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Nick sat with Jake on the grass, enjoying the sunshine and watching the swimmers out on Alton Water. Heads in yellow swim hats bobbed in the distance as the 5 K participants swam from buoy to buoy circuiting the longer course.
‘Hey, only a couple of stragglers wearing red hats left in the water, now. Much longer and someone’ll have to go and fish ’em out,’ Jake murmured.
‘Well at least Jason is round and out. Any idea what time he did it in?’
‘Not sure. Hey, did Chrissie find you?’
‘No I haven’t seen her. S’pose we better finish setting up. Jason may need some help with his drums. Come on, the barbecue starts in about an hour.’
A gazebo had been erected with a back but no front or side panels, and a low platform placed inside. It gave the band a stage to play on and a shady area to set their speakers, amplifiers and instruments. It all backed onto the dinghy storage area and was conveniently near enough to run some electric cables from the sport centre building.
‘It seems Denton’s found his level,’ Jake said as they ambled over. He was playing on keyboard, left of stage, while a handful of fascinated young kids listened from the grass, the musical spectacle easier to follow than the swimmers in the distant water.
It felt effortless as Nick slipped into his pre-gig routine of sound checks and voice warm ups with Denton’s harmonies. He relaxed. Last minute nerves evaporated.
‘Hey, anyone want swim goggles?’ Adam threw a selection on top of the huge bass speaker. Nick grabbed a pair and slung them carelessly around his neck. He’d already found and discarded a sun-bleached cork panel floatation aid abandoned amongst the dinghies. For a crazy moment he’d reckoned it might work as a sloppy open jacket to wear for the gig. Then he’d caught the smell and tossed it back to lie where it had lain for months. Enough identifying with the event, swim goggles would suffice.
They ran through the hastily penned Give me Flippers, rolled it into the first number when no one was really listening, and then played it for real at the start of the second set. When it was four o’clock and time to end, shouts of ‘Give me flippers,’ landed it as the encore. The feeling of goodwill was electric.
They took their time packing up. Nick felt great. The crowd was happy, kids had bopped and arm-waved, parents had smiled and clapped. It was very different to their usual type of venue, not the cool image of the pub bar, nightclub or private function. But a charity event held some kudos and he suspected the Give me Flippers number almost guaranteed a return invitation. He’d noticed some faces amongst the jostle. Chrissie and Clive had waved in the second set, and there’d been a cute group of girl swimmers, students from the University of East Anglia, judging by the UEA tee-shirts clinging to their wetsuits.
Ping! A text alert focussed his thoughts. ‘What?’ he breathed, reading the text ID. Gacela?
He opened her message. Hi! Do u want to meet for cocktails, 7:30pm, Sandlings Bar – Ipswich harbour front?
Did she mean today? In a couple of hours? Cocktails? It sounded crazy, but he supposed it was just her style. Without really thinking he texted, Do u mean today?
Yes, came the reply. OK, he answered.
‘You look as if you’ve had a shock. Is something up?’ Jake asked.
‘No, no. It’s just a bit sudden, that’s all. I need to get back, freshen up. Seems I have a date! Let’s get the car loaded.’
He didn’t know what he felt. Excitement, anticipation? But then she’d had that effect on him when they’d met just over a week ago.
•••
Matt waited on his scooter near the bus stop at the side of the car park. It was almost five thirty. He felt hot and eased his helmet off to allow the bright Bank Holiday sun dry his sweaty head. The distant drone of traffic on the A14 merged with his thoughts as warmth radiated from the sea of tarmac at his feet. He reckoned he had a few minutes to cool off while the sweat evaporated. Of course he’d need to don his helmet again. He knew that, but at least he could enjoy the freedom for a few minutes.
He recognised Gacela’s pale blue Fiat 500 as it turned off the slip road and into the car park. It was quite distinctive as it approached; a glossy pastel bug on wheels. He waved. He could have spotted it anywhere.
Gacela drew up in the bus lane. The passenger door flew open and Maisie tumbled out, her blonde hair a riot of wisps and curls. She hugged a basket-bag along with her bundled up silky-black bomber jacket.
‘Hi Mais,’ he said as the vision of her dressed in all-black waitressing trousers and blouse approached.
He glanced at the Fiat again. He was curious. He’d barely caught a clear view of Gacela’s face when he’d dropped Maisie in the car park earlier that day. She’d called something through the window to Maisie, but he’d been wearing his helmet and all he’d really taken on board was a girl with luscious dark brown hair. This time his view was better, and he held it square. Gacela stared back. For a second she seemed to appraise him, and then she looked away, checked her rear view mirror, indicated and moved smoothly back onto the slip road. So what had just passed between them? It certainly wasn’t a smiling hello. He reckoned he probably wasn’t her type.
‘Well, how’d it go? Were it alright?’ he asked, turning his attention back to Maisie.
‘Yeah, but I’m starvin’ an’ I’m parched.’
‘Didn’t you like any of their fancy grub then?’
‘Yeah, it smelled amazin’ but the staff aint allowed it. See the customers ’ave paid for it and well, there weren’t nothin’ left over. I don’t count fancy bread. Yuk!’
‘But that’s why you took your basket-bag thing. Like a doggy bag, right? Honest Mais, I thought you’d bring somethin’ back.’
She hopped up behind him on his scooter. He drove slowly out of the car park, around the mini roundabout at its entrance and headed for the drive-through burger bar, a stone’s throw away. They sat on the closely-cut grass near the mini roundabout and downed huge paper cups of iced cola and munched on burgers topped with extra cheese.
‘So what’s this Kinver Greane bloke like, Mais?’
‘I don’t know, he weren’t there. Just some guy called Leon. You should’ve seen him slice a tomato. Like them TV chefs.’
‘I thought Kinver were the chef.’
‘Well he weren’t today. I didn’t get to ask, Matt. It were full on. No time for natterin’. And then all the clearin’ away. Hey you try washin’ those big pans sometime.’
‘So did you spend the whole time in the kitchen?’
‘A fair bit. Chef needed me helpin’ with platin’ up. He said I were neat with me hands. Yeah, I learnt to fan out carrots, make a plate look cute.’
Matt tried to picture a cute plate, gave up and moved onto safer ground. ‘So what’s this Gacela bird like?’
‘She were real friendly in the car. Askin’ me about what I done in the past. Yeah, and she wanted to know about Nick. I told her the band were playin’ the charity swim gig today. I reckon she fancies him.’
‘So what she say about herself, Mais?’
‘Er... not much. I s’pose I were doing most the talkin’.’ Maisie giggled, a self-indulgent well you know me kind of giggle.
‘And Sophie Hyphen? Did you talk to the boss?’
‘Might’ve. Just to say hi. Yeah, she were OK. Why all the questions?’
‘No reason. Just hearin’ about your day, Mais.’
‘Ah, you’re real nice.’ She poked him affectionately in the ribs.
They ate and drank in silence for a few moments while Matt sifted through all she’d said. Something peeved him. It was no good; he was going to have to say.
‘I’d hoped you’d get some of them fancy chocolates. Bring some back for me. Mais.’
‘Yeah, well it were a bit hot an’ melty, but the one I managed to snitch were amazin’. Sorry, Matt. I’ll try for you next time.’
‘Next time? So you workin’ for them again, Mais?’
‘Yeah, you bet.’
•••
Nick scanned the tables outside the cocktail bar. Bottle green umbrellas cast long soft shadows in the early evening sun while drinkers in jeans and summer-prints talked, laughed and sipped from glasses decked with fruit and mint leaves. The view was equally vibrant looking away from the tables and across the narrow road, with its low brick wall tracing the quayside. It transported him over the waterfront, the surface of the River Orwell reflecting a muddy blue sky with glinting surface highlights. The word Mediterranean sprang to mind. It was how he imagined it would feel; yachts, marina, sunshine and an outside table and drinks.
He’d never visited the Mediterranean. It was something on his to-do list, and the thought distracted him as he walked through the open door into the body of the cocktail bar. He spotted Gacela immediately. She sat on a tall stool close to the counter, her attention seemingly focussed on the bartender. Nick hesitated, an arm’s length away.
‘Hi, Nick,’ she said, her interest barely wavering from the cocktail being mixed.
He was quick to pick up the signals. She might have made the first move with her invitation text, but he guessed she was telling him not to read anything into it. Except... she’d obviously been watching for him, her eye on the mirror behind the counter.
‘Hiya, Gacela. Great idea - cocktails to end a Bank Holiday weekend. What are you drinking?’
‘A Cosmo.’ She maintained eye contact with the mirror as she spoke.
The bar tender smiled, removed the mixer-shaker cap with a twist, and lined up a cocktail glass on the counter. Next, with an imagined drumroll filling the dramatic pause, he poured cranberry coloured liquid into the cocktail glass with the flourish of a magic trick.
‘It looks amazing,’ Nick murmured.
‘It is. Would you like a Cosmopolitan as well, sir?’
‘No. I think... a Black Russian, and with plenty of crushed ice, please.’ Nick hoped he sounded spontaneous, hadn’t given himself away. But after Gacela’s text, he’d had time to look up some cocktails and think them through. He’d rehearsed in his mind what to choose. A Black Russian – iced black coffee and vodka, served in a stocky tumbler glass and no surprises.
They carried their drinks outside and sat at a table under one of the bottle green umbrellas.
‘So what’ve you been doing today?’ she asked.
‘Catching the sun and supporting a charity swim over at Alton Water with the band. How about you?’
‘I guess it was ideal weather for open water swimming,’ she murmured.
‘Awesome. But you haven’t said. About your day?’
‘Me? Just the usual - carrying trays and plates, serving food, watching people getting steadily pissed while I’m slowly dying for a drink. So, as I see it, when I finally get a drink I say, “make it a good one”.’ She raised her glass to emphasise her point.
‘Cheers,’ he murmured and lifted his glass, caught her intense scrutiny and smiled. It felt odd. Normally a full-on gaze would have been an invitation, an unspoken lure. But this was different. The sexual chemistry was missing. Well not exactly missing, but there was something else to read behind those beautiful brown eyes. What was it? Slightly nonplussed he murmured, ‘Where was your do, today?’
‘A lunch party over in Wickham Market.’
There, she’d done it again, slightly obtuse, but at least this time she’d answered his question. He was intrigued.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘The lunch party or Wickham Market?’
‘The lunch party, of course. I’ve driven through Wickham Market loads of times to get to the A12 and up the coast, that’s if I’m coming cross country from Barking Tye.’
‘So what’s at Barking Tye?’
‘My parents. Now come on, I’ve answered your question. Are you going to answer mine? About your lunch do?’ He kept his words feather light, expecting a rush of irritation, but all he detected were smile lines near her eyes as she conceded he’d scored a point. He liked this girl, so refreshingly different to the groupies following the band.
While she told him about the venue with its sprawling thatched house, large lawns and marquee, he let his gaze drift across her dark maroon painted toe nails and minimal strappy sandals.
‘Yes,’ she said, breaking from her thread, ‘when you’ve been on your feet waitressing all day in black pumps and sub-Saharan heat....’ She wiggled her toes. ‘Freedom, escape. They’ve earned it,’ she murmured.
He laughed. He would have laughed at anything she’d said, even if it was only remotely funny. Perhaps it was just the vodka kicking in.
‘Did they have music at the do? A band?’
‘It was a sixtieth celebration. Very smart, Nick.’
‘Are you implying a band would have lowered the tone?’ He let amusement leach through his words as he played the indignation line.
‘Well of course if your band had been available, perhaps they’d have had a band.’
‘Hmm, but we’d have still turned them down. I mean, the pull of Alton Water. It would have been no contest.’
‘Posh parties do drugs too, you know. Probably more so.’ It sounded like a throwaway line, but it jarred.
‘What?’
She didn’t answer, just avoided his surprise as she sipped her Cosmopolitan.
‘Are there a lot of drugs at your catering gigs?’ he asked, hoping to shift the focus back onto her.
‘Well you were there last week at Freston. What did you notice?’
‘You mean apart from you? I’m afraid I’m not into the drug scene, so unless it’s obvious, I tend not to see it. How about you?’
Again she didn’t answer.
‘How about you, Gacela? Are you into the drug scene?’ It was important, he had to know.
‘I might have sampled once or twice in the past, but that’s all history, a long, long time ago. Hey, you must have seen that guy with the party pills? I’m guessing ecstasy. I assumed he was with your band.’
‘What? A dealer attached to our band? Well you can shelve that notion straight away. We’re not big enough. We don’t have roadies, technicians, backstage crew – just a few fans and a website. We’re too small to draw the dealers and pushers.’ He held her glance as he spoke.
‘Good, because this is what I enjoy, Nick.’ She sipped her Cosmo, ‘a drink in good company at the end of a heavy day.’
‘Cheers! I’ll drink to that.’ He raised his glass. Was she saying he was simply good company? What about a hint of something a little more intimate on the horizon? Of course being cast as a pot-smoking, crack cocaine-addicted singer or dealer would have been worse. At least he counted as good company. He guessed he should be grateful for that for the time being. But it set him thinking.
‘Now, why are you frowning?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking about the rest of the band; we all drink too many beers sometimes, but nothing more. I don’t think anyone even smokes weed.’
‘You don’t have to smoke it, you know.’
‘I know, but–’
‘You should take a trip to Amsterdam. They sell weed in all sorts of things. Quite openly. Cakes, biscuits, chocolate–’
‘Hair shampoo?’
‘No I think it’s caffeine in hair shampoo.’
This time they both laughed and he sensed a subtle change in the way she sat. He let his eyes play across her and noticed the tension ease from her shoulders.
The fine silver chain hanging around her neck trailed a bunch of charm-like silver dragonflies, enamelled blackberries and leaves. He asked her about the significance of them, how she’d come by the necklace, about herself and her ambitions - but she fenced and dodged with her words as she spoke, never answering fully. She talked. Certainly she talked, but somehow he was always left with a feeling of mystery and wanting to know more.
‘What do you do when you’re not waitressing? Any other jobs?’ he asked.
‘Oh you know, a bit of this and a bit of that. How about you? Have you always wanted to work with wood?’
She seemed genuinely interested, encouraging him to tell her about himself. But when he got back to the subject of her, asking a simple where do you live was answered with, ‘I live in Ipswich. How about you, Nick?’
So by the end of the evening he’d told her about his early ambitions, how he’d dropped out of an Environmental Sciences degree at Exeter University, and his passion for carpentry. But what did he know about her? Not an awful lot, just the certainty that he wanted to see her again.
‘Hey, it’s been a great evening,’ he said.
‘We must do this again.’
‘Yeah, I’ll check when I’ve some gigs but are you OK for something mid-week?’
‘You never know, your gigs and my events might match, like the Freston gig. Let me know your timetable and then I can tell you.’
She hadn’t said, and I’ll let you know my timetable, but he wasn’t going to quibble. It was better than a vague I’ll text you. He reckoned, all things considered, the evening had gone well. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be the one doing all the running.
