.’
‘He’ll bring more people into the Driftwood,’ said Jess. ‘Of both sexes.’
‘Good. We need the money,’ said Maisie, refusing to rise to the bait as Patrick made his way back to his post behind the bar through a barrage of banter and good-natured insults.
‘It’s not only the money, though, is it? You like having him around. You were worried when he started to sing – sorry – howl.’
‘Worried? Why would I be worried?’
‘In case he was upset by the reaction. I saw your face. You were holding your breath.’
‘The only thing that bothered me is that he might empty the place in ten seconds flat. There’s a buffet going to waste.’
Jess smirked. ‘You’re in denial about the hunky Patrick and you refuse to admit it.’
‘Just like you and Adam Pengelly, then?’
Jess pursed her lips. ‘That’s below the belt, best friend.’
Maisie touched her arm. ‘I know. Sorry to put my oar in there. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you but I don’t like seeing you unhappy about it. Or Postman Pat, either.’
Jess rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s just forget it for tonight. I’m here to enjoy myself and I don’t want to talk about Adam. He obviously thinks I’ve done something wrong, and if he wants to act like a hurt schoolboy, that’s his problem. He’s always been moody and I can’t handle that kind of drama right now. We’ve enough on our plate managing the business since Dad left. I’m not sure Mum’s ever really got over him running off with “that young floozy”, as she calls her, though she tries to pretend she’s OK.’
Maisie gave Jess a quick hug. Roger Godrevy had caused shockwaves when he’d left the Flower Farm to live with a woman younger than Jess after a twenty-four-year marriage to her mother, Anna. Will and Jess had had to take over the business much sooner than they’d anticipated.
‘I agree. The last thing you need in your life right now is more drama. You really don’t know what’s wrong with Adam?’
‘No … I haven’t a clue,’ said Jess. ‘Look, Patrick’s even a hit with Will.’
Jess inclined her head towards Patrick who was pulling a pint for Will who was leaning on the bar, laughing at some joke.
‘Hmm, they seem to be getting on. I don’t mind. Anything that makes Will laugh. He always acts like he’s the life and soul of the party but I know him better. There’s something not right with him and it’s not just the stress of the business. Anyone would think he and Patrick had known each other for years.’
‘Yes, they would,’ said Maisie, struck by the sight of Patrick at ease behind her bar and Will and his mates exchanging banter. It could be just a blokey thing. She thought women took longer to let their guard down with new people; she did, anyway. Then again, Patrick did already seem like part of the furniture. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? She’d needed someone who could slot into the Driftwood seamlessly. However, it was slightly disturbing just how perfectly he’d fitted in, almost as if he’d been born on the isles. It was only when he opened his mouth and you heard his accent that you were reminded that Patrick McKinnon was a very exotic cuckoo in the nest.