Page 12 of Hit For Six
While Maxine played hostess, Lola watched Stella Arabella and Wilf, utterly mesmerised as they threw cocktail shakers back, forth and up in the air, dancing a merry jig whilst sieving and pouring from great heights to produce liquid masterpieces embellished with sugared rims, edible flowers and cinnamon sticks. Lola thought she’d faced down temptation with cupcakes and cream teas in the past having worked in a café!
‘That was a one-off impromptu gig just for you, by the way,’ said Wilf, deadpan and keen to make it clear that he called the shots– as well as poured them.
‘Yes, of course. It was amazing. I’m deeply honoured.’
Lola put her hand on her heart and hoped Wilf wouldn’t think she was being sarky. She really wasn’t. Stella Arabella nudged the tray of drinks across the bar to Lola and she took them over to her customers. Thankfully, they were sitting at an upturned bath so it was considerably easier for her to offload the order.
She returned the tray to the bar, waited for her next order courtesy of Maxine’s group and beelined for the private area next door, which still retained its quirks but was slightly more spacious, featuring a smaller number of antique roll top baths in a stunning mishmash of designs. Lola had been blown away by the aesthetics when she’d shadowed Maxine in here last night as she’d served at an engagement party, her mind boggling at the small fortune her employer must have spent on furnishings. But as she entered the room today carrying a tray of colour-popping cocktails for the punters at the copper bath in the far corner, she was taken aback by the scene that greeted her.
From a distance, this could have been any group of males out for drinks on a Sunday night. A fusion of cologne riding on the airwaves, deep laughter and ribbing, designer polo shirts and jeans. Daunting enough when you’d inadvertently flauntedyour breasts to the nation (and who knows how many countries worldwide). But as Lola resolved to make her delivery without losing her balance, something shiny caught her eye. Sitting on top of the bath was a familiar trophy. All of which meant this was a cricket team celebrating their win. A Twenty20 cricket team celebrating their win. Bath blimming Beasts and Monty B-C to be precise. If she’d thought her life was over two days ago, that chilling memory paled in comparison right now. Lola had just walked into a lions’ den. How fitting a team name. They would chew her up and spit her out in seconds.
The efforts of Joaquín’s magic wand (or scissors) suddenly seemed pathetic. Yes, her hair might be sitting on top of her head with a cocktail umbrella poking out the side of it, but this was not a diversion enough when these men had probably replayed her moves hundreds of times since Friday. There was no way that Monty or his teammates wouldn’t remember her in such close proximity. And now she’d have to wait on them all night. Oh, bloody hell! Lola was a numpty taking on such a public second job. She should have kept searching until she’d found a vacancy as a VA or an online survey taker. And if neither of those had materialised, she should have used her head and set up an Etsy shop. Selling what, she had no idea, but it would have been a far smarter alternative stream of income than this!
‘Are you alright there, Lola?’ Lola realised she’d come to a standstill by the doorway and now she’d created a traffic jam; Maxine and her own heavy drinks tray were back from the bar. ‘You can take fewer glasses if your biceps are aching. Nobody’s going to judge you!’
Fewer drinks meant more trips. There was no way Lola was doing that.
‘S-six at a time is perfect,’ she muttered, sheepishly edging forward.
And there was that pesky number again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monty
The lights flickeredand everyone broke out in ghostly ‘oohs’ until things settled back down again. It probably was haunted here in the deep, dark underground of the building but, more to the point, Monty guessed it was tipping it down outside. Those clouds had looked menacing earlier when they’d cut across the square. They really couldn’t overstay their welcome here at The Bubble Bath, else the lads would be too pickled for fine-dining. But nobody had thought to book cabs to the Michelin-starred restaurant on the other side of the city where they were due in a couple of hours for their celebration meal, and Monty didn’t fancy running there in a thunderstorm.
‘Hey,Lola. I wouldn’t mind getting in the bathtub with you. I’d give all of your bits a good soaping,’ Tim suddenly slurred out of the blue, eyes struggling to focus on the subject of his speech. ‘Especially now I know how dreamy your honkers are.’
This unexpected announcement elicited a couple of nervous giggles from his friends. Monty was appalled to be associated with Tim. His teammate was pushing his luck as it was with London. Why he kept sabotaging what remained of his chances to stay in the squad, Monty had no idea. He was deeply ashamed of himself for his curiosity getting the better of him, his head turning to see one of Tim’s conquests, who clearly worked here in Bath’s newest cocktail bar, since their group booking in this separate room was a strictly male affair. But Monty came face to face with the most unexpected sight and it took him several seconds to compute it.
‘Da-da-da-da-da… da-da-da-da-da,’ Tim began, until he was three lines into the first verse of Barry Manilow’sCopacabana, singing horrendously out of tune about a showgirl called Lola and the cut of her dress.
It. Was. Only. The. Mystery. Woman.
Fucking hell, she workedright herein The Bubble Bath. And fucking hell, Monty had an impressively photographic memory. Alright, Tim did too, but he’d probably been ogling her online non-stop. There really was no doubt about her identity, though– and now Monty recalled the background conversation of half a minute ago; a distant ‘are you alright there, Lola?’ whipping around his astonished brain. Yes, he had heard those words when he’d been thinking about the weather. Monty felt weak at the knees. She might have done something different with her hair but those eyes were the same distinct shamrock green that had sucked him into the jumbotron two days ago. Now he sounded like he worked at Farrow and Ball, but it was impossible not to think in terms of colour charts. Too many hours spent in meetings with flouncy designers.
‘Wash your mouth out with soap and water,’ Monty tripped over his words, throwing Tim his steeliest look, and belatedly parroting one of his mother’s favourite phrases from his teenage years.
One blithering idiot berating another, although at least he was on brand, what with their current venue. He couldn’t believe that Tim had been on the beers before they’d set foot in this place. London had looked far from impressed when they’d met up in the square before hitting the bar en-masse. He’d given firm instructions that they were representing the team, even if they weren’t in their kit; that he’d be keeping score of flying expletives, each setting a player back one pound.
They would have to deposit Tim at his flat before they went out for dinner. He’d get everybody barred from the city if a dropof wine touched his lips on top of anything else he was about to sink. Everyone was game for a laugh in light of the team’s success but Tim regularly took things too far.
‘Yes, Mum,’ he quipped snarkily. ‘Sorry.’ He held a hand up to the stunned waitress, moving it across half-heartedly to Monty too. ‘You as well, Cap.’
‘Ignore him and his antiquated taste in music.’ Monty turned to the woman, who was grabbing hold of the tray as if it were a life jacket. ‘And oh my God, allow me to help you with the drinks.’
What?Why was he being so accommodating?
Sure, Bath Beasts had won the match, no thanks to Lola’s thoroughly distracting larks. And now she could see the evidence; the gleaming trophy sitting atop the bath’s edge. It was an accolade that Monty was loath to take out tonight. It looked totally unclassy, ridiculously braggy. But his teammates would insist. Which was digressing, because there was still the not insignificant matter of Lola forever tainting the build up to this victory. Plus any international opportunities that might come off the back of it. The pivotal moment in his career would always be linked to her assets as opposed to his talent. He’d scowled at the latest sporting headlines printed about him in the trashier red top newspapers.
Lola looked at Monty briefly then and he thought he might combust with desire.Those eyes!Their intensity seemed to capture everything awe-inspiring in the world, from dazzling emeralds to magical pine forests, and yes, even three and four-leaf clovers. She was like a real-life version of a Disney princess.
Which meant his brain had officially turned to mush. But he was powerless to fight it. It felt like he’d been pinned to his seat. Monty knew there and then that if it was just the two of them in the room, he’d have swallowed hard, feigned rakish self-esteem, ordered Lola to lock the door and beckoned her to straddle himuntil he’d discovered every curve of her body, every last one of her fetishes. He would have willingly pleasured her until he’d died.
But Lola’s cheeks began to flush until the colour drained right out of them, and, not for the first time, Monty was furious with himself for such impure and inappropriate thoughts. She was trying to do her job and here he was reducing himself to Tim’s level. It made no difference if that was only happening in his head.
He couldn’t let her collapse under the weight of calamity and cocktails, though! Monty stood to relieve Lola of the drinks, frantically racking his brain to remember who had ordered what. The last thing he wanted was to be all fingers and thumbs when he made a grab for them… that could soon become dangerous given the tray was currently level with Lola’s bust.
