Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) by Elizabeth Kyne (ap literature book list .TXT) 📗

its abundance of buckles into thepassenger footwell and jumped in.

‘Bad weekend?’I asked.

‘Bad week.’ Sherolled her eyes in a 'don't ask' kind of way and reached for theseatbelt. ‘Are we going or what?’

I turned theignition. My trusty eight-year-old Fiesta roared into life. ‘ThePlough?’

‘ThePlough.’

If you didn'tknow the pub was there, you wouldn't know the pub was there (if youget my drift). It's set back off the Tring Road, just by the Essogarage, so despite being on a busy route out of the town centre,it's reasonably quiet. The car park was about half full so Islotted into a space near to the entrance without a problem.

My nostrilsfilled with the smell of cooking beef as soon as I opened the cardoor. It's primeval power went straight to my stomach, making meinstantly hungry. The pub sign, with its picture of a rack of ribsoozing with barbeque sauce, served only to intensify my belly'sdesire to be fed.

We both gotout, I locked the car with a bleep and flash of indicators, and weheaded inside.

‘Thanks for thelift,’ said Sheila, swinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘If youchange your mind and want a drinkie, we can take a taxi back. Youcan kip at my place if you like.’

‘I've got worktomorrow.’

‘So haveI.’

‘Going in on myfirst day with a hangover isn't quite the impression I want togive.’

She laughed.‘Rach, you're so straight sometimes.’

If I wasstraight, I wouldn't be going to the pub on a Sunday night when Ishould be at home putting my feet up and ironing my blouse ready tomake a good impression at the office. But if I was going to haveany sort of social life at all in Aylesbury, I needed to startgoing out.

The pub itselfwas surprisingly large inside. Its high ceilings and generous floorarea gave it a feeling of space. A family was tucking into largeplates of burgers and chips at one of the tables to our left. Mystomach stabbed me with another pang of hunger.

‘Drink?’ saidSheila as we approached the bar.

‘Sparklingwater, please. No ice. But a slice of lemon if they have it.’

Sheila rolledher eyes again, but she ordered my drink without further commentand got a large glass of chardonnay for herself. Drinks in hand, wewalked round the bar to a kind of antechamber at the back wherefour tables were tucked away. Around one of them, a group oftwenty-something blokes in football shirts were being loud anddrinking beer. Behind them, to the right of an old brick fireplace,a woman on her own jumped up when she saw us.

‘Sheils!’ shesquealed. She got up and they hugged. She was a big woman with anample cleavage billowing out of her tight top.

‘This isRachel, the friend I told you about. Rachel, this is Gayle.’

I smiled at thebig woman and we shook hands awkwardly.

‘Sheils tellsme you've been living up north for the last millennia,’ said Gayleas we sat down. She pronounced it 'oop north' in that cod Yorkshireaccent that southerners find inexplicably amusing.

Being a nativesoutherner myself, I tried not to be offended. ‘The Midlands,really,’ I said.

One of the barstaff brought over a towering plate of salad with grilled chickenand bacon bits sprinkled on top. Gayle caught the woman's eye.‘That's mine.’ And took it from her.

My stomachgrowled like an angry dog overdue its supper.

Gayle picked upher fork. ‘Don't mind if I...?’

We didn’t. Andso, while she tucked into her dinner, I picked up a menu which hadthe same enticing picture of glistening spare ribs on the front.They were tempting, but the thought of getting barbeque sauce downmy arm in front of Sheila's friends suggested I should really gofor something less messy.

‘What are youhaving?’ said Sheila. ‘My treat.’

‘No,’ I said,reaching for my purse. ‘You got the drinks.’

‘A sparklingwater? Hardly going to break the bank.’

I perused thepages. ‘I don't know...’ Everything looked nice. ‘A burger?’

‘Two burgersthen.’

Sheila wentback to the bar to order, leaving me alone with Gayle and her largeplate of salad.

‘So,’ she said,licking ranch dressing from her lips. ‘Have you got a fella?’

The word 'no'stopped at my throat like a cough that wouldn't come. I rememberedthe fun I'd had that morning. ‘Darren,’ I said.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Husband.’

By the timeSheila had returned from the bar holding her receipt for twoburgers, I'd told Gayle all about my fairytale wedding at thecastle in Italy. ‘Sheils, you didn't tell me your friend wasmarried?’

I shot Sheila awarning glance. She looked at me with confusion, but got themessage and acted all innocent. ‘Didn't I?’

‘What aboutyou, Gayle?’ I said, getting in quick before Sheila gave the gameaway.

She grunted.‘Divorced. Frankenstein has the kids at the weekend.’

‘Frankenstein?’

‘Her ex,Frank,’ Sheila explained.

‘I call himFrankenstein because of the little monsters he created. You havingkids, Rachel?’

With my agedbody? Unless I got hitched real soon, babies would be out of thequestion. ‘Me and Darren have talked about it, but...’

‘Don't,’ saidGayle. ‘I thought Jimmy and Joe were rascals when they were two.But at twelve and thirteen...’ she shook her head. ‘Boys!’

Gayle stabbedat a cherry tomato with her fork. The prongs slipped on the skinand the little red missile shot across the table. I parriedsideways and it flew past my arm.

Sheila giggledinto her wine. When she laughs she sounds like a constipated hyena.It set us all off. I laughed until I felt the bubbles of mysparkling water coming back up through my nose.

‘God!’ Isnorted, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. ‘And I'm not evendrunk.’

‘We can soonfix that,’ said Sheila. ‘How about some red wine?’

I gave her ahard stare. We'd already had that discussion.

Sheilashrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

By the timeClaire arrived, Gayle had set us off laughing about something else.Claire was younger than the rest of us, probably in her earlythirties, and was the only one in a proper relationship. She had asix month old baby at home which she'd just got off to sleep andleft with her genuinely real husband.

The last memberof the group to arrive was Katy, pushing forty and single in nameonly because of her long standing ‘dull as dishwater’ boyfriend.They'd been together for five years, but still maintained separatehomes as if their relationship were based on convenience ratherthan love. Her straggly dyed blonde hair reminded me of how I usedto