Page 20 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Nine
RIVER
“Do you like it like this?” River beamed at Georgina as she bent over to reveal a sneaky peek of her black lace thong beneath her increasingly short peplum skirt. “Or would Sir prefer it a little higher,” she said, sliding the poster advertising ‘BOOK CLUB NIGHT’ further up the window with her right hand, and the hem of her skirt further up her body with her left, leaving very little to the imagination.
“Definitely higher,” he replied, arms wrapped around her now, oblivious to the fact the blinds too were rolled up, so their frolicking was on full-on display to a rain-soaked and windswept High Street.
“So, do you think it will work?” he asked, and she span round to reward him with a speedy peck on the lips, before hopping off the windowsill with the grace of a dainty sparrow.
“You’ve nothing to lose, but in all honesty, a book club… in a cocktail bar… in Glastonbury? It’s ever so slightly bonkers.”
“Well cheers for the vote of confidence.” He came at her again with that embrace.
“Hey, I never said it was impossible but, Riv, I think you’ve forgotten what this town is all about.” She pulled away and started to get animated with Latino-style hand movements. “Look around you. We’re surrounded by bongo drum shops, tarot cards and incense. It’s not London or Manchester. It’s not some quaint little Devonshire village either. And then there are the townies… and they’re hardly anyone’s definition of literati.”
“Ah c’mon, people still read here.” He found himself throwing his arms wide open like Pavarotti now, too.
“Yeah,Fifty Shades of Greyand the ilk, orThe Encyclopedia of Faeries and Goddessesat the other end of the spectrum – no offence to your mum – but it’s nothing worthy of analysis and debate.”
“Okay then, let’s make this interesting.” He marched to the other side of the bar, slammed two Tequila shot glasses onto the counter and began to encrust their rims with pink Himalayan salt, an act that would have the masters of his trade more up in arms than a cocktail battle. “Since we’re on the subject… I will make love to you… dressed up as a…a… well,” he brought his fist to his chin deep in thought, sensing the intrigue lighting up those sexy eyes, “as a superhero, yes, a caped crusader… of madam’s choice… depending of course on whatAmazonhave got in stock… if at least five people – non-family or friends, honorary human beings – show up.”
She threw her head back and let out a wild Cruella De Ville cackle, to which he simply shook his head in response, filled their glasses, and then nudged hers across the bar.
“I don’t want you to lose, babe… and I can’t deny the thought of you coming to my rescue totes turns me on,” she said through her pout when she was finally able to compose herself, glass clinking against his, where there she let it rest just a second or two before swinging it operatically to her lips, her defiant emblem of him almost succeeding in having his fill. “But lose you will.”
***
One week later…
“Well, I think it’s a truly fantabulous idea. Just what this town needs.” A willowy multiple-layered Jane Austen Bourdaloue-skirted bespectacled women of senior years fluttered her spidery, cartoon, violet eyelashes at River as she attempted in vain to perch herself on a bar stool.
“It took me no time at all to round up my four ladies and I can assure you, darling, we’ll be a regular fixture every fortnight, come rain, shine or even snow; such a marvellous venue in which to discuss our bi-monthly literary pickings – with a tipple of the exotic or two and a view of one thoroughly dashing gentleman, of course.”
River didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, especially as Georgina had clocked on early for her shift, no doubt hoping to point score and prove his optimism wrong. He chewed on his smile as he imagined what he was going to do to her later – not that she’d revealed her choice of costume yet. She was too good to be true; no strings, adventurous sex on tap, a friend to have a laugh with. Just the tonic he needed to ease him back into local life, to almost take his mind off the impending mission, and the kitchen window ‘thing’, as well as the constant urge to look over his shoulder for hedge-hiding photographers. Miraculously, it appeared Blake was also completely unfazed by her new employment – none the wiser as to what she was getting up to in somebody else’s bed besides.
He let his smile have his way with him in a bid to select some appropriate preamble. “This is exactly the positive reaction I hoped my idea would have. I’m a passionate bibliophile myself. Just wish I had more time to indulge in the written word. A bar full of highly educated – and equally classy women,” he stopped to swallow his deceitful words away, “it not only sends my heart a flutter, but eases my own lack of reading time guilt.”
“Darling, you’re too kind.” Jane Austen extended her hand and River’s stomach catapulted, wondering whether this was an invite to brush it with his lips – he did anyway, cursing himself for being so two-faced, careful to avoid herTwigletfingers, should they snap in half.
“Now then, what can I get you all to drink? These are paid for by the way.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t but we’ll gratefully oblige.”
She swivelled and put two fingers – whose apparent fragility belied their strength – to her over-painted coral lips producing an enviable whistle to attract the attention of the rest of her group.
“Open your menus, girls. Mr Jackson is granting us our first drinks on the house.”
A hubble bubble of cheer brewed at the corner table as the realisation illuminated faces, thankfully not all as heavily made-up.
Jane Austen’s elongated fingers reached for one of the menus lying on the bar and she began to flick through its pages in reverse. River, who had taken to polishing glasses in a bid to divert her adoration, almost dropped the tumbler he was buffing.
For crying out loud, no; it’s not meant to be you, anybody but you. Start at the front, lady!
He gulped as she immediately ceased fingering the twenty-something blank pages and flipped the menu to its front cover. Heather was right. He did have a knack for telepathy. And thank god. He knew, as he flashed back again to Mercedes in her agave-studded field where she stood waving him off with the bottle, that none of this was up to him; he was simply The Messenger. Whoever chose the elixir chose it. But it didn’t stop River being judgmental. Surely there were better candidates to have their life, as they knew it, changed for ever?
“So what is your favourite book, my good man, when you do get time to read?”
Back off lady, less of themy.
