Page 11 of Serving the Couturier

“Yes, that’s the beauty of New York,” Stan said with a twinkle in his eye, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “The city is always changing, always evolving, but it remains the same at its core.”

“It certainly does,” I agreed.

“Well, I hope you’re thirsty,” Stan said, leading the way down a side street. “I know just the place. A little British pub I like to frequent. They serve a perfect pint of Guinness.”

“Ah, the nectar of the gods,” I replied with a grin. “I can hardly wait.”

As we walked down the street, it started raining, but our spirits were lifted when we saw the cozy British pub. Its warm yellow light illuminated the street, and I could hear laughter and clinking glasses even from outside. Stan declared, “Perfect timing. This is just the spot to help ease your jet lag,” as he held the door open for me to enter.

We stepped inside and were greeted by the scent of wood polish and hops. The sound of a musician playing traditional British folk music added to the warm ambiance, making me feel a sense of familiarity and comfort, despite it being my first time in the pub.

“I might just make it until midnight after all,” I said as we settled at a high table and ordered food and drinks. A minute later, two pints of Guinness were placed in front of us.

“Here’s to a productive trip, Stan,” I said, raising my beer in a toast. “Cheers!”

“Cheers, Spencer,” Stan replied, clinking his glass against mine.

“Tastes just like home,” I quipped with a grin, taking a sip. “I might have to stay here permanently now I know they serve a good pint.”

“I’ll keep you well-stocked,” Stan laughed. “But don’t get too comfortable. We’ve got a big day coming up. I’ve set up a meeting with the theater owner Monday morning.”

“Monday morning?” I chuckled, trying to hide my excitement. “I’m not exactly a morning person, you know.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not until 10 am,” Stan smirked. “Plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast.”

“Ah, 10 am, the civilized hour for a meeting,” I grinned. “As long as there’s coffee involved, I’m good.”

“Coffee? I thought you were more of a tea person,” Stan chuckled. “I’ll make sure there’s a pot waiting for you. But first, let’s enjoy the rest of the evening and raise a glass to our hopefully upcoming success on Broadway.”

“Cheers to that!” I raised my glass. “Here’s making Broadway history together.”

Stan leaned back and glanced around the pub. “You know, the pub owners are from Liverpool,” he said. “They came here about fifteen years ago.”

“I have high hopes for their fish and chips then,” I said as the server returned with our food. “They better have malt vinegar for the chips.”

“I’ll never understand why you Brits like malt vinegar on fries,” Stan grinned.

“It’s called chips, not fries,” I chuckled and reached for the salt, only to spill half of it.

“Oops, just made a little mess,” I said, wiping the salt off the table with a napkin.

“Better throw some salt over your shoulder,” Stan grinned. “Don’t want anything jinxing the show.”

I rolled my eyes and chuckled, playing along as I picked up the salt shaker and tossed some over my shoulder.

“Wrong shoulder,” Stan smirked.

“What?” I asked, trying to hide my annoyance.

“You threw it over your right shoulder,” he explained, chuckling. “You have to do it over your left. The devil sits on the left shoulder.”

“Bloody hell, Stan.” I shook my head in mock frustration.

“What can I say? That’s the rule,” he shrugged.

I picked up the salt shaker again, but this time, I applied too much force and the lid flew off, showering the salt several feet behind me. “Crap,” I muttered under my breath, realizing I must have hit someone with the salt.

I turned, apology on my lips, when I saw a beautiful young woman. She had just entered the pub, standing there wet and a bit bedraggled, but stunning, nonetheless. “My dear, I apologize. Please let me buy you a drink to make it up for you.”

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