Chapter Six
GEORGINA
If it wasn’t for his celebrity status she’d have been utterly humiliated. Six people turned up for the official opening night.
Just six!
And one of those was Heather. It was like a sketch out of a very bad comedy.
“There will be one rule in this bar and one rule only,” River announced. “I’ll never serve you more than two cocktails of an evening.” A flurry of muffled voices ensued. “Why?” he paused until he’d regained their attention, “because the cocktail is to be savoured, not devoured. The construction of a cocktail is a work of art; the degustation of a cocktail is an evening at the theatre. You wouldn’t eat a three course meal during the Phantom of the Opera; in the same way, you won’t drink three courses of cocktails in this bar.”
Fabulous, there went all of Georgina’s future tips every time a starry-eyed customer thought he was in with a chance with her. What a stuck up thing to say. People knew their limits when it came to drink. You might get away with this in some swanky speakeasy in the capital, the kind of place ‘the other half’ visited before their soiree in a plummy theatre, but in a small town like this, it was an insult that would only drive away footfall. He should have run this past her first. She’d soon have persuaded him to up it to four. Two cocktails did not comprise a night out. This was beyond ludicrous.
She gave him a conspiratorial nod to keep up the charade anyway. What else could she do?
Yes, her own reputation in this gossip-rife town might be at stake now, but she was doing this for Blake – and her dad. She just had to stick with it. There was still time to turn things around. If nothing else, the hearsay that wended its way out of here tonight was going to prick up so many only-too-willing-ears to put his outlandish theory to the test.
The gathered ensemble clearly didn’t know whether to huddle at one table to avoid the mortifyingly, socially embarrassing phenomenon of rattling around at a party, or to do just that, flinging themselves far and wide to create the illusion of roaring success. How the first floor of the bar would ever be populated, she had no idea.
Georgina needed a tipple to deal with this herself, but instead she held her head high, remembering beauty’s power to take the edge off disappointment. Ever the hospitality pro, she sashayed over to a couple of decidedly middle-aged ladies who had evidently just finished work, dressed as they were in their hideous High Street travel agents’ regalia.
“What can I get you, girls?” she prompted, notebook at the ready. River had asked her to try to memorise cocktail names, said it looked more authentic that way, but it was hardly going to make or break business if she did jot them down, and besides, it was still early days as far as her own training went, some of these creations had some unnecessarily complicated titles.
“We just can’t decide,” said the older one. “What does your sexy bartender over there recommend?” the ever-so-slightly younger one chimed in, unable to tear her besotted eyes off River as he needlessly demonstrated his showy pouring skills in the background, only adding to their collective pool of drool.
Georgina felt her hackles rise, and a twinge of a distant relative to jealousy stir in the pit of her stomach. Was this what she was going to have to contend with every night? He was hers, all hers, and as much as that was simply part of a revenge-fuelled plan, she was not used to sharing her treats with anybody, and not about to start.
“Why don’t I ask him to surprise you then? Yes, what a great idea,” she said, catching River’s eye in a moment of perfect synchronicity and walking back to the bar before they had chance to protest.
“They’ve asked for two Earthquakes,” she said, slapping her notebook down on the counter and letting her pen catch up with her mischief.
“But that’s not even on the menu,” said River, clearly alarmed at the strength of their choice.
“Well, these ladies do seem very experienced when it comes to their spirits. Best give them what they’ve asked for. I’m just as surprised as you are, but we can’t be discerning or sexist when it comes to serving up Absinthe. There’s a very good reason they let it back into the States in 2007.”
“I’m impressed, George… Georgina, Georgina.”
She scowled.
“You are a little powerhouse of knowledge, aren’t you?” he winked, and then heard the laughter coming from the travel agents’ table which clearly helped to back up their letting-their-hair-down choice of drink. “Hopefully they’ve both got a day off tomorrow.”
He turned to find a couple of Champagne coupe glasses and Georgina breathed an imaginary sigh of relief. This was going to be entertaining all right.
While she waited for River to prep their drinks, she made for the table nearest the window quickly realising she’d committed the ultimate faux pas by tending to local resident, Lord Rigby-Chandler’s order, only second. Why hadn’t she noticed him sooner wearing his trademark bowler hat and hideous silk dandelion yellow scarf, whose reflection gave him a complexion to rival The Incredible Hulk?
Naturally, her charm would make up for that.
“So wonderful to see you here this evening with your charmingly dressed wife, my Lord.” She stooped to air kiss Lady Rigby-Chandler first, spinning on her heel and smiling sweetly at her husband – who no doubt wished he was several years younger, minus the girth, double chin and doormat eyebrows, and cocktailing now alone. He took her hand and shook it eagerly, reluctant to let go, also no doubt imagining what her young silken paws were capable of doing to his anatomy.
Disgusting creature, she could read him like a book.
She took their orders anyway and Heather chimed in with hers as she made her way back to the bar: “a Ginger Rabbit, please for me, Georgina love.”
She couldn’t help but laugh inwardly at that. River had told her all about his mother’s penchant for the ‘grounding properties of ginger’, which is why he’d had no choice but to feature at least one cocktail in the menu granting it the leading role. Ginger, star anise, bourbon, Crème Yvette – whatever in god’s name that was – black tea-infused syrup, angostura bitters and lemon peel? No thank you. That was one creation she definitely wouldn’t be sampling.
“Lord Pervert over there has ordered a Trafalgar Punch – something I wouldn’t mind giving him the honour of myself, and her Ladyship requests a Kir Royale; poor woman having to wake up to that in the morning.”
“Do you mean to tell me we have actual aristocracy in here on opening night? Oh. My. God. Had I known I’d have asked him to do the honours and cut the red ribbon… just don’t tell my mum… I mean, she did a grand job and all – well, with the exception of picking up that blunt pair of kitchen scissors and you having to help her hack at the material midway through the deed – but he could have got us into the paper… and beyond, for all the right reasons this time.”
River’s lack of loyalty to his family was astounding. Okay, so Heather had made a complete mess of the ‘ceremony’, and he had grown up never knowing his dad. But still, his mother had been his biggest fan since the bar’s conception; he didn’t know how lucky he was to have her as a constant in his life. What a jerk putting strangers before blood.
“So now there’s just the woman from next door’s bakery and I think I’m up-to-date,” Georgina let her own agenda take priority.
“Nice job,” he said, “really nice job,” the twinkle in his eyes telling her just how well her plan was starting to take shape. He was falling for her all right, no two ways about it. “I’ll show you how much it means to me later,” he added.
She tried to stop her cheeks colouring to candy floss but they had a cotton wool mind of their own. And, well, the sex was pretty amazing… and luckily she didn’t ‘do’ emotion, so she was as safe as houses when it came to the question of reciprocation. She coughed and added a stern “erhem” reminding him there was a time and a place, a quick seductive pout – definitely not of the tragic trout pout variety – thrown in for good measure. Then over she sashayed again (for it was the second best thing to her standard elongated stride which left men trailing in her wake) to their next-door neighbour in trade.
She’ll be a B52. In and out, five short but powerful sips from a shot glass, a pleasantry or two at the ‘housewarming’ and that’s the last we’ll ever see of her in here.
“Hi there, thanks,” her final customer greeted her with a friendly grin as she played with the corners of her coaster.
“It should be me thanking you,” Georgina heard herself croon. “What can I get you and I’m so very sorry for the short delay. Needless to say, this will be on the house.”
“No really, no need to apologise at all, and I’m more than happy to pay my way. I um… I can see you’ve been,” she paused, “rushed off your feet,” she whispered.
They laughed in unison, the joke very much understood between them.
“I’m in a bit of a rush as it happens, got to prep for tomorrow before locking up so the bakers have all they need for the early morning start – I’m Zara by the way. So I’ll make it a quick, but much-needed B52 for a little energy burst.”
“Perfect choice, he makes the best for miles,” Georgina nodded toward the bar, glowing at how in tune she was with her customers. “And I’m Georgina, pleased to meet you. I will definitely be calling in for some goodies, especially if I’m working a late shift.”
“Please do, that would be wonderful. It’ll be good to have some female company next door, pop in any time, won’t you?”
Something told Georgina this was the beginning of a rather beneficial alliance.
***
One hour later saw the bar in danger of Demolition Revisited.
“Georgina, I need you to try to prise a mobile off one of them,” said River, shaking his hands like palm leaves caught up in a hurricane. “I don’t think I should be man-handling a pair of fifty year old women – much as it might make their days – and we can’t leave them to the fate of a taxi without speaking to their other halves, being sure about their addresses.”
“No worries, leave it to me,” she said, tutting at their lack of responsibility, especially when they were so publicly advertising their workplace.
The ever-so-slightly-younger one was a heap on the floor, sitting in a puddle of her own vomit, as the elder of the two now looked double her age, face creased with laughter at her colleague’s inability to hold down her drink.
Heather was equally less than impressed.
“I can’t believe you’ve served them up Absinthe.” She stood hands on hips, incredulous as to the disaster before them both. “This really doesn’t bode well for the reputation of the bar. Your only saving grace is the fact hardly anybody turned up tonight.”
“I tried to warn him, Heather, really I did,” said Georgina, shaking her head at the pitiful scene as she asked the eldest travel agent for their addresses in the neighbouring town, to avoid her having to go through their personal belongings. “It wouldn’t have been half as bad if they’d not followed those Earthquakes up with a couple of Kamikazes.”
“This is no time at all for dilly-dallying about,” Lady Rigby-Chandler barged past them both, hauling the younger woman up from the floor and dumping her onto a nearby couch. “I’ll be billing you for these, too,” she took in the extent of her broken ruby shellac nails, flashed them at River who stood behind the bar, and shouted, “my husband and I were super excited to learn of a proper cocktail establishment opening its doors in Somerset, you’ve had a lot of backlash in the press, but we were only too happy to buck that trend, prove all the Negative Nellies wrong about their reluctance to get past their anally retentive traditions. But I fear they had a point all along.”
Lord Rigby-Chandler rose from his seat, as if on cue, and took his bowler hat off in a gesture to back up the sentiments of his wife.
“My Lady’s right. The evening’s proceedings really have got quite – hic – out of hand,” he flumped back into his chair and started to resemble a Tory backbencher falling into a post liquid lunch slumber.
“Give me their bags,” said Lady Rigby-Chandler to Heather and Georgina.
Heather managed to extract one from the chair back of the travel agent turned hyena, Georgina had a slight battle with the other when Hyena’s laugh became paranoia and the elder dove onto the shoulder bag of her friend, grappling momentarily with its bulk until the contents spilled across the floor and she surrendered to her next round of giggles.
“Righty-ho, I will hunt for the numbers of their next-of-kin and inform them of the situation, requesting they call us back once these women are safely deposited to their husbands – one presumes they are married to men anyway. Do they have rings?”
Heather and Georgina were cardboard cutouts.
“Well? Help me out, dears, for goodness sake,” she sighed. “Both of you have been about as much use as a chocolate teapot so far.”
Oh, Georgina really needed that drink now, to think she’d even felt sorry for this Hooray Henrietta and her marital status moments earlier!
How dare this Snotty Toff look down her snout at them, at her, like this? Notwithstanding the conveniently overlooked fact this was all Georgina’s own doing in the first place. Thank goodness Zara had left half an hour ago, although, even then things were getting louder in the volume department. One thing was for sure: next time a semi-attractive woman hinted at dalliance with her bartender, a subtler method was required.
“Once I have done the honours, Mr Jackson, you will call a cab and we’ll wait until we get the call from the uh… husbands, or partners, or whatever. I do hope neither of them resides alone. Goodness gracious, they might well choke in their sleep tonight.”
***
“There was a flippin’ good reason behind the prohibition of Absinthe in America in 1915, River,” Heather shook her head in disbelief. “How could you be so irresponsible as to keep a bottle behind the bar?”
“It’s long been OK’d, that’s how.” He stared at her, mimicking the frost on one of his glasses as she swirled at the remnants of her Ginger Rabbit. She was still only on her first drink.
Just as well really. Georgina felt she’d seen enough of this kind of drama for one night, and was now looking forward to a little hanky-panky in the hotel to help River put it all behind him. They’d been ‘together’ just six weeks, a secret to the outside world, all bar the receptionist at the nicest of Glastonbury’s two hotels, anyway. River, despite having his box room at home, had more than enough money besides to block book the ‘penthouse suite’ of the Hotel Guinevere for a six month stretch, at which point he planned to have found the perfect house of his own.
“Your mum has been a star this evening. Don’t take it out on her. It’s just one of those things, and we can all thank our own lucky stars it happened on a quiet night. It’s only going to get busier from now on.”
This was slightly optimistic given that Lady Rigby-Chandler had warned them in her inimitable style:
“I will have my beady little eye on the antics of this place. Oh yes. I will be in here at the most select of times, according to my social schedule, much like those hideously infuriating undercover diners. Naturally, Lord R.C here will accompany me; naturally since one and one’s husband are such esteemed members of aristocracy, one will not be paying for this evening’s toddies… or any future refreshments.”
“Heather,” Georgina warded off a shudder and turned to the woman she was all too aware could be her future mother-in-law, like if she wanted her to be, which she most categorically did not, “why don’t we call you a taxi now, too? We’ll clean up here and handle this and you go home and chill out. You were never meant to have got involved in the commotion. An early night and everything will look good as new in the morning – we’ll be ready to start afresh.”
After I have ridden your son senseless this evening; drawing him ever deeper under my spell on that king-sized bed.