Page 17 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Seven
ALICE
There was nowhere quite like Somerset. Many were those who would ‘search for themselves’ in every conceivable dot on the globe, the further away, supposedly the more of their inner being they’d come to discover. Alice had seen them leave only to return sure as boomerangs. And now, just like everybody else who thought life would be better far away from the privilege of grass green roots, no matter where she found herself unpacking her ever-growing collection of suitcases, she yearned to go home. Glastonbury was calling; the earth wire in her veins, willing her to plug herself back into all that was familiar, that tactile earth of the cowslip-dotted Levels, September’s plump blackberry hedgerows and her beloved stables; grounded at last, able to breathe.
She needn’t ever have left this world. That was perhaps the only thing life in London – and beyond – had taught her. Just like the young boy, Santiago, in Paulo Coelho’sThe Alchemist, she’d had everything she’d ever needed – not only inside her, but overflowing from her cup and into her small West Country universe all along. For all her love conquests won, for all her red carpet appearances attached to the arm of a leading man, and for all the boxer shorts catapulted at her on the stage, here in Glastonbury she’d never stopped being the centre of attention anyway.
Butterflies circled her stomach as the bus bound from Bristol rounded the corner and began its slight descent into her home town’s High Street. She knew his bar was next to the bakery, but it had been so long since she’d been back to pay a visit, that she’d actually forgotten what side of the road the fat, greasy Lardy Cakes and Death By Chocolate slabs lined the windows. She needn’t have fretted, ‘The Cocktail Bar’, as it was unimaginatively, perhaps even ingeniously titled; glistened enticingly on the right, overshadowing anything the now trendy, overhauled, and all things organic-looking bakery had to offer. But it was decidedly closed. Bang went her plan to surprise River.
The number 376 pulled over next to the bus stop opposite the town hall, and on the doorstep of her favourite pizzeria in the whole world. She glanced up at the giant clock on the friendly building across the road, momentarily reminiscing on her roller boot disco days. Those iron hands were notorious for not being wound forward or back with the changing of the hours, but the aroma wrapping around her in a vortex of deliciousness, told her all she needed to know:Cagnola’swas open, it had to be lunchtime.
She pulled her case behind her, weary from lack of food since the plastic-tasting veggie breakfast platter on her flight into London, stopped to re-check her dark shades masked the equally dark circles under her eyes and went inside, asking for a table for one, as far away from the other diners as possible.
She mulled over the menu, as reassuring as ever, Cagnola’s stuck with what they knew. Perhaps her own life wouldn’t be in such confusing tatters had she done the same. She scanned the pizzas, quickly deciding carbs were the only way forward, ordered a Margarita and a Coke – scowling at herself for the crime that was the latter, but sometimes even Clean Eaters needed a dirty weekend – and called River, failing miserably to get through.
Shoot. So now what?
She could only guess he’d changed his number because of Lennie.
Eugh – the power of two unsuspecting syllables to make a girl wince.
Was there ever a name so synonymous with slime – excusing his excellence of the Kravitz variety, of course? Dodging him, not to mention the local press, was going to be a daily occurrence. Thank god she didn’t live in London. At least there was less chance of a ‘newsworthier’ photographer flooring it down the M4 to take a picture when they could kill several ‘birds’ with the same stone from Kensington and Chelsea to Islington.
But how else was she going to get hold of River? She didn’t want to turn up unannounced at his mum’s house, not after the charade with the band several weeks ago when they’d flown over to the UK for the premier of the new movie their lyrics were providing the soundtrack for – she’d already forgotten its name – and Lennie had insisted they accompany him to Somerset to track down The Boy Gone AWOL. Luckily it was Friday, the bar was sure to be open to see in the weekend at some point today, but in all seriousness, how many hours could she spend picking at pizza and gelato? She barely had an appetite at the best of times. And then her jetlagged brain kicked into gear: Facebook and Twitter (a private message on both, of course). He must still be connected to his social media.
Lunch came and lunch went, the waiter did his best to flirt his way into an autograph, but Alice wasn’t even up for friendly small talk today. Still there was no sign of contact. She sighed, wondering what to do now. It wasn’t that her parents wouldn’t have her back at the farm in Butleigh, one of the quaint villages that fringed the town she’d always really called home. She just didn’t want them to know she’d ‘come to her senses’, not quite yet, they’d never been enamoured by her ‘alternative lifestyle’ and she had to be ready for the inevitable point scoring that would ensue.
“But you have a place in the Great Britain equestrian team, darling. Daddy’s pulled strings the likes of which you simply cannot imagine to grant you this privilege. Are you out of your mind throwing away that honour of representing Queen and country… for… for… for a place in one of those scruffy grunge bands? Oh, the shame with which you’re tarnishing the family!”
Alice had reduced her mother to a sherry-fuelled stammer several Christmases ago. But on January the second, she’d hopped on that National Express coach with River all the same, a new life awaiting them both in the Big Smoke.
Relations had improved somewhat over the years, of course. Her parents were not the type to hold a grudge by the scruff of its neck, but still, there the elephant in the room stayed before them. And she missed her horses too, both of which had long since been sold, her decision the nail in the coffin to the question of Folly Farm ever breeding again.
She began to run through the drinks menu once more, breaking yet again with orthorexic tradition – well it was technically the weekend, and if she did manage to find River later, she could hardly decline quintessential cocktail etiquette when she visited his bar. A Negroni – that would fill another hour here, especially if it came with a stirrer; and then perhaps a coffee, followed by a mineral water, diluting the toxins and hopefully taking her up to six pm. By which time the bar just had to be open. This wasn’t London after all, people hit on the booze here at five pm sharp, especially on a Friday; always on a Friday.
The jingle of the little gold bell at the restaurant door sounded too good to be true, but she lifted her head anyway, heart bizarrely pounding in a way it had certainly never done before at the sight of him, wondering how he was going to take this. Would he even trust her? She couldn’t blame him if he thought Lennie had sent her out undercover. If the shoe was on the other foot, she’d certainly suspect the same.
“Al, what are you doing here?” he said. “I just got your Facebook message and didn’t even stop to reply, just had to get here to see you as quickly as I could.”
The pull to his chest was like sinking into a freshly plumped up pillow that made everything suddenly very all right again. If only she’d seen that when they’d fooled around that night at the festival, how much heartache and drama she’d have spared herself, how many narcissistic idiots she’d have spurned.
“This is all so surreal.” He released her and stood back, as if to examine the cracks of seven albums.
“It’s a long story but it’s probably very similar to yours,” she said, signalling to the overenthusiastic waiter to take their drinks order, suddenly feeling twenty times more justified, C list celeb (well, according to the press that had been her official ranking), or not.
“I’ll have a Negroni,” she said, resuming her seated position, beckoning to River to join her. “And you?”
“Yeah… yeah… make that two,” River said, lowering his body onto the chair, his incessant goofball stare making her stomach repeat those butterflies, except now they were all simultaneously competing in the Olympic figure skating final.
She tore her own gaze away, embarrassed at her lack of emotional control. They’d known each other forever and a day, this was ridiculous, first date ridiculous. When she finally did lift her eyelids to resume communication, she sensed they were both utterly grateful for their on-the-ballcameriere,tray held high in his right hand, showcasing two gleaming amber tumblers topped with lemon slices mimicking surfboards – and token stirrers. This would take the edge off her unfathomable teenage persona, yet something told her she shouldn’t down it too quickly either.
River initiated the drinking, Alice followed suit.
“Are you heading back to your parents, or?” He put down his glass and clasped his hands together, easing them midway across the table, something like a prayer, something like a businessman on the cusp of sealing a deal.
“Well, that’s the thing. You remember how they reacted all those years ago when we set off for London…? I’m not sure I can face the ‘we-told-you-so’ routine just yet,” she tugged awkwardly at her hair, “but on the other hand, if I’m back, I’m back. I don’t want to play stowaway until I die.”
“Do you want me to help? I can.” He reached further across the table now and reassuringly placed that clasp on her hands, drawing them together until she wondered if he was about to play that one-potato-two-potato game Daddy refused to relinquish until way into her teens.
