While finishing her pint, DCI Emma Gardner regarded the tapestry on the wall in front of her; carefully woven woollen and silken threads depicted Knaresborough Castle. Knights, readied for battle, occupied the scene’s foreground.
When her empty pint glass was back down on the solid wood table, she panned her gaze to the bar where her colleague was ordering their next round and smiled. There was nothing Gardner enjoyed more than a mid-week pint or two in an olde-worlde pub.
Having been born and raised in the southern medieval city of Salisbury, rustic drinking holes were part of her tapestry. And Blind Jack’s, with its beamed ceilings and flagstone floors, reminded her so dearly of home.
The only element that disappointed up here, in Yorkshire, was the ale.
There weren’t many ales in the world that stood a chance against Summer Lightning, a golden ale produced locally by Hopback Brewery in Wiltshire. Since being seconded to North Yorkshire eighteen months ago, Gardner had contended with many new flavours before gravitating towards the local delicacy of Yankee – a pale ale brewed by Rooster’s Brewing Company. Despite not even coming close to Summer Lightning, she wondered if, in time, she could grow to love it. In the same way she’d come to love Yorkshire itself.
Her thoughts on Salisbury gave her a momentary feeling of homesickness, and she realised then that maybe the choice of ale and décor wasn’t the main reason for sudden nostalgia.
Maybe it was the freedom she’d enjoyed back then? To hit the local taverns after a day’s graft and dissolve everything into a blur; or shoot ideas back and forth over a current case.
Such freedom, these days, was proving to be way out of her budget.
Recently divorced, Gardner was bringing up two young girls. Her eight-year-old daughter, Ana, and her nine-year-old niece, Rose. Although reasonably well-paid as a DCI, her often erratic hours, combined with a lack of any family in the area, made it necessary to employ Monika Kowalska, an au pair from Poland. Add to that, her grace period of accommodation provided for her with her secondment had expired, and rent was through the roof.
Yes, things were bleak, and getting bleaker.
So, five plus pints of beer several nights a week in a pub was an indulgent freedom that was out of the question. For now, she thought with a grin, let’s stick with once a week, and see how we go.
She looked through the window at the monolithic, glamorous tree in the market square, and felt the bubbles of anxiety. The costs associated with entertaining two young children at Christmas were not to be sniffed at.
Really, I shouldn’t be here at all, and I wouldn’t be if not for—
Lucy O’Brien put the pint glass down in front of Gardner. ‘Wonder if this one slips down as quickly as the last one?’
Gardner smiled. ‘I’m happy to try it.’
Because there’s nothing I enjoy more, Gardner thought, staring into O’Brien’s eyes, than your company right now.
O’Brien held her gaze and returned the smile, causing Gardner to feel her usual spike of guilt and look away.
O’Brien was late twenties, and so considerably younger than her. She was also a detective constable, which made Gardner her superior.
Two red flags.
Two red flags that were ignored when O’Brien had asked her out for a drink three weeks back.
And had continued to be ignored every week since.
Gardner wasn’t gay, had never considered herself gay, and still couldn’t really believe that this possibility was on the table. But O’Brien’s company was having a profound effect on her. It was undeniable. Intoxicating.
And, as for O’Brien, well, she was openly gay. She’d also dropped many hints that she’d had a crush on Gardner that she was convinced she wasn’t misreading. Whereas flirtatious smiles, brief touches on the arm and long social conversations in her office could be passed off as an extremely close friendship, some of O’Brien’s most recent moves had just been too telling.
She’d been there for Gardner at every turn.
Every rough turn.
Above and beyond.
Whether that be to provide her with a cereal bar for breakfast in an incident room when Gardner’s nights had got late and fraught; or, after the breakdown of her marriage, providing herself as a shoulder to cry on; and, more recently, and far more significantly, taking her children to stay with her sister when Gardner worried that there may be some kind of threat at their own home.
Gardner took a large mouthful of her drink. Three weeks into this social arrangement, she realised Yankee was, in fact, tasting better. ‘I could get used to this.’
‘The beer?’
‘Yes, I—’ She broke off after catching O’Brien’s raised eyebrow. What’re you implying? ‘But the company stands up too.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Christmas was always impossible to ignore. Whether it was the lit-up tree that dominated the market square, or the tinsel that adorned the old bar, it always found its way to you. Conversation invariably turned in that direction, and when O’Brien said she was spending it alone, Gardner spoke without thinking. ‘Monika is going home to Poland. Come and have Christmas dinner with me and the girls.’
Wow… had she really just said that?
She picked up her pint and drank. Several mouthfuls in, she glanced at O’Brien, who was beaming.
What am I doing?
‘It really is slipping down faster than the last one, isn’t?’ O’Brien said and chuckled.
Gardner put the glass down and looked at it. ‘Been a long week. What am I saying? It’s always a bloody long—’
She felt O’Brien’s fingers on her arm.
Another innocuous touch?
But if so, why am I tingling all over?
‘The girls would love it if you came.’
‘So would I.’
Shit, Gardner thought, tempted to finish her pint, but holding back, knowing how ridiculous it’d look to throw it back in so short a time.
She smiled at O’Brien.
Intoxication.
What the hell am I doing?