‘Maybe we should ask her who she wants to leave with,’ Stan piped up, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking half as much as his legs.
They both turned to the girl. Looking completely terrified, she grabbed hold of Stan’s hand.
‘I’d like to go now, please,’ she said.
Stan gave her a reassuring wink and, before the German could grow even taller, they scuttled out of the nightclub.
‘Thanks,’ she said, once outside. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him.’
Stan shrugged as he tried desperately not to notice the shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her top. ‘It was the least I could do after almost slicing your head off the other day.’
She laughed. ‘You’re right. That hurt. But you’ve redeemed yourself tonight.’
Stan smiled, breathing in the light, flowery scent of her perfume. ‘I don’t think we should go back in,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for a drink or something?’
She screwed up her nose. ‘Not really. I’m a bit knackered. I’d rather go back to the hotel.’
‘I’ll walk you.’
She smiled her thanks. ‘I’m Bea, by the way. Short for Beatrice.’
‘Stan,’ said Stan. ‘Short for Robert.’
That feeble joke which, to his delight, she’d found highly amusing, combined with his heroic antics, evidently wiped the previously Frisbee-marked slate clean. They were inseparable for the remainder of Stan’s holiday. But, as much as he was having the time of his life, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was temporary. Just a holiday romance. And when he returned home, he wouldn’t hear another word from her.
Yet, despite Bea continuing her travels for the next few months, and him being back behind his accountancy desk, via the wonders of modern technology they did maintain contact. And when they both ended up working in London less than a year later – Stan for an international accountancy company; Bea for an advertising agency – their relationship went from strength to strength, resulting in them eventually buying a flat together. They worked hard and played hard, building a great network of friends and a fantastic social life. But all that seemed a million light years away now – in LBM.
As Stan slammed shut the dishwasher door and pressed the ‘On’ button, he realised he wanted that life back. Every single bit of it. But it had gone. For ever.
That thought making him even more depressed, he grabbed his jacket and headed to the pub.
From behind the bar of the Duck Inn, Phil McNally folded his arms over his chest and observed the hustle and bustle of a Sunday night in Buttersley. There was nothing unusual in this activity. There hadn’t been many Sunday nights during his seven-year ownership of the pub that Phil hadn’t folded his arms over his chest and observed the village’s residents relaxing in the plush surroundings. And all the regulars were there tonight: Joe, the window cleaner with his girlfriend, Candi; Jenny Rutter, who now ran guided tours up at the manor house, and her man, Peter; Derek Carter, the vicar, who never said no to so much as a wine gum; and Mrs Gates from the grocery store, wearing a wig that looked like it might have been one of Marie Antoinette’s cast-offs. Added to the colourful mix of local characters were those who had travelled from the surrounding area specially to savour all the Duck had to offer – the comfortable interior, the beautifully decorated conservatory, the carefully selected range of culinary delights.
Phil had been brought up in the trade. His parents had run a variety of pubs over the years, from those on council estates, where only the most audacious ventured out after dark, to eventually buying their own small hotel on the outskirts of Harrogate. Phil had learned everything he could from them, helping out as soon as he was old enough. And along with all the requisite business skills, they’d also instilled in him the ethic that hard work pays off: an adage to which they were testament. They’d worked hard and saved hard – saved enough, in fact, to help Phil buy the Duck.
‘That should cover the deposit,’ his dad had said, shoving a cheque into Phil’s hand.
‘I can’t take that,’ he’d gasped, wide-eyed at the number of noughts.
‘Oh yes you can. That pub’s too good an opportunity to miss.’
Phil had bit his lip. The Duck was a good opportunity. An excellent opportunity. One that rarely came up. At twenty-five he’d been biding his time, waiting for the perfect place to come on the market, working and living with his parents, saving every penny. But even so, he didn’t have enough to cover the deposit.
‘I’ll pay you back when it takes off,’ he’d vowed.
And he had. The pub’s balance sheet had been healthy enough before he’d taken over. The only pub in the village, in an idyllic setting on the duck-ponded green, guaranteed its local trade. But, after carrying out meticulous research, Phil spotted a couple of new trends in the market: affluent young families were moving to the area bringing with them lots of disposable cash and regular epicurean visitors. And, culinary tastes were becoming much more discerning.
So he set out to exploit both these developments, adding a fabulous new conservatory to the back of the building, and offering a tempting selection of grub to suit all tastes – from the traditional to the exotic. Instilling a sense of pride in his staff, he’d built up a good, loyal team, most of whom had been with him for years. And his marketing outlay – huge initially – was now non-existent. Word of mouth, always the best recommendation, proved much more effective.
Saturdays being far too hectic to even draw breath, Phil allowed himself such moments of reflection every Sunday evening. And normally, amidst all the genial conviviality – not to mention the constant hum of the till – he experienced a warm glow of satisfaction.
This evening, though, he just felt sick. Sick to his very core. Like he could throw up at any moment.
‘Evening, Phil.’
His navel-gazing was cut short by Jake O’Donnell, who fitted Phil’s well-heeled client profile perfectly. Jake had moved to the village a couple of years ago when he’d married Annie. Phil liked Jake. He was a good, down-to-earth bloke, who wrote a lot of books by all accounts. Not that Phil had read any of them. His reading matter stretched only as far as Top Gear and Private Eye.
Plastering a smile onto his face, Phil pulled himself together and returned the pleasantry. ‘Hi, Jake. We don’t normally see you on a Sunday night. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Jake grimaced. ‘Annie’s ever-so-slightly-scary sister. She’s staying with us for a while.’
He indicated a table to the right where Annie and another attractive young woman sat perusing the menu. They both had the same honey-blonde hair, but there any discernible similarity ended. Annie was the quintessential girl next door, with her freckled face and messy ponytail. Her sister, with her sleek bob and magenta lipstick, looked like she had a poker somewhere uncomfortable.
‘Why so scary?’ he asked.
‘She’s an actuary. Scary by default. Smiling is prohibited in the world of risk assessment. Plus, Amelia used to run the whole department. Which makes her—’
‘Uber-scary,’ they snorted in unison.
‘How long is she staying?’
Jake shrugged. ‘No idea. She’s been made redundant, which has hit her pretty badly. If I was her, I’d have been delighted to get out – and with a big fat cheque. But her pride’s taken a battering. Annie felt really sorry for her and invited her up never expecting her to accept. But, to our amazement, she did. Quite what she’s