Patrick stayed on after Amy shut the shop and helped her get ready for the book group. She was perfectly capable of organising the seating on the mezzanine level and putting out the trays of wine and glasses but, with two of them, it took half the time and everything was ready far too early.
‘Shall we get ourselves to the Old Harbour and grab something to eat?’ he suggested at six thirty.
Amy’s tummy rumbled in response. She hadn’t eaten anything since a quick coffee and slice of Millie’s Bakewell tart at three. Looking at her friend, who had become such an important part of her life since he’d joined the book group she’d started in August, she realized two things: one, she knew next to nothing about him, and two, she was completely and irrevocably in love with him. Blushing a little, she said, ‘Great idea.’
They sat in a corner table next to the roaring fire. The pub, which in summer was overrun with tourists, was quieter in the autumn. The only people in there were a few locals downing a swift pint before the journey home. Old Davey Pascoe was holding court at the bar, drinking cider and boasting to anyone who would listen about how well his granddaughter, Eleri, was doing at running the newly-renovated Henville Hotel.
Patrick grinned as he set down their drinks. ‘Think he’s the proud granddaddy. You been yet? Food is supposed to be good, and they do a mean cocktail, so I’ve heard.’
Amy took a sip of her white wine. ‘The Henville? No I haven’t been. Emma and her boyfriend Ollie have. Emma said it was lovely.’ Amy wrinkled her nose. ‘Lush, I think was the word she used. Bit out of my price range, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, maybe we should take a look-see one night? Now, what do you fancy tonight?’ Patrick fished out a pair of steel-framed specs from his jacket pocket and peered at the chalk board. ‘Too cold for a crab salad. Think it’ll be steak for me. Nice and bloody.’
Amy was still processing what he’d said about them going to the Henville. Did he mean on a date? He’d said it so casually though. He must mean as just friends. But was the Henville the sort of place you went to as just friends? Emma had said it was pretty exclusive. Patrick treated her with thoughtfulness and was very kind but his vivid blue eyes twinkled at everyone and he treated one and all to liberal doses of his Irish charm. She’d never detected any special favours coming in her direction. She was as sure as she could be – and this was with a painful lurch of the heart – that he regarded her as a friend.
‘Amy?’
She blinked, aware he was still waiting for an answer. ‘Fish and chips,’ she blurted out, without really considering the menu. Bugger it. The diet would have to be put on hold again. Crab salad was what she should have gone for but Patrick had leaped up and was at the bar, ordering their food before she could tell him she’d changed her mind. She admired the view of his back as he chatted to the barmaid. He wasn’t overly tall but was compactly built, with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and a neat bum covered snugly in indigo denim. Amy blushed again. She shouldn’t be thinking about his bottom. Instead, she focused on the effect he was having on the barmaid. She was looking like a rabbit in the headlights in the face of his charm offensive. He’s the same with everyone he meets, she thought, sadly. He bestowed no special treatment her way. She mustered a smile as he returned to the table and picked up his pint.
‘I suppose you drink Guinness at home?’ Amy could have kicked herself. What a thing to say! Why couldn’t she behave naturally with him? I need to take lessons in flirting from Emma, she thought. The entire town loved Tash’s work colleague, she got on with everyone.
Patrick didn’t take offence. ‘Ah sure, tis a wee drop of the black stuff for me every time,’ he said, in an exaggerated Irish brogue.
‘Sorry. That was naff.’ Amy blushed to her roots.
‘It was a bit. But don’t worry yourself.’
‘I don’t know much about you really,’ Amy said, realizing that apart from knowing his novels, she didn’t know very much at all; she didn’t even know where in Ireland he was from.
‘Not much to tell. Born and raised in a little seaside village near Dublin. Went to university. Came over here to lecture in creative writing and that’s about it.’
From the way his eyes clouded, Amy was pretty sure that was definitely not all there was but she didn’t press the point. ‘What drew you to Berecombe?’
‘I like living by the sea. As I said, I grew up by it.’
‘Is your home town like Berecombe?’
He laughed. ‘It’s a lot flatter and sure, it’s fine if you like the golf.’
‘Golf?’
‘Ah sure, Portmarnock is one big golf course. And a grand beach too. The Velvet Strand it’s called. But it’s all a lot flatter than Devon.’
Amy resolved to google Portmarnock as soon as she got home. ‘Sounds lovely. But I suppose you lived in Dublin?’ Amy couldn’t imagine this urbane, cultured man not wanting to live in Ireland’s capital.
‘I did. For a bit. Ah look, here’s the food.’ He nodded. ‘Just in time, darlin,’’ he said to the barmaid. ‘We’re starving here.’
She put the food down carefully. ‘Here you go then, one steak, rare, and fish and chips.’ Her face dimpled, prettily. ‘Just give me a shout if you need anything and I’ll be right over.’
‘I bet you will,’ Amy thought, mutinously and speared a chip with unnecessary force.