5. Petit Chablis
A provocative little number with hidden bite.

“Gaynor! Not like that!” Claire moved rapidly and grabbed at the bottle of San Miguel that Gaynor was pouring into a tall glass. “You need to tip it.”

“Sorry.” Claire spoke to the guy the other side of the bar, shaking her head at the inches of froth. “Gaynor’s still training.”

Gaynor laughed. “They can’t get the staff.”

The guy laughed too, winked at Gaynor. “Oh, I think they can…”

Claire pulled a square of paper from a small pad and got down a fresh glass. “Take that down to the kitchen, will you?” she asked Gaynor, as she began to pour the beer herself.

Gaynor ran down the stairs and pushed open the swing door. Greens had been open a week and as usual the kitchen was hot, the air pungent with the smell of garlic. Sarah stood in a blue and white striped apron stirring something at the huge hob. Benjamin, in a white apron, was stacking plates into the dish-washer. Gaynor pinned the paper on the notice board above the stainless steel work tables.

“One tomato, peppers and mozzarella panini and a bowl of…”

Sarah swung round, her mouth a tight line of annoyance. “Not more bloody paninis. What’s wrong with these people? Is it national fucking panini day or something? Tell Claire there’ll be a wait – the machine’s so bloody slow.

Tell her to make them have lasagne – I’ve made all these bloody lasagnes and salads –” She waved an arm to indicate a row of earthenware dishes piled high with ripe tomatoes, onions, crisp green lettuce, couscous and coleslaw. “Why can’t they order something I can put in the microwave?”

Gaynor stepped back, momentarily thrown by the fury in Sarah’s voice. Benjamin, she noticed, had his head well down. He was a strange boy in some ways – obviously terribly intelligent with an old-fashioned, almost formal way of speaking. She’d already asked herself why he wanted to be working in a kitchen; now she wondered how he would cope with one so volatile and full of hormones. She tried to lighten things and laughed. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, anyway.”

Sarah glared. “It’s OK for you, hanging over the bar up there with all the blokes admiring your cleavage.”

Gaynor turned away. She’d taken ages to get ready, choosing her clothes carefully, trying to find an outfit that was sexy yet sophisticated, pretty but practical. She thought she’d hit it just right with the low-cut stretchy top and hipster jeans, hair off her face in a clip, chunky silver jewellery. Then Victor had told her she looked like Bet Lynch.

“I’m sorry!” Sarah walked through to the cellar and her handbag. “I’ve got a splitting headache.” She pulled out a foil card of pain-killers and popped two into her hand. “And I feel dreadful. You couldn’t check on the children could you?”

“Sure.” Gaynor saw no point in telling her that Charlie and Bel had been down three times already and – seeing Claire’s growing irritation – she’d loaded them up with crisps and after-dinner mints to keep them from doing it again. “Shall I bring you a drink?”

“Just a lemonade or something. And, Gaynor?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you drink too much either.”

* * *

Why ever not? Upstairs, Gaynor smiled at Mr San Miguel who’d already bought her a glass of Chablis. If customers wanted to get her drinks, what was wrong with that? More money in the till, which should please everyone, and she was a much better barmaid is she wasn’t too sober.

Mildly inebriated, she forgot about Victor being horrible and Chloe having a baby and was sparkling and welcoming, making the punters feel this was the place they most wanted to be. A lot of those walking through the door were down to her.

She’d invited everyone she could think of to the first night and since then had put cards through the door of every business, shop and des. res. property in Broadstairs. By the time they’d bought Greens there were only two customers left and one of those was the owner, Fergal, a drunken Scouser with a gammy leg and a good line in belching and falling over.

The other one was here now. A man of fifty or so with thinning hair, unbuttoned shirt and patchy chest, he’d first put in an appearance the day before the opening-night party. Gaynor remembered the way he’d winked at her with the sort of half-leer that suggested he might be in mid-circuit around the town’s full range of hostelries, and then headed determinedly towards the bar, lurching slightly as he skirted a bar stool, laid down his paper and rested his elbows on the counter. He’d smiled lopsidedly and leant his red face over the bar to Sarah.

“Open yet?”

“Seven tomorrow.” Sarah had turned on a smile, clearly longing to ask if he really thought she’d be serving in a paint-splattered man’s shirt and rubber gloves, to the backdrop of frenzied hammering from below.

“Ah yes.” He paused. “I thought I should come and introduce myself.” He held out a meaty hand. “Neville Norton at your service.”

Sarah had removed a Marigold and pressed the damp palm. “Pleased to meet you.”

He nodded. “I’m one of your regulars you know…”

“Lovely.” Sarah’s face was a picture of polite interest. “Well, we look forward to welcoming you later.”

“I am,” he enunciated with care. “A bit of a character around here…”

Gaynor had clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling but Sarah’s smile did not falter. “I’m sure you are.”

He stopped, looking at her, eyes rolling. “Fergal and I,” he said, trying to slide a buttock on to the stool and managing at his third attempt. “Go back a long way…”

Gaynor, snorting, had disappeared round the corner where Claire was securing invoices with a bulldog clip. “Who the hell is that?”

Claire had shut down the lid of her lap-top. “That,” she said, snapping an elastic band around the cash books in front of her, “is fifteen grand’s worth of goodwill.”

He was a little more sober this time. “You’re looking very lovely this evening,” he told Gaynor, almost without slurring. “I would like a glass of your very finest house red, and a black coffee.”

Grrr. Gaynor had so far avoided mastering the coffee machine – it looked far too complicated – so she smiled and took his money and waited for Claire to come back from serving the Panini Eaters who were sat in the restaurant area. It looked lovely back there – half a dozen heavy wooden tables along the walls with bench seats and smaller tables in the middle. All had flickering candles and a small spray of freesias. It looked relaxed yet intimate – the sort of place she’d have chosen to go and eat herself if she wasn’t the owner of the joint. The thought still gave her a warm glow.

Claire slapped a pile of menus back on the shelf under the bar. “OK, they’ve all got drinks, let’s teach you how to use this thing.”

Hmm. Gaynor would have preferred Claire to just do it for her but Claire was in full staff-training mode. Twenty minutes later, Gaynor delivered two cappuccinos to the kitchen.

“She made me keep doing it till I got the froth right,” she complained to Sarah. “Too much head on the beer, not enough on the coffee. Ever get the feeling I’m not a natural?”

Sarah was smiling again. “You’re fine,” she said. “What you lack in froth-levels you make up for with innate charm. And a great cleavage,” she added with a wink. They both laughed.

“Sorry Benjamin – does that embarrass you?” Sarah nudged at him as he stood chopping onions. “That’s the trouble with female bosses.”

“We’ll be sending you out for tampons next.” Gaynor giggled. “You know I always thought it would be so nice to be a hot-shot businesswoman with a male secretary I could send out on little errands. Would it make you squirm, Benjamin? Could you go to Ann Summers for me?”

Sarah laughed. “Don’t! Poor Benjamin. Don’t you go giving in your notice now will you? I need you! I’ll protect you from her. Hey, though, talking of Ann Summers – did I tell you what Suzie bought me as a flat-warming present?”

She rummaged in a cupboard, producing a pink cardboard box. She pulled off the lid.

Gaynor looked at the contraption inside and grinned. “Why’s it down here? Are you going to beat the eggs with it or something?”

Sarah laughed. “Or the double cream. I don’t want the kids getting hold of it, do I? Charlie would take it apart, Bel might do something unspeakable to the cat.”

“What do you do with it?”

They both examined the strangely-shaped mauve plastic. “I’m not entirely sure,” said Sarah, “but Suzie says it was last year’s top seller.”

Benjamin coughed. “This is quite surreal,” he said, beginning to snap the stalks from a pile of mushrooms.

Sarah shrieked with laughter. “Sorry Benjamin! This happens when you share a kitchen with a bunch of frustrated crones.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely fine. I’m not embarrassed at all,” he said, in his precise way. “I’ve got an older sister,” he added solemnly.

“I might need to borrow this.” Gaynor was still twisting the vibrator in her hands. It might be her only chance of a sex life the way things were going.

“Gaynor!” Claire’s voice resounded down the stairwell.

Gaynor thrust the box back at Sarah. “Whoops – stand by your beds!”

The bar was filling up. A group of girls came in and bought champagne. Gaynor recognised one of them as an ex-customer of La Bonne Femme – the boutique where she used to work. She couldn’t remember her name but knew she always spent a lot. She made a point of going over to their table for a chat. They were happy and giggly.

“The guys are joining us in a minute.” The girl from the boutique rolled her eyes in mock martyrdom. “It’s Alistair’s birthday!”

Gaynor had no idea who Alistair was but he clearly knew how to enjoy himself. He arrived minutes later, a tall red-haired Scotsman, who ordered three more bottles of Bollinger, paid cash and told her to keep the change.

“Come and have a wee glass with us!” he called as Gaynor collected empties from the next table. She was about to when Claire came past her, expertly balancing several plates of pasta.

She jerked her head. “You’ve got a customer.”

Gaynor turned her head. Sam the sign-writer was sat at the bar.

“A coffee, please,” he said, barely meeting Gaynor’s eyes. Claire stopped on her way back through with a tray of used glasses and went over to him. “The hanging sign’s brilliant – thank you very much.”

He nodded. He looked younger tonight, Gaynor thought. Bigger, somehow, more muscular. She imagined that, with his piercing blue eyes, thick fair hair and square jaw, he must have been quite striking once. Cheered by the attentions of the Birthday Boy, she felt suddenly flirty and frivolous.

“What sort of coffee would you like?” She leant forward a little and smiled. “Cappuccino? Espresso? Latte? I’ve been given the full low-down tonight. Or do you want to be my first customer for the double chocolate mocha surprise?” She winked at him. “The surprise is, I don’t know how to make it!”

Further along the bar, Mr San Miguel laughed appreciatively. “I’ll have two of them then, darlin`” He’d got a bit more vocal with each beer and was now looking rather red. He’d been joined by Neville Norton who’d bought a bottle of Cote de Rhone and asked for two glasses. Neville guffawed too, pouring his new pal a drink and swaying slightly.

Sam regarded her impassively. “Just a coffee.”

“Black? White?” She wondered why he disliked her so much. Was she losing her charms? Her husband stayed away to avoid her, and this guy who she’d hardly met wouldn’t even look at her. Was she destined now only to be attractive to the Neville Nortons of this world?

And why was it that when someone didn’t like her – even someone she couldn’t give a stuff about – she still felt the need to keep trying for approval? She knew it was stupid but couldn’t help herself. She made a fuss of piling sugar and biscuits into the saucer and laying the coffee before him solicitously, with her hugest, most beguiling smile. “Hope that’s OK for you.”

He returned her gaze without a flicker. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to get a smile out of him if it kills me,” she said to Sarah who had taken her apron off and come upstairs. “You done down there?”

“Leave the poor bloke alone.” Sarah poured herself a glass of Frascati. “Yeah, more or less. I’ve left Benjamin to finish off and do the floor.”

“Richard’s here.”

Sarah’s face brightened. “Is he?” She smiled at Gaynor. “I am sorry about earlier – it gets a bit fraught in the kitchen sometimes.”

“No problem. I popped up to the flat. Luke’s watching a video but the other two are asleep.”

Sarah gave her arm a squeeze. “Thanks.”

Claire was serving now so Gaynor went back to see the birthday group and the nice blonde girl who she’d remembered was called Terrie, and Alistair who was now singing along to Best of the Nineties and who held his arms out as Gaynor started to gather the empty bottles.

“It’s my birthday – who’s gonna dance with me?” He leapt to his feet and swung her round by the waist. “Come on baby…”

Gaynor laughed and twirled with him, feeling suddenly light-hearted again. They did a jerky, giggly circuit of the bar, almost knocking over a stool. Mr San Miguel clapped. Gaynor came to a breathless halt by Sam. “Want to dance with me?”

He shook his head.

“I will!”

Gaynor turned to see Danny grinning at her. He put a hand on her hip and drew her towards him. She wriggled away. “Got to clear up, really,” she said.

“Boring!” he called after her. He leant on the bar and turned the full force of his smile on Claire. “A glass of champagne please, gorgeous.”

Within five minutes, Danny had joined the birthday group and was sitting very close to the blonde with the tiniest dress. Sarah, it seemed, had made progress too. She was sitting on a bar stool at the side near the door, her glass on the narrow ledge that ran the length of the room, perched next to the elusive Richard who did actually appear to be talking to her.

Gaynor, who had had too much of Alistair’s champagne, grinned across at her and raised a thumb in approval. Sarah pretended she hadn’t seen but Gaynor saw her mouth twitch as she sipped demurely at her wine and listened attentively to whatever Richard was explaining so earnestly.

“Glasses, Gaynor?” Claire handed her a freshly-washed ashtray to put back on a table. “Check the others, will you?”

Gaynor cleared the wine goblets around Sam and made a display of emptying his ashtray. She noticed he smoked tiny roll-ups. She picked up his tin of tobacco and wiped a cloth underneath it. As she put it back, she draped a friendly hand on his arm. “OK there?”

He stiffened under her touch. “Yes, thank you.”

And then, knowing it was madness, but carried away on an alcohol-induced wave of who-cares, she said:

“Have you got a problem with me?”

He looked up. “No. Why should I have? I don’t know you.”

“But you don’t like what you see.”

His blue eyes bored into hers. “I don’t have feelings either way.” He swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and jerked his cup back into its saucer. Then he stood up, picked up his tobacco, lighter and book.

She stepped back. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“You haven’t.”

Gaynor could see Claire looking over and frowning. “Stay then,” she said desperately to Sam. “Stay and I’ll buy you another drink.”

“No, thank you, I have to go.”

“Go on.” She took hold of his arm.

“No!” He shook himself free.

Gaynor dropped her hands to her sides, feeling as if

she’d been slapped. Sam’s voice was curt as he headed for the door. “Goodnight!”

* * *

Gaynor sat on a box in the cellar blinking back the ridiculous tears that had sprung to her eyes.

“Come on,” said Sarah. “Every other bloke in the place would give their right arm for you. Why are you getting upset over one odd hermit? What’s really wrong? “

“Everything.” Gaynor put her head in her hands.

Sarah sat down on a beer crate next to her. “Look, things always seem worse when you’re drunk or tired.” Sarah looked exhausted herself. “Is it Victor? What’s happening?”

“God knows. He’s still away all the time.”

“But in fairness,” said Sarah, running a hand through her mop of hair, “he always has been away. He works in London – he’s stayed away ever since I’ve known you.”

“This is a different sort of staying away.” Gaynor knew she sounded childish and petulant. “He won’t talk to me and I know there’s something going on.”

“I keep telling you to talk to him.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

“Is he home tonight?”

“Yes, but…”

“Can one of you come and help?” Claire appeared with a tea towel in her hand.

Sarah sprang to her feet. “Oh God, sorry.”

“Come on,” she said to Gaynor. “We’ve got to clear up.”

Gaynor emptied the last of a bottle of Pinot Grigio into her glass. It was hardly worth saving. The last customer had gone and just the three of them were left. She’d been given the pumping to do which involved a lot of thrusting with a device like a balloon pump that extracted all the air from half-filled bottles. “Keep going till your arm hurts,” said Claire by way of instruction.

“How did you get on with Richard, then?” Gaynor picked up the last bottle of red and raised her eyebrows at Sarah. “You looked pretty cosy from here.”

Sarah busied herself rinsing the filters from the coffee machine. “He asked me when my night off was, actually.”

“And?”

“And I said we’re closed Mondays and he said, perhaps we could go for a drink…”

“Hey!”

“You know,” said Claire, coming up behind them with a tray of mixers. “I was thinking, we’ll have to stay open on the Monday of Folk Week. The town will be heaving. Can’t turn down an opportunity like that. Though it’s going to be a real marathon if we’re to do these breakfasts and lunches …”

“Breakfasts?” Gaynor raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, it’s all they had left and we want to be on the programme. We get a free ad then, too. So we’re Poetry Breakfasts. As far as I can tell, we just have to do some scrambled eggs or something while various Folksy types stand up and spout their stuff.”

She shrugged as Gaynor pulled a face. “Well, I think we need to be part of it if we can. Digger from the Nickleby says he takes more during Folk Week than he usually does in a month.” She leant down and began to slot bottles into the rack beneath the bar. “So, if you can manage some shifts, Gaynor… I’ve made a chart on the computer for the whole eight days. I’ll be putting it up shortly.”

“It’s going to be a nightmare,” said Sarah. “We’ll be open from eight a.m. till midnight. Don’t know when we’re meant to do anything else.”

Gaynor looked at her. “What about the kids?”

“They’re staying with Mum. My poor Dad will be hiding down the garden again.”

“I think,” said Claire, fixing her eyes on Sarah and not looking at Gaynor at all, “that we ought to draw up some staff guidelines. You know things like time-keeping and not drinking behind the bar.”

Gaynor gave the Rioja a last pumping and rubbed her arm. “Is that directed at me, by any chance?” she asked, taking a swallow from her glass and forcing a smile.

“No, no, not at all,” said Claire hastily, “though I do think we need to set a good example. I mean I don’t think it gives a good impression if staff are swigging away behind the bar, and the till is always the first thing to go. That’s when the wrong change gets given out and…”

Gaynor leant down and got a fresh bottle of white from the fridge. “OK,” she said, “I’ve got the message.”

She walked across the little square opposite the bar and up the winding path to the esplanade. She felt tired and heavy and chilled. As she closed her denim jacket across her chest her breasts felt tender. She looked at the moon, thought about howling at it and did a little mental calculation. Maybe that was why she was a bit doo-lally today. Her cycle! She suddenly remembered she hadn’t filled in Mr BradleyLawrence’s chart for days.

She walked past the dark bulk of Bleak House, its turrets black against the night sky. Funny to think of Charles Dickens beavering away there at David Copperfield. Another book she’d never read. They’d done Great Expectations at school – she’d liked that – but somehow most of the classics had passed her by. When Victor wanted to be nasty he would jibe at her lack of education. He’d pick up whatever she was reading and say “What’s this?” as if it were the worst sort of transgression to be reading romance.

“Perhaps if I got some at home…” she thought sourly. She walked past the two fisherman’s cottages and the old wooden shelter overlooking the sea. Then her heart jerked in fear. A tall figure appeared out of the darkness of the shelter and blocked her path. She gave a small scream, the sound coming out of her mouth before her brain had registered who it was.

“Jesus – you frightened me!”

Danny laughed. “Bit jumpy, aren’t we! Thought I’d give you a lift home.”

“Didn’t you score then?”

“Didn’t want to. I only have eyes for you!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I wanted to save you a walk.”

“It’s OK, thanks – I need the exercise.”

His eyes shone in the street light as he regarded her with amusement. “You look cold to me. You’re shivering. Come on, the car’s just over there.”

“I’d better not. Victor…”

“It’s just a lift – I won’t drive you to Joss Bay car park and jump on you.” This dark area on the top of the cliff just past where she lived was a hot spot for groping couples. Danny looked Gaynor up and down and grinned. “Much as I’d like to.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said, as he started the engine of his red Porsche Boxter. He’d had a black one last time, she was sure. “I used to like our little chats.”

Gaynor didn’t reply. She fastened her seatbelt and sat with her handbag on her lap, grateful to be driven the rest of the mile home but slightly apprehensive.

“How’s the bar going?” he said conversationally.

She glanced sideways at him. He was attractive and good company, had a bob or two. No wonder women fell at his feet. But now – he would always make her feel uncomfortable.

“Do you want a coffee at my place on the way?” he asked hopefully as he got to the end of the seafront and headed towards North Foreland .

“I’d better not. Victor will be waiting for me.”

“Mmm, if I was him, I certainly would be.”

“Can you stop here?” She sat up straighter as he prepared to swing round into her road. She didn’t know if Victor would really be up, but if he was, the last thing she needed was to roll up in Danny’s car.

“Sure thing.” He pulled into the side of the road. “You know where I am if you ever want to pop round,” he said, leaning out and putting a hand on her knee. “If you want to take up where we left off…”

She wandered along the grass verge opposite the inky sea and turned into her driveway. She’d already seen that the bedroom light was still on. She looked up at it now in hope. Victor awake and waiting for her? She crunched her way over the gravel. Perhaps that would put right the shameful embarrassment of what she’d put herself through with Sam this evening. Danny might want her but then he was hardly choosy. The expression on Sam’s face was still burned hotly on her memory. She cringed as she thought about it.

But perhaps Victor would have come back to her. Perhaps tonight when she got into bed…

She could see Mr Bradley-Lawrence’s chart now:

Tits – sore

Ego – bruised

Marriage…?

The light above her was abruptly switched off as she got her key out.

Marriage – no change there then…