Chapter Thirteen
RIVER
Book club night had proven a roaring success with the fortnightly travel group thankfully lagging not far behind it. As River was becoming increasingly aware, outsmarting Georgina – whose idea the latter fixture had been – went down about as well as a Rusty Nail on top of a Screwdriver.
Tonight’s crowd almost filled the downstairs part of the bar, just four empty tables remained. It was a record since he’d started trading, but a painful reminder too that Alice hadn’t miraculously changed her mind about his offer of employment. And things were getting way too busy to carry on with just two members of staff, that much was certain.
Alice.
He was beginning to wish his mind would adopt the nonplussed sentiment of Smokie’s lead singer in their eponymous Living Next Door to Alice song, but unfortunately, River knew all too well who the eff the Alice in his life was. She was the one who infiltrated his dreams, yes, even – especially – the nights when Georgina lay by his side, running her fingers through his hair as if it was her god given right, edging ever closer to that fine line between lovers and beloved.
The notion of anything more than friendship with Alice was insane, presumptuous at best, but how he longed to cradle her in his arms, and hell, there was no point denying it, he wanted to do a damn sight more with her besides. But it wouldn’t be like it was with Georgina, lust masking lack, an action to fill a deep void. For the first time in his life, this felt different, it felt real.
He’d tried over the years, as a male does when he needs to ‘relieve’ himself, to re-play their forbidden tryst under the black velvet sky (and Blake’s canvas) that starry festival night. But the strange thing was: he couldn’t remember it, not her touch, or her moves, or the way she encouraged him to do the little things that turned her on, gently guiding his hand to her erogenous zones. Sure, it was a long time ago, and a one night stand, but lately, ever since her return to be more precise, he was starting to question whether it had really happened at all. Perhaps it had been Much ado about Nothing, a Chinese whisper intercepted by a sulky bewitched teen, who knew not really what he’d witnessed himself, drunk as he would have been, doped up on joints as he also could have been – the Mr Innocent charade Blake had the audacity to transmit when it came to his past use of recreational drugs, didn’t wash with River, who knew full well he’d certainly inhaled his fill of marijuana with the rest of them back in the day.
Maybe he should just confront Alice? Perhaps that would somehow help them both move on with their lives, unpeeling the Band Aid, giving air to the wound that was imperceptibly holding them back from their destinies. Could it be that was what Mercedes had alluded to when she’d spoken of missing puzzle pieces? But if that was one piece, where was the other?
Jane Austen brought him back to the present like the pique from a bee’s sting.
“I’m going to go for it tonight. The time is right. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You know my rule, Cassandra,” (now she was a regular every fourteen nights, River had of course learnt of her real name), “no more than two cocktails of an evening, pace yourself.” He added a wink.
“Oh yes, but I’m only intending to drink the one… whilst we dissect Catherine Cookson’s Feathers in the Fire. I’m going to savour it you see. Such an idyllic sounding cocktail deserves only the fullest of my taste buds’ attention.”
She needn’t have continued, or placed her intonation on the number of beverages she’d be consuming that evening. River was looking at The Chosen One Numero Uno. And in case he wasn’t clear on the duty he was bound to, Mercedes’ double marched past the window, peering inside to make direct eye contact with him at the very table he was serving in the process, rendering him absolutely speechless and dizzy all in one fell swoop. He tried to disguise his stunned expression and lack of coordination with a coughing fit.
“Are you all right, dear boy?” said Cassandra.
“Fine,” the word finally rolled off the tip of his tongue before he could think to keep his disdain in check. But Cassandra was too entranced by the drink’s description to notice:
“The Magical Mañana,” she whispered. “Ooh, it sounds like an affirmation of good times to come… and just look at the ingredients, all my favourite liquid sensations, all blended into one drink. Why hadn’t I spotted this before? How very queer: what’s it doing playing hide and seek in the middle of the menu?”
“Print error,” River managed to compose himself, firing out the two words he’d long ago decided could be the only explanation he’d give when somebody did stumble across the hidden cocktail, whilst the real temptation was to spit feathers… in the fire. How bloody apt was that read! “And the rest of you lovely ladies?” he couldn’t wait to look at somebody, anybody else, palpitations at the dozen in the terrifying realisation that he now had to remember just how to construct the mystical drink.
“We’ll stay traditional and go for a quartet… not each… that would break your rules on a school night.” They all laughed then, as irritatingly in tune with one another as the London Philharmonic. River offered a half smile, too narked off to care if it looked false. “No, I mean we’ll each of us have a Brandy Alexander… just like two weeks ago, four weeks ago, and six; so four of those in total.” Cassandra’s friend looked expectantly at River who was now supposed to flatter them with what had become the trademark line:
“But you look too young, even for a Brandy Alexander, why… are you sure your parents know you’re out gallivanting at this hour?”
A ‘one-liner’ whose meaning would only be understood if you were a woman of a certain age, who liked to be reminded she was merely twenty-one again, or a geek of a bartender who knew the social history of every cocktail in the book, and how it got its name.
***
Shutting up shop could not have come sooner. He was famished, tired and just needed to get his head straight. But before he could rewind the evening in his head as he began his short trudge up the High Street from bar to hotel, he spotted Georgina in the next door bakery, leaning across the counter, in that hypnotic way of hers, this time talking to Zara. Both were completely unaware of his presence as he cupped his hands against the bakery’s window pane like makeshift binoculars to block out the sun’s fading rays, their backs were turned, shoulders slumped and hunched over what looked like reading material on the counter. Probably a copy of OK Magazine – that would be about right. Georgina was spending way too many of her increasingly frequent breaks gawping at the lives of the rich and famous, camped outside in the backyard on a stray bar stool. An image which was as big a turn off as a supermarket can of Singapore Sling.
He smiled anyway and left them to it. So nice to see Georgina was making a friend. She was a little bit of an oddball in that way, since they’d started ‘seeing one another’ she’d made no mention of female mates; all a bit peculiar for somebody who’d spent their life in this town, ex spitfire or not.
It took a lot to spook him out, but the way Mercedes’ twin had walked past the window at the exact same moment he was taking Jane Austen’s order; that was freaky, inexplicable, even to somebody as spiritually in tune as his mother – and there was no way he was ever going to divulge any of this crazy tale to her. Heather had mellowed of late after the bizarre incident with Lennie, and he didn’t wish to encourage her otherwise. That ‘date’ of sorts with Terry had seemingly grounded her more than an entire batch of her ginger biscuits. Whilst Georgina had reported Heather having the opposite effect on Terry:
“But in a good way,” she’d reassured River who could sense the apology mixed with alarm colouring his face. “For a man who’s never left the country, Dad happening to walk in for his paintbrushes on travel group night was a very fortunate thing. At first I thought it was just the hangover talking,” she’d paused to roll her eyes dramatically, “but even days later he was full of it, couldn’t stop gassing about the first group planned excursion to the Prague Christmas market and all the things he wants to buy there. He’s even working some extra days to put some money by… I don’t think I ever recall him beaming like that from ear to ear. Not that the idea of my dad and your mum doesn’t make me want to reach for a bucket… But, as a friend, a companion, she’s certainly bringing him out of his shell. Of course we haven’t said anything to Blake yet…”
Blake.
He was a mystery all by himself, a little too quiet for River to feel comfortable, a little too accepting of his sister’s job for it to be believable. And as for his mum, befriending Terry so readily; yes, he was pleased for her if it was genuine. But what if she was doing it out of some strange subconscious psychological need to feel buffered from Lennie? A goddess she may have been, still he sensed she was on the hunt for a half-decent man to play bodyguard. But River filed both Blake and Heather away in the back of his mind, they could be revisited later, he’d more pressing issues going on right now.
Mercedes’ apparition was kind of oddly reassuring too though. Now the assignment really had begun and he was curious to see what would happen to Cassandra. He must start thinking of Jane Austen as Cassandra from this moment on, he decided. One of these days he was going to put his foot in it, ask her to sign a copy of Sense and Sensibility, crack a joke about Mr Darcy or something equally silly.
Anyway, Cassandra had seemed to enjoy the rich base notes of Tequila, Sherry and orange. As far as cocktails went, it was one heady concoction, and sexist as it may seem, a little strong for a lady, those ten pipette drops of Mexican elixir presumably only enhancing the taste sensation and upping the throttle. River wished he could go there himself, but it was against the rules for him to partake, even in a sip, Mercedes hadn’t needed to spell that out. His head had berated him as he’d prepped the mix, sneakily disappearing to the skittle alley’s cupboard where he’d dropped ten beaded globules into a tiny ink-sized bottle, stuffed that into his trouser pocket and then returned again to the bar to add it to the base and give everything an almighty shake.
What would happen next? Where would the story take Cassandra? Where would it take him?
His questions trailed behind him like the potent exhaust fumes of his car as he pushed open the door of The Guinevere, acknowledged the receptionist with a nod, took in the sight of the gent hidden behind The Times in the red velvet chair by the redundant fireplace, and made for the stairs.
The paper crackled as his right foot made contact with the bottom step.
“Mr Jackson,” said a familiar voice in its disturbingly unique blend of Cockney crossed with The Bronx, “I’ve been expecting you…”