Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

tells me that, yep, Pen is right. Her husband is a prick. He holds out a hand which I pretend I haven’t seen as I start to cough uncontrollably on the choking smell of expensive aftershave.

‘See, I told you to stop putting so much of that overpriced crap on,’ Pen says, jutting her scowling head out towards him. He laughs and waves her off, continuing with his assigned duties for the night. She points to a wheelbarrow filled with ice, cans and bottles. ‘Beers and soft drinks in there.’ Tapping her fingers along the top of the bottles on the table, she names each of the spirits on offer. ‘Oh, and in this jug here, is my special Pimm’s recipe. Watch what the youngsters are drinking. I don’t fancy cleaning up the after-effects of teenage alcoholic gluttony. Oh, and that there,’ she points to a highball tumbler, ‘is my attempt at a Long Island iced tea.’ I thought Harry’s friend asked for three, but he only wanted two, so have it if you want. I’m more of a Pimm’s girl myself.’

Thanking her, I take a sip of her potent creation which makes me cough nearly as much as her husband’s aftershave. She’s been far too liberal with the tequila, or maybe the rum? It’s been ten years since I played bartender. Way back during the early days of Jim and me when I was a student, and he worked in the City. The days when he tried to woo me with his lavish lifestyle and generous bank account but, much to his annoyance, I insisted on working part-time in a local bar to pay my way.

After a while, a young couple – early twenties – approach us. Hands clasped, shoulders touching, they ask what cocktails are on offer. I scan the spirits and reply, ‘I could make a Mojito or a Cosmopolitan.’ There are several others I could add to my offering, but best to keep things simple.

They glance at each other and chorus, ‘Mojito,’ laughing together with a chemical blend of affection which makes me stop and stare. The woman relaxes her head on the man’s shoulder. He glides her in front of him and enfolds her in his arms. She giggles with the thrill. He lifts her off her feet as Bruno Mars’s “Just the Way you Are” blares from the speakers. I look away, her squeals of laughter evoking painful nostalgia for the couple Jim and I once were. That song came out in 2010. It was our song. It was played at our wedding. My stomach flips, the memories of his accident torturing me. All the long hours I sat at his bedside clinging to his hand, humming this tune, singing the lyrics, desperately trying to provoke a reaction in him. A twitch of his lips, a blink of his eye, anything to let me know he was still with me. I sidestep to look around the people queuing for drinks to find him. Jim is talking to Sasha but leans aside in his chair to mouth he loves me.

Pete interrupts. ‘You’ve done this before,’ he says with a creepy smile which, I’ve noticed, he saves for the females. A smile sure to offend the wrong woman. I’ve also clocked the way he stares at them that little bit too long.

Time to find out a little more about this man.

‘Not for many years, but you don’t forget.’ We exchange friendly banter, and I ask him where he works.

‘I’m a commodities trader,’ he replies in a manner that suggests I should be impressed. ‘For a firm in the West End.’

Walking over to the wheelbarrow, I ask about his job, acting like I give a damn. I pick up a beer and offer him one.

‘Not for me. I’m racing tomorrow.’

‘Racing?’

‘Yes. I’m running a ten kilometre up in Hyde Park tomorrow.’

‘For charity?’

‘Usually for the kids’ cancer unit at Great Ormond Street, but it’s for Pride tomorrow.’

He’s not all bad.

We serve several guests and Harry appears. He slurs his words, looking at me. ‘Double vodka and tonic and a can of Coke.’

Pete butts in as if Harry had requested him. ‘Coke,’ he exclaims, ‘on your eighteenth? What’s wrong with you?’

‘It’s for Luke. He’s on video duty. Can’t have distorted memories of tonight.’

‘I thought the only coke your age group participated in was of the powdered variety,’ Pete guffaws.

‘What about all your other friends?’ I ask. ‘Anything for them?’

‘I’ll let them get their own,’ Harry says.

‘Are they friends from school?’

Harry nods. ‘Mostly.’

I serve his drinks, and when there’s no one left waiting, I remove my apron. I need to find Jim. He’ll be wondering where I am. Plus I need the toilet. ‘I’m sure you can cope without me now.’

‘No, please stay,’ Pete says. ‘It’s always good to get to know the neighbours’ friends a little better.’

‘Maybe later if it gets busy again,’ I say, looping the apron back around the bookcase.

‘Let me at least make you a drink,’ he says, picking up the vodka.

I tell him not to worry. After Pen’s heady creation, I’ll stick to the beer. Delving into the wheelbarrow, I root through the ice and pick out a bottle of Bud. Once I’ve left him, I turn to confirm my suspicions. Yep, he’s still perving after me like a lecherous old git.

The queue for the toilet snakes out of Sasha’s studio. I search for her to ask if I can go into the house, stopping to watch Luke, now meandering around with his video recorder. The way he manoeuvres himself fascinates me – such a skilful manipulator of the lens. He stops here, pauses there, zooming in and out like a seasoned pro. Harry staggers towards him, his bow tie unravelled and hanging around his neck. He slaps a hand on Luke’s shoulder and says something, and they both burst into laughter.

As I peer around for Sasha, I see her slip into the house with Annie. Great, I’ll be able to use the loo inside.