Page 42 of A Perfect Devon Pub
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, the mask he wore cracked. She saw the hurt in his eyes, and a flash of something softer. Was there lingering affection buried beneath his layers of resentment? She wasn’t sure. A part of her hoped desperately that there was, and another part knew it would be easier on them both if he had already snuffed out any flame of longing or love.
‘Fine. What is it?’ he asked, his voice suddenly low and intense, almost vulnerable.
Before she could elaborate, the swing door to the kitchen burst open and the words died on her lips. George strode in with a flourish, oblivious to the tension between his sommelier and the sous chef. ‘Fiona! Rose is looking for you!’ he said, sinking into a chair and flipping open his laptop.
‘On my way,’ she replied, her heart sinking as she stepped back. Fiona sensed the disappointment pooling inside her, the chance to protect Ru slipping away like the bouquet of a long decanted fine wine. She glanced back at him, but he was already lost in prep again. The warning that had felt so urgent just moments earlier was now eclipsed by the demands of thekitchen.
An hour later and Fiona was standing behind the bar, squeezing lime juice into a cocktail shaker. In front of her was a tray with three bowl-like glasses, their broad rims frosty with salt. As she began pouring in the margaritas, a hush fell over the busy restaurant, and she looked up. Ru. His presence was like a pulse of energy shooting round the room. She tracked him walking towards the table she was preparing drinks for, his progress shadowed by the irritating presence of Kim, once more clad top to toe in the sort of clothes Fiona would never be able to afford.
Fiona picked up the tray, balancing it carefully as she threaded through the crowded tables. Ru was deep in conversation with a customer. Kim’s hand rested on his arm, and Fiona searched Ru’s face for clues. Where once she could detect his thoughts from the subtle shift of his mouth or flicker of his eyes, now she couldn’t read him. One thing she was certain of though: he wasn’t pulling his arm free. Even though she knew this was best for both of them, her heart twisted, and she looked away, focusing on keeping her tray steady.
Nearing the table, Fiona swept her eyes over Ru, knowing that whatever his feelings towards her, he would always appreciate a perfectly prepared cocktail, and she still craved his approval, especially in front of Kim. Suddenly, a customer gestured animatedly, catching Fiona off guard. The tray tipped and, in a split second, Fiona watched in horror as one of the margaritas flew directly at Ru’s chest. She heard a gasp, then stunned silence. Margarita dripped from Ru’s white jacket. Fiona bit her lip – what a fiasco, all witnessed by Kim, and this time, it really was Fiona’s fault.
‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry,’ she stammered, dumping her tray, ripping off her apron and moving towards Ru.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he took the aprongently, dabbing his jacket. He didn’t look angry; in fact, he looked almost amused. ‘No harm done.’
Fiona became aware of how close they were standing. She caught a whiff of lime mingling with basil and oregano, the smell so comforting, familiar. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Kim cleared her throat loudly, breaking the spell, and stepping between them with a clean napkin, shoving Fiona out of the way. ‘How clumsy. Let me help you with that.’
Fiona stepped back, her heart sinking as she noticed the way Kim blotted Ru’s jacket with unnecessary fuss, pressing her hands against muscles she knew to be toned – until recently she used to be the one to stroke them. He didn’t move away, but he looked past Kim’s shoulder, catching Fiona’s eye for just a second and she felt a jolt of hope, certain she saw a spark there – something that looked almost like regret.
At five o’clock on Monday, the doorbell rang. ‘That’s your date,’ said Ivy, smiling coyly. ‘Are you going to invite him in to meet me?’
Fiona rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a thank you, not a date.’
‘As you like.’ said her aunt, kissing her cheek. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Fiona answered the door. Outside, Josh stood wearing a hoodie, with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. ‘Hi,’ he said, grinning. ‘Ready?’
She smiled. He opened the garden gate for her and pointed at a small white van, the wordsThe Smuggler’s Inn, Brambletonwritten above an artist’s sketch of the pub. ‘George let me borrow the van. Saves on taxis.’
She appreciated avoiding a long bus wait, but suspected George and Rose would paint this as a date and dreaded their teasing ... and Ru’s anger. She settled herself in the passenger seat, acutely conscious of Josh’s presence. Today, sitting beside him felt awkward. She knew talking would help and asked himabout surfing.
For the next fifteen minutes Fiona let him eulogize about his sport, interjecting with nods and probing questions.
‘Sounds like I’ve got you hooked,’ he ribbed. ‘Fancy another lesson?’
Lulled by the comfortable atmosphere in the cabin, she asked why, if he loved the sport, he gave up being a professional. ‘I know you said it was your parents’ dream, but didn’t it become yours too?’
‘For a while,’ he admitted, ‘but then I discovered there’s so much more to life.’
‘As a teenager!’ she mocked. ‘Must have been a girl.’
He became serious. ‘A woman, yes, but not a girl ...’
‘Sounds mysterious.’
‘Remember I told you about my gran?’
She nodded.
‘We were real close. She moved to Sydney when she realized we weren’t coming back. When she died, she left me her diaries. All her working life – twenty years in Brambleton, then another fifteen in Sydney, she was a dinner lady. Those diaries. Amazing. They were chock full of happiness. Raising kids’ confidence before tests, being told their results, sometimes before they’d even told their parents. Acting as the school agony aunt for teenage lovers’ spats. And I kinda asked myself, if that woman got so much joy out of life by living every moment of every day doing something as unchallenging as being a dinner lady, what was I doing with my life? I couldn’t recall being as happy as she had been.Ever. Challenged yes, proud, sure, exhausted, definitely, but happy? Nope. So, I asked myself why I was wasting my time doing the same bloody thing day after day if it never made me happy.’
‘So that’s why you’re a KP.’
‘Hey, don’t knock it. I’m way happier than I was ten years ago.Gives me enough money to pay my way, and plenty of time off during the day to surf.’
