Page 14 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Six
GEORGINA
If it wasn’t for his celebrity status she’d have been utterly humiliated. Six people turned up for the official opening night.
Just six!
And one of those was Heather. It was like a sketch out of a very bad comedy.
“There will be one rule in this bar and one rule only,” River announced. “I’ll never serve you more than two cocktails of an evening.” A flurry of muffled voices ensued. “Why?” he paused until he’d regained their attention, “because the cocktail is to be savoured, not devoured. The construction of a cocktail is a work of art; the degustation of a cocktail is an evening at the theatre. You wouldn’t eat a three course meal during thePhantom of the Opera; in the same way, you won’t drink three courses of cocktails in this bar.”
Fabulous, there went all of Georgina’s future tips every time a starry-eyed customer thought he was in with a chance with her. What a stuck up thing to say. People knew their limits when it came to drink. You might get away with this in some swanky speakeasy in the capital, the kind of place ‘the other half’ visited before theirsoireein a plummy theatre, but in a small town like this, it was an insult that would only drive away footfall. He should have run this past her first. She’d soon have persuaded him to up it to four. Two cocktails did not comprise a night out. This was beyond ludicrous.
She gave him a conspiratorial nod to keep up the charade anyway. What else could she do?
Yes, her own reputation in this gossip-rife town might be at stake now, but she was doing this for Blake – and her dad. She just had to stick with it. There was still time to turn things around. If nothing else, the hearsay that wended its way out of here tonight was going to prick up so many only-too-willing-ears to put his outlandish theory to the test.
The gathered ensemble clearly didn’t know whether to huddle at one table to avoid the mortifyingly, socially embarrassing phenomenon of rattling around at a party, or to do just that, flinging themselves far and wide to create the illusion of roaring success. How the first floor of the bar would ever be populated, she had no idea.
Georgina needed a tipple to deal with this herself, but instead she held her head high, remembering beauty’s power to take the edge off disappointment. Ever the hospitality pro, she sashayed over to a couple of decidedly middle-aged ladies who had evidently just finished work, dressed as they were in their hideous High Street travel agents’ regalia.
“What can I get you, girls?” she prompted, notebook at the ready. River had asked her to try to memorise cocktail names, said it looked more authentic that way, but it was hardly going to make or break business if she did jot them down, and besides, it was still early days as far as her own training went, some of these creations had some unnecessarily complicated titles.
“We just can’t decide,” said the older one. “What does your sexy bartender over there recommend?” the ever-so-slightly younger one chimed in, unable to tear her besotted eyes off River as he needlessly demonstrated his showy pouring skills in the background, only adding to their collective pool of drool.
Georgina felt her hackles rise, and a twinge of a distant relative to jealousy stir in the pit of her stomach. Was this what she was going to have to contend with every night? He was hers,all hers, and as much as that was simply part of a revenge-fuelled plan, she was not used to sharing her treats with anybody, and not about to start.
“Why don’t I ask him to surprise you then? Yes, what a great idea,” she said, catching River’s eye in a moment of perfect synchronicity and walking back to the bar before they had chance to protest.
“They’ve asked for two Earthquakes,” she said, slapping her notebook down on the counter and letting her pen catch up with her mischief.
“But that’s not even on the menu,” said River, clearly alarmed at the strength of their choice.
“Well, these ladies do seem very experienced when it comes to their spirits. Best give them what they’ve asked for. I’m just as surprised as you are, but we can’t be discerning or sexist when it comes to serving up Absinthe. There’s a very good reason they let it back into the States in 2007.”
“I’m impressed, George… Georgina,Georgina.”
She scowled.
“You are a little powerhouse of knowledge, aren’t you?” he winked, and then heard the laughter coming from the travel agents’ table which clearly helped to back up their letting-their-hair-down choice of drink. “Hopefully they’ve both got a day off tomorrow.”
He turned to find a couple of Champagne coupe glasses and Georgina breathed an imaginary sigh of relief. This was going to be entertaining all right.
While she waited for River to prep their drinks, she made for the table nearest the window quickly realising she’d committed the ultimate faux pas by tending to local resident, Lord Rigby-Chandler’s order, only second. Why hadn’t she noticed him sooner wearing his trademark bowler hat and hideous silk dandelion yellow scarf, whose reflection gave him a complexion to rivalThe Incredible Hulk?
Naturally, her charm would make up for that.
“So wonderful to see you here this evening with your charmingly dressed wife, my Lord.” She stooped to air kiss Lady Rigby-Chandler first, spinning on her heel and smiling sweetly at her husband – who no doubt wished he was several years younger, minus the girth, double chin and doormat eyebrows, and cocktailing now alone. He took her hand and shook it eagerly, reluctant to let go, also no doubt imagining what her young silken paws were capable of doing to his anatomy.
Disgusting creature, she could read him like a book.
She took their orders anyway and Heather chimed in with hers as she made her way back to the bar: “a Ginger Rabbit, please for me, Georgina love.”
She couldn’t help but laugh inwardly at that. River had told her all about his mother’s penchant for the ‘grounding properties of ginger’, which is why he’d had no choice but to feature at least one cocktail in the menu granting it the leading role. Ginger, star anise, bourbon, Crème Yvette – whatever in god’s name that was – black tea-infused syrup, angostura bitters and lemon peel? No thank you. That was one creation she definitely wouldn’t be sampling.
“Lord Pervert over there has ordered a Trafalgar Punch – something I wouldn’t mind giving him the honour of myself, and her Ladyship requests a Kir Royale; poor woman having to wake up tothatin the morning.”
“Do you mean to tell me we have actual aristocracy in here on opening night? Oh. My. God. Had I known I’d have asked him to do the honours and cut the red ribbon… just don’t tell my mum… I mean, she did a grand job and all – well, with the exception of picking up that blunt pair of kitchen scissors and you having to help her hack at the material midway through the deed – but he could have got us into the paper… and beyond, for all the right reasons this time.”
