Bar Staff Wanted. Evenings, Weekends and Dayshifts Available.
Adrian was backing off again. ‘It’s OK,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll get on with my work. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset. I’m just looking out for myself. You’ll understand if you really have given up on dating too.’ Her eyes still lingered on the poster.
‘Imagine if therehadbeen a job at my paper,’ he said, drawn back in and tipping his head trying to get Mirren to look at him. ‘We might have ended up working together every day. With your court reporting skills and my knowledge of the town, we’d have been quite the team!Thenwhere would we be?’ He held his notebook up, obscuring his face as if to deflect his irresistibility and Mirren didn’t even think it big-headed because he had a point; he was stunning to look at. Working with him would bring nothing but trouble her way. He was still talking, only his laughing eyes showing over his notebook. ‘And then there’s Mr Ferdinand. How would you have resistedhim? He’s got most of his own teeth and a nice collection of stained, beige cardigans. You wouldn’t know where to put yourself to avoid the temptation.’
They both smiled and Mirren felt her armour drop a little. ‘You know, on the topic of Mr Ferdinand. He owes my flatmate some money for a job she did for the paper. Any chance of nudging him for her? I promised her I’d help her get paid.’
Adrian sat up taller on the stool. ‘I’m not sure I can be much help there either. He’s notoriously badly organised when it comes to freelancer payments. Your flatmate will have to join the queue, or try the small claims court. Sorry to say it.’
‘Really? You’re saying he’ll never pay?’
‘I think your mate should chalk it up as a lesson learned and steer well clear of him in future.’
‘But he pays you?’
‘I’m a permanent staffer on payroll so that’s all handled by the newspaper’s parent company. We’re one of twenty-eight regional papers and we’re all semi-autonomous. Mr F handles the advertising revenue, the freelancer payments, bonuses, petty cash, that sort of thing, but not my salary, thankfully.’ He sniffed, his expression wry and deliberate, before sipping his beer.
The old barfly behind him was getting ready to leave, throwing an inky-coloured mac over rounded shoulders and reaching for a felt fedora with a red pheasant feather stuck jauntily in its band. His elbow nudged Adrian’s and it all happened so quickly after that: the beer splashing onto Adrian’s notebook and across the bar and the sudden flash of anger which darkened Adrian’s eyes. But Mirren caught it all.
For a millisecond she thought Adrian might swing a fist at the old man who was apologising profusely in a jolly manner, mopping at the spilled drink with the barman’s towel and making even more beer run down onto Adrian’s trousers.
‘My good man, I must apologise,’ he was booming, his cheeks rosy like Santa Claus. ‘Do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend.’ He dabbed at Adrian’s legs with the beer-sodden cloth.
Mirren guessed the old buffer was reciting lines from some play or other and she wanted to smile but Adrian was grimacing and making a grab at the cloth, tossing it onto the bar with a damp slap. Surely an overreaction, even if his clotheswereexpensive designer stuff, as Mirren suspected. He was still overdoing it.
‘It’s notmeyou need to apologise to,’ Adrian hissed.
The old man raised his hands innocently, placed his hat upon his head with a flourish and made a quick bow. ‘Apologies, apologies, dear friends all.’ And with that, he left, like an epilogue before the curtain falls.
Adrian turned back to his drink, cradling it, his eyes still a little wild.
‘No harm done. It was just a bit of beer,’ Mirren offered mildly, craning to peer at his face.Why’s he so angry? The poor old guy said sorry, didn’t he?
Adrian didn’t reply. She watched him breathe deeply once or twice, obviously trying to control his frustration.
‘I’d better get going,’ she added, and Adrian looked up. She could read the regret on his face.
‘Don’t go, enjoy your drink, I’m sorry, I…’
‘I’ll take that number, if you don’t mind,’ she said sharply.
His eyes rounded until he noticed she was pointing past his ear to the job vacancy poster on the wall with the fringed scissor snips separating phone numbers. Realising what was happening, he tore free one of the strips and gave it to her, sullen now.
She looked at the paper in her hands. She wasn’t thinking about Adrian, but was enjoying the warmth of a curious little glow in her chest. She’d made up her mind. She’d taken a first step towards accepting her fate. A bar job could be OK as a stop gap, if they’d have her.
She wouldn’t mention it now to the barman but would ring in the morning when she’d composed herself and noted down a few things to say. She had tried to find writing work, hadn’t she?Reallytried. Her stars weren’t aligned in that regard, yet. These thoughts brought a gentle kind of comfort and her lips curled into an unconscious smile.
‘It was nice to meet you anyway, Mirren,’ Adrian said, snapping her out of her thoughts.
He’d remembered her name, and an unfamiliar Scottish name at that, she registered with surprise. Looking at him, he seemed to have shrunk a little more. He’d overreacted and was suddenly sorry, no doubt, but he’d confirmed that Mirren’s instincts had been right all along. The last thing she needed was closer acquaintance with a new guy, and least of all a guy with an obviously short fuse, even as a drinking buddy, even for an hour. Even if he was amusing, and sharp-witted, and sexy too, and her name had sounded so soft in his English accent.
In the silence between them she heard the words that had been insinuating themselves into her thoughts increasingly often lately. It was Mr Angus’s voice telling her again how her ‘overactive love life’ and lack of professionalism impinged on her decision-making abilities, made her confused and over sensitive. Her ex-boss’s braying judgement mixed with all her insecurities and every unkind thing anyone had ever said to her and she felt again the little pang of shame and embarrassment that seemed to be growing rather than diminishing the longer she spent out of the newsroom.
She packed away any feelings of attraction to Adrian. He wasn’t just a handsome man, he was a reporter too, and one with a temper at that, and she’d learned her lesson on all those counts. This had been a timely warning and she took it for what it was; a reminder of her resolve.
As she walked out into the chilly darkness of All Hallow’s Eve, Adrian Armadale briefly watched after her, shaking beer from his sodden notebook, his eyes full of annoyance and self-recrimination.
