Another text pinged onto her screen and she almost choked on her water.
BTW, did your mum mention I dropped by with some of your old clothes? I was really there to give her the leaflet. Did she mention it? I’m guessing no? Remember my uncle is in that alcohol dependency support group? It was one of their leaflets. Anyway, you might want to mention it? Follow it up, if you want? You know what to do for the best. OK, got to go, we’re playing in Birmingham tonight. X
Mirren felt the tears welling. Kind, loving, wonderful Preston. She’d forgotten what a relief it was to have somebody know her and understand her life. Preston knew, even better than Kelsey did, what growing up with Jeanie had been like, and he knew she kept it secret from everyone she encountered. He’d cared enough even after they’d broken up to visit her mum. Jeanie was right; she hadn’t deserved him. She pulled the duvet over herself and cried until it was time to leave for her shift at the Yorick.
Mirren tried to get a good look at John Wagstaff’s face. He was right under the bar lights ordering his usual ale and a glass of sack so it was the perfect opportunity to get him chatting and scan his features for any hint of Jonathan Hathaway in them, but her eyes were tired and gritty from crying and the old man’s whiskers hid most of his face anyway.
‘Not spending Christmas Eve with family?’ she asked, focusing on his eyes, ice-blue, just like Jonathan’s.
‘Not I. I’m a solitary swan, always have been,’ he said, almost sadly. ‘May I enquire about your plans, far from home and hearth, what will you be doing tomorrow?’
‘Hah! I’ll be here. At least for the afternoon shift. Can’t have the people of Stratford going without their Christmas drinks, can we?’
Maybe something in the set of his mouth, she thought, looked familiar too, but age, booze and the bachelor life had done a number on old Wagstaff’s handsome face. She knew he was telling the truth about being a solitary swan, his autobiography had confirmed it; never married, no mention of any children, and he’d lived itinerantly after his infamous leg-breaking fall from the stage at the end of the sixties, going from regional theatre to film set to whichever hostelry was nearest the stage door.
The book had been an interesting enough read, written in Wagstaff’s own bright and witty words but not exactly a tell-all exposé. A part of her, the part that didn’t like the idea of stalking elderly men, told her to give her curiosity a rest and she turned for the till.
Kenneth appeared by her side, settling a glass of bubbly in front of her. ‘Compliments of the Yorick. Drink it up girl and get your Christmas spirit back, you look like a damp dishcloth draped over the beer taps.’
‘Charming,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, throwing a smirk at her boss who she had warmed to a little more with each shift. He was staid and quiet, yes, but kind too, just a no-nonsense kind of bloke; all that mattered to him was that everyone was happy in his little kingdom, and that started with his staff. He had already disappeared into the little snug bar to clear glasses so Mirren clasped the champagne flute and raised it to Wagstaff who had settled himself by the bar to read his newspaper.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘No, no, no,’ Wagstaff blustered, reaching out a hand to stall her. ‘That’s no Christmas Eve toast. Try this one.’ He lifted his own drink in salute. ‘Heaven give you many, many merry days.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ She threw back the champagne and when she lowered the long-stemmed glass again the vision before her made her splutter.
Adrian Armadale was by the bar in an oversized cream fisherman’s jumper – not a woolly snowman or knitted reindeer in sight; she bet he’d never once known the itchy discomfort of a tacky Christmas jumper. He had one hand stuffed into the pocket of his black jeans, the other grasping a bountiful bouquet of roses with petals the colour of antique lace. He was wearing those spectacles again with his hair ruffled and jaw lightly stubbled, giving the impression of a Dior model off duty for the holidays.
‘Hi,’ he said, smiling unassumingly.
She warily eyed the flowers and when he caught her expression he brought them abruptly down to his side. ‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t bring these for you, they’re for someone else.’
Mirren could feel her colour rising and wished the cellar door beneath her feet would fall open, taking her with it.
‘I’m paying a visit to family after this, these are for… anyway, look, I was just passing and…uh…’ he rambled.
Mirren took the opportunity to swig the last of her bubbly and pretend this wasn’t horribly awkward. She thought of his words last night by the river: ‘In case one day you change your mind. I’ll be here, waiting…’ Is that why he was here on Christmas Eve when he had better things to do and other people to be with? Was this a reminder of his promise to wait for her?
‘Ah!’ John Wagstaff boomed in interruption, gesturing to the roses with expressive hands which told Kelsey they were in for another of his frequent dramatic monologues, and she was right. ‘Let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent,’ he orated, making half the bar turn to look around. ‘For women are as roses, whose fair flower being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.’
The look this drew from Adrian reminded Mirren of how angry he’d been the night of the spilled pint. In an attempt to intercept some of Adrian’s ire and to prevent Wagstaff proclaiming any more dubious guff about women displaying their flowers, she threw the actor a free bag of scratchings by way of applause – which he greedily tore into – and hastened Adrian to the furthest end of the bar.
‘I’ve told you before, you have to leave him alone.’ She almost said ‘he’s harmless’ but she’d been told this once herself and it hadn’t ended well.
‘Are you drinking on duty?’ Adrian said with a smirk, ignoring her warning.
‘ItisChristmas Eve.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Every journalist I know back home would be up to their eyeballs in empties by now. Are you having one?’
‘Coke, please.’ His phone rang as Mirren was pouring his drink and he stepped away into the inglenook to talk. She heard him saying, ‘Mr Ferdinand? I’ve got today off, remember?’
At that moment the brass bell over the door rang out through the sound of chattering diners and the pulling of crackers. Mirren was astonished to see Jonathan Hathaway bounding in with a very flustered-looking Kelsey behind him.
‘Wait a sec, Jonathan. I’m sure Mirren’ll be busy…’ she was saying in a pitchy voice.
‘She’s right here,’ said Jonathan, coming round to the side of the bar to wrap her in a quick hug. ‘Good to see you, how are you?’
Over his shoulder Mirren looked from Kelsey’s startled eyes to the oblivious Wagstaff still sitting by the bar absorbed in his paper. Kelsey was shifting from foot to foot and Mirren realised no one was talking but Jonathan.
