Page 27 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
In raking over old memories, I’m getting further away from her. From my mum. Closer to David. Is that where everything went wrong?
16
THEN
I’m taking glasses out of the dishwasher, drying them, lining them up, upside-down, behind the bar. Dee is giving the tables a wipe, putting out cardboard beer mats that we will find, shredded and damp, later on. This is my favourite time of day, just before the doors open and people start piling in. It feels like the shift could go any way, at this point. Like it could be one of those magical ones where everyone stays on the right side of the happy–sad drunk line, and no one throws a drink at their boyfriend, and no one sits in a corner alone for an hour before accepting they’ve been stood up. Sometimes, standing behind that bar pulling pints and pouring wine, we get to see the very best of life. People falling in love, people celebrating promotions and engagements and new jobs with their friends. Friendships forming, people transitioning from colleagues to friends, from friends to lovers. And sometimes we see the worst, but I don’t like to dwell on that. I’m a romantic, always hoping for the best. I don’t know, can’t know, that today is the day I’ll meet the man who’ll become my husband.
‘Time to open the doors?’ Dee asks, and our boss, Rob, gives her the nod.
Dee is small, and she has to go up on tiptoes to undo the bolt, but for some reason it’s almost always her who does it. She flips over the sign from Closed to Open. And then she comes and stands near to me, behind the bar, and we chat about this and that. Dee had a date the night before, and when I ask her whether she’s planning to see him again, she screws up her face and says she doesn’t think so. Men come and go in our lives, and while both of us would claim to have been in love, neither has felt the full force of a broken heart.
Derek’s the first one through the doors, and I am halfway through pouring his first drink by the time he’s settled himself on a barstool and thought to ask for it. Not for the first time, I ponder the fact that this place is like home, to Derek. At home, I know, he is alone. But here, there is always someone to talk to, for the price of a couple of drinks. I can’t imagine being so alone in the world. Having to buy company like that. But when I’ve raised it with Dee in the past, she has said she doesn’t think it’s quite like that. She just sees Derek as a man who’s retired and enjoys spending his days in our company. She doesn’t read so much into it. She’s easy like that, Dee.
When David comes in, I am in the thick of it, small sweat patches under my arms and a glass in each hand, and I’ve momentarily forgotten what drinks I’m supposed to be getting. I look at the woman who just gave her order, give her an apologetic shrug.
‘Two vodka and slimline tonics,’ the woman says, annoyed.
Of course. Now I remember. I get the drinks and take the woman’s money and say ‘What can I get you?’ and when I look up, I see David, who looks out of place, with his suit and his smart haircut.
‘A pint of lager, and whatever you’re having,’ he says.
His voice is crisp, clipped. Scottish accent. I notice that because it is different.
‘You’re not from round here.’ It is a clichéd thing to say and I sort of hate myself for it immediately.
‘No,’ he laughs, looks me right in the eye. ‘But I’m here now. Fancy showing me around?’
I am used to being propositioned. It’s part of the job. I barely notice it now. But for some reason, David’s question makes me flush a little. I see him noticing.
‘I spend practically every night in here,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t make a good tour guide.’
‘What about days?’
He’s persistent, and I like that. It makes me feel important. Most men, they try it on as if it’s a habit, and when I turn them down, they just shrug and move on.
‘Days I sleep.’
‘Fair enough.’
When I have a minute with Dee, I ask her to serve him next time, to see whether he’s the same with her, and I feel a rush of pleasure when Dee reports back that he was all politeness but no flirtation. But then I get caught up in an argument over whose turn it is to use the pool table, and there’s a flurry of activity as lots of people come in at the same time, half of them wanting cocktails that take ages to make, and when I think to look over to where he was standing, he’s gone. I don’t know his name, and I feel a bit deflated, like I’ve missed out on something.
Dee picks up on it, teases me a little. ‘Pining over the mysterious Scottish stranger?’ she asks when we’re clearing down and cashing up.
‘No,’ I say, defensive, though I’m not sure why.
The next night, I keep an eye on the door, and by nine, I’ve decided he’s not coming. If he’s new in town, I reason, he’s probably trying out various places, trying to decide where he wants to spend his time. So I’m surprised when I hear his voice,hear that accent, when it’s not far off closing time. I hope I look okay, that my hair and makeup have lasted the night.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A pint of lager and whatever you’re having,’ he says once again, looking me dead in the eye.
Has he already been drinking? If he has, it doesn’t show in his speech or his movements. I know drunks, both habitual ones and those for whom it’s a more occasional state.
‘Did you find someone?’ I ask, handing him his drink.
‘Find someone?’
‘To show you around,’ I say.
