Page 8 of Wife After Wife
Harry turned from his recce of the room to order his drink.
“Oh! It’syou! How hilarious!” said the barmaid.
She looked familiar—petite, with Madonna-esque shaggy blond hair and accessories, including a multitude of chunky necklaces over her black top. She had a wide smile, and her blue eyes gazed directly into Harry’s.
He felt a flutter of something. “Sorry? Have we met?”
“Forgotten me already? I was on the bus, you were in the taxi.”
“Oh yes, of course!” Harry remembered the smile through the steamy glass.
“You winked.”
“Did I?”
“I liked it.”
“Good. Well, pint of best, please. And... one for yourself.”
“Thanks! I’m Bennie. And you?”
“Harry.”
She took a glass and pulled the giant pump handle toward her.
“How did you get here so fast?” asked Harry. “I’m sure we overtook you.”
“I got off and cut through. I was late, stupid bleedin’ Christmas shoppers—I couldn’t get on the first bus.”
“Do you have to come far?”
“Camden.”
“Ah. I’m not familiar with the frozen north. I live in Fulham.”
“Course you do!” She placed the pint on the brass drip tray. “One sixty-five, please.”
Harry handed over two of the pound coins that had recently replaced the old pound notes. “What do you mean, of course I do?”
“It’s where all you lot live, innit? Fulham, Clapham, Battersea.”
“Nonsense. I have friends all over. Hampstead, St. John’s Wood... um, Holland Park, Blackheath...”
“Sloane Square?”
“Oh well, yah,” he said, parodying himself. “All the rest live there.”
“But only during the week,” said Bennie, “before they head to thekent-rehfor weekends.”
Harry usually found this sort of inverted snobbery tiresome, but he was enjoying sparring with Bennie. He liked the mixture of fun and challenge in her eyes.
She was also extremely pretty.
“Sorry, gotta serve the punters. It’s gonna be a mad night. Will you be sticking around? Are you on your own?”
“Meeting friends.”
Why hadn’t he said “my wife”? Because it would have sounded like a brush-off, and he didn’t want this harmless flirtation to end.
