Rhianna poked her head out of her room when she heard her sister moving about in the hallway the next afternoon.
‘Are you going to work?’ she asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘I want to help.’
Brooke blinked. ‘You’re offering to help in the pub?’
‘That’s right.’ Rhianna flashed her a strained smile. ‘I’m going to make more effort from now on, Brooke, I promise.’
Brooke narrowed one eye. ‘Mum put you up to this, didn’t she?’
‘She didn’t, honestly. I just want to show I support the place. I wasn’t lying when I said I was looking through the accounts to see if I could help.’
‘See if you could force us to sell, you mean.’
‘I can’t force you if you don’t want to, can I? All I said was I wished you’d consider it.’
‘Well, I won’t.’
‘I’d picked up on that,’ Rhianna said drily. ‘So, do you want a hand?’
‘It’s fine,’ Brooke said, turning away. ‘Hayden’s working today. I was supposed to have the afternoon off actually, but I fancied going down for an hour or two. It’s calming, pulling pints.’
Rhianna wondered if her sister often felt like working an unnecessary shift when Hayden Bailey was behind the bar.
‘Please, I want to,’ she said. ‘Mum’s in the kitchen, you’re behind the bar: it’s only right I should be doing something useful too. You and Hayden can give me a bit more training.’
‘Well… all right. But get changed first – something presentable this time.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ Rhianna disappeared back into her bedroom to pick an outfit from the limited range she’d brought from home.
Or, not home; not any more. The six-bedroom house she’d occupied for the last eleven years was James’s home, not hers. Rhianna didn’t know where home was, now. Certainly not this place, with the five of them crammed in like pickled onions and Brooke giving her the evil eye every time they bumped into one another. Rhianna sensed even her mum felt uncomfortable having her here, although she often repeated that Rhianna should consider The Highwayman’s Drop her home. Which in one sense it was – one-third of the bricks and mortar belonged to her – but that didn’t stop Rhianna feeling like a stranger. She was too much an outsider to fit in with her family now. If she’d visited more often then perhaps it wouldn’t be such a culture shock, but James had hated her and the children to be away too long. Not enough to come with them, of course, but enough to ensure their brief visits happened no more than once a year.
The worst thing was the guilt she felt over how little time she and the children had spent with her dad in the years leading up to his death. When Rhianna had broken the news to Max and Livvy that Grandad had passed away, they’d been more puzzled than sad. Yes, she could blame James, but she should have insisted on more visits. That the children had barely grieved for their grandfather, that Rhianna had spent only a handful of weekends with her dad in the decade before he died, was her fault – no one else’s.
Rhianna caught sight of her cracked nails as she opened the wardrobe and grimaced. Dominique, her manicurist, would have a swooning fit if she could see them.
But what did nails matter, in the general scheme of things? What did anything matter, except making sure the children were going to be OK? Rhianna would be lying if she said she didn’t miss the luxury and comfort of her life with James, but there were worse things in life than chipped nails.
She rifled through her wardrobe, trying to guess what outfit Brooke would choose. Rhianna wasn’t sure she’d brought anything loud enough for bar work. There was only the black top she’d bought at Selfridges last month – that was tight-fitting, at least, and it had sequins on it. Anyway, it was going to have to do.
Today had been… difficult. The children had looked so lost and small when she’d left them at their new school, so frightened, that as soon as Rhianna had got back to the flat she’d just sobbed her heart out. After what Brooke had said last night, she was haunted by the idea that Livvy and Max might find themselves bullied for the way they spoke or acted. Children could be so intolerant of others’ differences. Her poor babies, alone among all those strangers!
She’d never forgive James for what he’d done to her – never. Ugh, it made her want to swear, to scream out some profanity, where everyone could hear her. That would shock them. It would shock James, who’d never seen her as anything but the perfect, passive housewife. What would he think if he heard her yelling out a really good, meaty ‘fuck!’ with all of her lungs? God, that would feel satisfying. And why shouldn’t she? Because she was Rhianna and not Brooke?
All her life, everyone had expected her to be the good one. Brooke got to spend her teens partying, screwing whoever she felt like and going out whenever she wanted, while Rhianna spent her nights studying alone. The pressure to achieve, to live up to her potential, had become almost unbearable. And for what? To keep house and raise kids for a man who for all she knew had been sleeping around on her the whole time?
For a minute, she almost did swear. Then… she didn’t. She just took off her blouse and started pulling on the sequinned top.
A hundred times that day, and on every day since she’d taken the children and run, Rhianna had asked herself if she was doing the right thing. The rage that filled her every time she thought about James Garrett – her husband, his parents’ golden boy, whiz kid marketing director, golf club captain and cheating scumbag – dissipated when she pictured him with the children. He hadn’t spent lots of time with them – he worked too much – but when he did make time for play, he was so good with them. They asked about Daddy every day, and he texted no less often demanding to know when they could set up some access visits so he could see his children. Rhianna was plagued with guilt that she’d taken Max and Livvy from the father they loved, the luxurious home he’d provided them with and the first-rate private education he paid for, to squat in a flat above a pub.
He’d texted her again this morning. Every day, new messages. It’s over with Shari now, I swear. Flops, I love you – please come home. I just want to talk. You owe it to the children. We can get help. For God’s sake, Rhianna, just see me! And every day Rhianna had looked at her children – sleep-deprived, pale and afraid – and now weakened just a little more as she tapped back, Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
If only Brooke would sell! The Highwayman’s was a lame duck; that much was clear from the accounts. If they sold now then Rhianna, her mum and sister would have over £300,000 each. As Janey had observed, a third of a million was a drop in the ocean compared to the wealth Rhianna had enjoyed as James’s wife, but you quickly remembered the value of money when you were flat broke. That kind of cash meant independence. A home of her own. A new start.
Rhianna could start afresh, guilt-free, and give her children a decent quality of life. Janey could enjoy her retirement – see the world, in all the luxury she deserved. And Brooke would have more than enough to get her started in another pub. Whereas if they held out now, they’d never get another offer like this. The Highwayman’s Drop would continue to flounder, and in a few years it’d be worth peanuts – if it didn’t plunge them all into bankruptcy.
But Brooke was too stubborn to even consider it. Despite what Rhianna wanted; what she needed, for her children. Despite what she could tell their mum wanted, although Janey refused to admit it. It was just so selfish!
That was Brooke all over, assuming that because her voice was the loudest, it must be the most important. When Rhianna had been young, she’d thought that brains were what mattered – that as long as you had those, you could get anywhere you wanted in life. Now she was an adult, she realised confidence would always get you further than any other quality, and that was one thing she’d never have. Brooke, of course, had the stuff in spades. It must have been a big joke to Mother Nature, doling out both their shares to just one sister.
So Brooke’s unquenchable hubris was going to run the business into the ground, and their mum was going to stand by and watch it happen. Rhianna knew, of course, that Brooke was Janey’s favourite child – the one who’d stayed; the one who most resembled her. So Rhianna would have to watch her hope of independence go up in smoke because her sister was too wilfully blind to see what was right in front of her.
She took a deep breath, counting to ten, before she got angry again and dashed her resolution to make more of an effort with Brooke.
Cuddling a flushed, sleeping Livvy in bed last night, Rhianna had promised herself that she was going to make life easier for them all by being more cooperative. Perhaps the pub was doomed, but it still had the potential to bring in more money – she’d seen a dozen ways they could be making savings when she’d gone through the accounts last night. So, when she’d heard Brooke emerge from her room, Rhianna had screwed her toes into her Louboutin flatties and gone out to offer some help.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d never admit it to Brooke, but in some ways she’d quite enjoyed working behind the bar last night. That boy Hayden was fun to chat to, and she’d got to know some of the customers a little, too. Far from her home and friends, with only Brooke’s glare for company, it had been refreshing to see friendly faces. No one had judged her for working behind the bar, as she’d feared, and people from all walks of life seemed to come through the door. Besides, working would keep her mind off her worries about the children until it was time to pick them up from school.
After a cursory glance in the mirror, Rhianna went down to the bar.
‘Didn’t you say Hayden was working today?’ she asked Brooke, looking around for him.
‘Yeah, he’s due in soon.’ Brooke frowned. ‘Why, what’s it to you?’
Rhianna laughed. ‘Oh my gosh.’
‘Oh your gosh what?’
‘You’re jealous.’
‘Don’t talk daft.’
‘You are! You like him, don’t you?’
‘Course I don’t. We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Well, I promise you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ Rhianna said. ‘Your boyfriend’s quite safe from me.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ Brooke lowered her voice as a rotund old gentleman headed their way. ‘And keep your voice down. Here’s Martin Brady. I’ll let you serve him.’
‘Um, hello,’ Rhianna said to Martin, flinching slightly. This was the bit she found difficult: the easy chat Brooke was such a natural at.
‘Afternoon, young ladies,’ Martin boomed. ‘Well, we are spoilt. All we need is your mam and we’d have a hat trick of beauties to gaze at. I suppose she’s in the kitchen, is she?’
‘That’s right.’ Brooke took down a glass and put it under the Boltmaker pump. ‘This is Martin’s drink, Rhia. Let’s see what you learned last night.’
Rhianna tried to remember what Hayden had taught her as she guided the pump towards her. She did her best, but she wasn’t sure she got it quite right. The beer she put down in front of Martin looked a bit foamy on top to her inexperienced eye.
‘Got a Flake to go in that?’ he asked her jovially.
‘Um, I’m not sure.’ She glanced at Brooke. ‘Have we?’
Brooke laughed. ‘It’s a joke, Rhia. He wants a top-up. Here, let me do it.’
She elbowed her sister aside so she could top Martin’s pint up for him.
‘That’s the stuff,’ he said, eyeing it appreciatively. ‘You pour nearly as good a pint as your mother, Brooke. She’s wasted in that kitchen.’
‘Oh, so you’ve tasted her cooking,’ Rhianna said with a smile. Martin gave a big belly laugh.
‘A looker like her should be out front where us lads can admire her,’ he said, picking up his drink. ‘Well, tell her I said hello. See you, girls.’
‘That was good,’ Brooke said, nodding approvingly. ‘You did banter, Rhia. I never knew you had it in you.’
‘Seems to me there’s a fine line between customer banter and sexual harassment.’
‘Sometimes. Martin’s harmless, though. He’s just from the past, when telling women they look fit was what passed for chivalry.’
They watched Martin pick up a Daily Mirror from the rack where today’s papers were kept and sit down.
‘He seems very interested in Mum,’ Rhianna observed.
‘Well, they’re old friends.’
‘Do you think he’s interested interested?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. I told you, that’s just the way his generation learned to talk to women.’
Rhianna watched Martin sipping his pint as he read the paper. ‘It’s early to be drinking on his own, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, he’ll probably be joined by the rest of the merry widowers in a bit,’ Brooke said.
Rhianna blinked. ‘The what?’
‘His mates. There’s four of them, they come in most days – sometimes on their own, sometimes together. They like to pop in for a chinwag with the staff and to enjoy a quiet pint over the paper. It beats being lonely at home, missing their other halves.’ Brooke nodded to a gaggle of people chatting animatedly. ‘And that’s the decorating committee for the 1940s festival, having a planning meeting over a drink. Over there are the leaders of the Explorer Scout group just back from their Queen’s Scout expedition, winding down with a pint. And old Billy Cromwell from Ryecroft Farm with his sons, and their sons, celebrating the fact they’ve just found out the next generation’s on the way. See, we provide a public service, Rhia.’
Rhianna looked around the various groups – their relaxed, happy faces – and for the first time had an inkling of what it was about The Highwayman’s her sister thought was special.
‘If everyone in Leyholme loves this place, why has business fallen off so much?’ she asked.
‘All right, don’t shout about it to everyone,’ Brooke said in a low voice. ‘I don’t know, do I? All the regulars come in same as always, but casual trade – walkers, holidaymakers – we’re not seeing so much of. And the regulars thin out a bit every year too.’
‘Why?’
Brooke smiled sadly. ‘Same reason you’re behind the bar and not Dad. No one lives forever.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘There’s a different sort of new blood taking the place of the old. The days when everyone knew everyone round here are gone, Rhia. Commuters love living in Leyholme, in the clean air with the moors all around them, but they do their socialising in the towns where they work. To them The Highwayman’s is just another boring country boozer. An old man’s pub, I’ve heard they call us.’
‘Really? That’s sort of sad.’
‘I know. But that just makes this place all the more invaluable as a social hub for those who do see it as the heart of the village.’
‘I can understand that.’ Rhianna nodded to the door. ‘Here’s your boyfriend.’
‘Oh, shut your face,’ Brooke muttered. But Rhianna saw her lips flicker.
‘Hello again,’ Hayden said to Rhianna when he joined them. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
She shrugged. ‘I was at a loose end with the children at school so I thought I’d make myself useful.’
‘Demon possession, I think,’ Brooke said in response to his enquiring eyebrow. ‘I’m hoping I can get her to change a barrel or two before a passing priest exorcises it.’
‘You still need me though, right?’ Hayden said, and Rhianna detected a certain appeal in his tone.
‘Of course I— we need you,’ Brooke said, quickly correcting herself. ‘I told you last night you were here to stay.’
One of the Explorer Scout leaders approached to get another round in.
‘I’ll get it,’ Hayden said, reaching for the Guinness tap at exactly the same time as Brooke. Their hands met, and he flushed as he snatched his away again. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem,’ Brooke said, looking flustered herself, and Rhianna suppressed a smile. There was definitely something going on between those two. Brooke had taken an awfully long time to lock up last night…
When the customer had taken his drinks, Hayden turned to them with his eyes sparkling.
‘OK, Brooke, so tell me to shut up if this is completely off the wall, but I had an idea,’ he said.
‘An idea about what?’
‘This place. What you said about—’ He cast a wary glance at Rhianna. ‘I mean, a way we can increase business. Possibly. Unless it’s stupid.’
Rhianna straightened up. ‘That sounds good. What is it?’
Hayden cast an enquiring look at Brooke, as if asking for her permission to speak.
‘It’s all right,’ Brooke said. ‘You might as well say it in front of her.’
Rhianna frowned. ‘And it’s my pub, thank you, Brooke.’
‘It’s a bit your pub.’ She nodded to Hayden. ‘Go on, what’s this amazing idea?’
He grimaced. ‘I’m worried I’ve built it up too much now. I wasn’t expecting an audience.’
‘Hayd, just tell us already. We’ve got lives to lead here.’
‘Well, um…’ He took a crumpled leaflet from his jeans. ‘I picked this up in the post office. It’s a map you can follow to learn about the village. The Leyholme History Walk.’
‘Yeah, I know it. You amble around and see such amazing sights as the blue plaque for some obscure poet who once had a piss behind a tree here and the site of the village stocks before someone nicked them for firewood. What about it?’
‘Well, this place is on it.’ He put it down on the bar and smoothed it out. ‘See? “The Highwayman’s Drop, Leyholme’s village pub, dates back to the 1600s. Once known as The Brown Boar Inn, it owes its current name to the local legend that Dick Turpin stayed there on his famous ride from London to York.”’
‘Let me have a look.’ Rhianna slid the leaflet towards her and read the section on the pub with interest. She’d heard the legend before, of course, but it had been a long time since she’d had cause to think about it.
‘I don’t get it,’ Brooke said to Hayden. ‘Everyone in Leyholme knows that. It’s just an old fairytale. The real Dick Turpin never even rode from London to York.’
‘All right, no need to piss on my bonfire quite so thoroughly,’ Hayden said, looking deflated. ‘I’d never heard it before. I just thought it was a good marketing angle.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be down on the idea.’ Brooke gave his arm a consoling pat. ‘It was a good suggestion, but it’s too old hat to help us much.’
Rhianna looked up from the leaflet. ‘No, Hayden’s right! We could use this, Brooke.’
‘Eh? How?’
‘What did you tell me before? Your regulars are loyal, but you’re struggling to bring in walkers and holidaymakers? Well, what do tourists love?’
‘You’re going to have to help me out with this punchline, Rhia,’ Brooke said. ‘I don’t know, what do tourists love?’
‘A story! If it’s a story with a bit of actual history in it then so much the better, but as the wife of a marketing director, I picked up a thing or two. One was that you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.’
‘All right,’ Brooke said cautiously. ‘How do we use it, though? Get the staff kitted out in tricorne hats and masks?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Still, there must be a way to make more of it. Some chalkboard artwork outside; theme up the food menu.’ She pulled one towards her. ‘OK, liver and onions. What could we do with liver and onions?’
‘Yuck,’ Hayden said, pulling a face. ‘Dunno, burn them with fire?’
Brooke frowned at him. ‘Hey. That’s our top seller, that is. It’s the only thing my mum can cook.’
‘What about…’ Rhianna thought for a moment. ‘… Stand and De-liver and Onions?’
Brooke snorted. ‘That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘People like cheesy, though. Everyone secretly enjoys a good groaner.’
‘People love cheesy.’ Hayden grabbed the menu from Rhianna. ‘All right, let me play. How about, um… Spotted Dick Turpin?’
‘Oooh, yes!’ Rhianna said. ‘Hey, this is fun. What about Black Bess Pudding?’
‘That sounds like it’s made from an actual horse, Rhia,’ Brooke said. ‘Rumours we’re feeding people horsemeat are the last thing our reputation needs on top of Mum’s cooking.’
‘There’s a brewery in York does a beer called Black Bess,’ Hayden said. ‘A stout. Why don’t we try that as a guest ale?’
‘And we could print some history leaflets for people to take,’ Rhianna said. ‘Maybe put a few in the local shops, see who we can lure in.’
‘But it’s not true,’ Brooke protested. ‘We’re going to get in trouble, putting fibs on our marketing materials.’
‘Brooke, that is marketing.’ A lightbulb dinged over Rhianna’s head. ‘Ooh! What about our own ghost?’
‘There’s no such thing as ghosts.’
‘A lot of people think there are. Come on, haven’t you ever noticed anything ghostly round here?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Mum lost her reading glasses last week. She swore she left them in the living room, but they turned up down here in the kitchen.’
‘There you go then. Conclusive proof.’
‘Whose ghost is it?’ Hayden asked. ‘Turpin’s?’
‘Of course,’ Rhianna said. ‘You need a celebrity, unless you’ve got some extra-spooky happenings involving mysteriously rocking cradles or twins in knee socks. There’s nothing worse than a Z-list ghost.’
‘I’ve got some twins I could loan you for a reasonable fee.’
‘Are they identical?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘No good then. It’ll have to be Dick.’
‘But they hanged him in York,’ Brooke said. ‘What would he be doing haunting this place?’
‘Maybe he really enjoyed the beer.’ Rhianna took out her phone to note down their ideas. ‘Anyway, that’s what we’re going to say on the leaflets.’
Brooke still looked doubtful.
‘I don’t know, you guys,’ she said. ‘We’re getting dangerously close to theme pub territory here. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, our dad used to say.’
‘Except it is broke,’ Hayden reminded her.
‘You know what I mean. It’s no good pandering to the occasional trade if it alienates our regulars. No matter how bad things might be, it’s the villagers who are our bread and butter.’
‘We won’t alienate anyone if we do it right,’ Rhianna said.
‘Hmm. I’m trying hard to keep this place out of the hands of a chain who I’m convinced want to suck out its soul. I don’t want to do that only to take it in the same direction myself. We’re not a novelty act for tourists.’
‘I’m not talking about making it a theme pub,’ Rhianna reassured her. ‘I’m just talking about changing the narrative.’
Brooke narrowed one eye. ‘Is that marketing speak?’
‘Yep. We take a story, we claim it, and we weave it into this place.’ Rhianna met her sister’s gaze. ‘Brooke, those people you pointed out to me earlier – this will still be a sanctuary for them. It’ll just have something unique to offer people from out of town. Serve a man a beer and he’ll drink it, enjoy it and go. Tell him a story and he’ll remember it all his life.’
‘We can give it a go, at least,’ Hayden said. ‘What have we got to lose?’
‘Well…’ Brooke hesitated, looking from one eager face to another. ‘All right. I guess we can try it out.’