My jaw clenched. I gave the smallest nod.
“Don’t let Tony find out,” Dougie muttered, already losing interest. “I won’t stick my neck out for ya if he does.”
He lumbered off, and I fled toward the back room, cursing everything I knew under my breath. The pub, the job, this miserable little pocket of a life I was clinging to. Winter was the worst season to lose the roof over your head. Cold crept into cracks you didn’t even know you had. It buried people beneath morbid headlines after freezing the breath in their lungs.
I refused to be one of them.
I hooked my coat on the once silver coat hanger, now red with rust, in the corner and yanked the red-and-white striped apron over my head. The smell of beer and bleach had sunk into every thread, just as it had seeped into my skin too.
I twisted my hair into a bun, slick and severe, and returned to the front.
“You’re late,” Nat muttered with a gloating tone, sliding two pints across the counter.
“I’m aware,” I said, snatching a snifter and pouring it with golden rum.
“I’m surprised Tony hasn’t fired you yet,” she hissed, her lips barely moving.
I ground my teeth, choosing not to respond. Nat had a way of poking just deep enough to bruise, never quite enough to bleed. Maybe it made her feel better, clawing her way up the sinking ladder by stepping on whoever was there. If it hadn’t been me, I wouldn’t care. Everyone who lived a life without a future needed something to keep them going. For some people, it was walking over you.
For me, it was my three-year plan. That was how long I’d given myself to claw free of this place. Three years of saving. Three years of dodging the worst of the worst, of pretending the shadows didn’t follow me home. Then, freedom. University. A fresh start. I didn’t even care what I studied. History. Literature. Law. Anything that felt like it belonged in a place that smelled of old paper and quiet. Anything that wasn’t this.
“Maybe Tony doesn’t know yet,” Nat added, her tone biting. “Why don’t I just call him over?—”
I cut her off with the clink of a glass. “If you’re after my tips too, you’ll have to fight Dougie for them.”
She smiled, all teeth, her gaze cold, greedy. “Well, that just won’t do.”
I turned away before I said something that would cost me more than I could afford, and started collecting empties instead, just as a briefcase landed on the counter. It was eye catching, a lot nicer than someone should bring here.
It belonged to an old man with a long wool coat and a bowler hat. He looked like a relic from another time, a misplaced soul among the sticky wood and warm beer stench.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his accent clipped, precise, every syllable polished. Definitely not local.
I stepped forward, curious. A rich man in the Drunken Lion was as rare as a full set of teeth among its regulars. Maybe he wasn’t here because he got lost. If so, hopefully he tipped well.
“What can I get you, sir?” I asked, eyeing the monogrammed notebook he pulled from his coat.
C.S.
He glanced up, his silver-framed glasses catching the lamplight.
“Elodie Smith?”
My spine stiffened. My name sounded foreign coming from his mouth. Almost meaningful. Less Elodie, the girl with two jobs and no mum, and more ancient, well-kept. My gaze flicked around the room, still full of life, still buzzing. Yet, everything felt quieter. Like the air had changed.
“Depends on who’s asking,” I said, clearing my throat, which suddenly felt dry. I could only hope I didn’t catch a cold. I couldn’t afford to take a sick day. Tony would never pay for the leave.
“I’ve been sent to deliver a letter,” he replied like it was the most natural thing in the world. I shifted closer, still clinging to the idea of a beautifully sized tip I could try to hide from Dougie. “My name is Cornelius Sterling, and I’m here to represent Lilian Thornbury.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. Not even a dull chime. I just stared, waiting for the rest of the information.
“Your grandmother.”
I could have sworn the second hand of the clock stopped for a moment, and the room turned silent. Deafeningly. My who’s what?
“There must be a mistake then,” I said. “I don’t have a grandmother.”
Not one who’s alive anyway. My mum had no family left. It was always just the two of us. My grandmother was buriedwhen I was still a child, and even before that, I hadn’t known her. All I remembered was the air, thick with incense and candle smoke, the pews groaning under the weight of mourners. And my mum and I, sitting in the back in our borrowed black dresses and winter boots, because we didn’t have anything else fit for a funeral…
