Page 7 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

ChapterFour

The Ram was heavingwith drinkers. George couldn’t even see the bar as he pushed his way through the mass of damp bodies, and it was only luck rather than good timing that won him the immediate attention of a bartender.

‘Busy in here today,’ he observed, casting an eye around in a fruitless search for a quiet corner.

‘Always is on a Friday, but it’s worse today. Must be the weather.’

George said, ‘Yeah, likely.’ And placed his order. ‘Go easy with the mash, and I’ll have a half-pint of your best bitter.’ That would have to do. He had work to do this afternoon, and on Millie’s instructions, he was watching his waistline, didn’t want to end up like his father – a slab of lard by the time he was fifty, dead before he was fifty-one.

Only that morning, Millie had reminded George of the situation by poking him in the belly, playfully pointing out his premature middle-age spread. Teasing him, saying he looked like Pooh Bear, and adding he even had the same hair colour. There’d been no point in arguing. George knew he was getting fat. He’d put it down to too much time spent at his desk. But perhaps Millie was right. She usually was. Maybe he needed to cut down on the grub, but not this lunchtime. He needed the comfort.

Payment made, and meal ticket accepted, George looked again for his elusive quiet corner. His scan stopped at Owen Kingsley, squashed against the wall on the opposite side of the bar. Almost hidden by a stack of menus, Owen would have been easy to miss.

George picked up his beer and sipped slowly, playing for time, savouring the mix of hops and barley, considering his options while looking over his glass at Owen.

He could push to the other side of the bar, slap his old friend heartily on the shoulder and greet him in a chummy way, say something like: ‘Hey, you old devil! Great to see you – it’s been a long time. What is it? A year – perhaps a bit more? Where’ve you been hiding?’

Or he could stay where he was and call a casual hello across the bar.

But was that the way to greet a friend?Maybe he’d be let off a reunion if Owen didn’t hear him, but afterwards he would have to deal with the guilt. He took another mouthful of beer and rolled it over his tongue, reviewing the situation. Conscience told him the right thing to do was shove his way through the masses. Say hello to Owen. For goodness’ sake, he and Owen had been inseparable through university. Best mates. Although their careers had gone in different directions, it was only these last few years they’d drifted apart … since Owen married that bitch, Margaret. He should say a proper hello.

One more sip of beer. Then drink in one hand, meal ticket in the other, George elbowed his way around the bar.

‘Hey, Owen! This is a surprise. Where’ve you been all this time?’

Startled, Owen looked up, eyes unfocused.

‘Jeez,’ George muttered. Owen was rat-arsed. The smell of whisky came off him like someone had opened a distillery door.

‘George! Good to see you. Want a drink?’ Owen fumbled in his pockets.

‘Thanks, but no. I’m okay with this.’ George held up his beer. ‘I’m working this afternoon. Got to take it steady. Anyway, how about you – doing anything at the moment?’

‘Nothing.’ Owen frowned, then adjusted his answer. ‘This and that – mustn’t grumble.’ He slumped back against the wall, and refocussing on George, he asked, ‘You still with WIV?’

‘Certainly am.’ George rocked on his heels, saying with more pride than he felt. ‘Editorial director now, for my sins.’

One of the bar staff called out a meal number. George held up his ticket, and succulent with gravy, a hot steak pie arrived.

‘Thanks,’ George acknowledged the barman, and noticing Owen looking at the food, he asked, ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Not hungry.’ Owen shifted to stare at his drink.

George decided against pressing a meal on his friend. A man has his pride. Instead, he cast a sideways glance and noticed the fraying collar on Owen’s t-shirt. Remembering when Owen was one of the best paid journalists in the industry, not to mention best dressed – he wondered what had happened to the shoes with the red soles, and what had happened to all the money. Had the bitch sucked his friend dry? Then, clearing his throat, he asked, ‘All right if I eat here?’

‘You tuck in.’ Owen drained his glass, flinching as he swallowed, then caught the attention of the barman for a refill.

George prodded the pie with his fork and thought back to the last time he’d seen Owen. It had been in Hampstead about a year ago, perhaps. He’d been late for an appointment, and out of breath from the hurried climb up Haverstock Hill, he’d almost reached the pub where he was to meet Xander Scott when he found his path blocked by Owen’s body splayed on the pavement.

‘Don’t come back, loser. You’re barred,’ a man had shouted before disappearing back inside the bar, leaving George alone with Owen.

George recollected saying, ‘Christ man, look at the state of you.’ Something he’d all but said again today.

Owen incoherent, and struggling to stand, seemed not to have heard him. Once he achieved the vertical, he’d swayed precariously like a tree at the point of being felled and stared vacantly at George.

George remembered the tiny trickle of blood oozing from Owen’s chin, an injury fresh enough to have been gained in the crashing fall.

Now, twelve months on, he could see the white line of a small scar in the same place, partly hidden in dark stubble.

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