Pull yourself together, Bea.
This isn’t me, not one bit. When have I ever stepped aside and allowed the world to walk all over me? And if there is one thing I really hate, it’s bastards jumping the queue.
The barman scuttles over. ‘What can I get you, sir?’
‘I believe this lady has been waiting for far too long.’
With the blood rushing too quickly to my head, I speak before I process what he says. ‘Actually, I was here first,’ I snap, then my brain catches up and bathes me in a blush. ‘Oh … sorry … yes.’
‘What would you like?’ The gentleman turns to me, eyebrows raised, and a teasing smirk.
‘Just two pints, please,’ I mumble, still embarrassed by my hot-headed blunder.
‘Two pints for the lady, and one for me, please.’ The barman shoots off to the taps and the stranger leans onto the bar beside me, lowering himself to my eye level in a casually suave lollop.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, rubbing my hands over my face and wishing I was back at home, in my own pub, pulling my own pints.
‘These things are bloody awful, aren’t they?’ he says, his poshness oozing from every syllable. ‘Just a bunch of arseholes trying to show off.’
‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I reply with a laugh and the stranger extends his hand for me to shake.
‘Charles River.’
I take his hand and shake it lightly, though too aware of its dampness for any of this interaction to feel comfortable.‘Beatrice,’ I reply, not bothering to give him my full name; it’s not like it holds any importance here.
‘Nice to meet you, Beatrice. I’ve not seen you at one of these things before. It’s unusual to see new faces. Particularly ones so pretty.’ I’m grateful that the barman delivers the goods so I can grimace into the froth of my pint.
‘I’m here with a … friend. I guess you could say that I’m his plus-one.’ Realising I’ve been gone now for quite a while, I look back across the room in the direction that I left Arthur but notice the armchair empty, and him nowhere to be seen. ‘Well, I was. It seems that he’s gone without me. I should go and find him … thanks for the drinks.’
‘Oh, who’s your friend?’ Charles doesn’t get the hint as I keep looking around the room for Arthur.
‘Arthur Cavendish.’ I speak quickly. ‘Thanks again.’
‘HA!’ Charles’s voice is so loud that several people around us cease their conversations to watch us and I resist the urge to tell them all that I’m definitely not with him. ‘Cavendish? Wow, so you’re his new thing, are you?’
‘Excuse me?’ My eye twitches as I swing around to face him, the reminder of who exactly I am coming back to hit me with full force. ‘A woman is not athingfor starters. And if I were, it would be none of your business, Mr Pond.’
‘River,’ he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of the room. ‘You know he does this a lot: finds some obscure girl, dazzles her with the magic of the movies, then leaves her once he’s bored.’
Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.
‘I’m sorry—’ (I’m not) ‘—but who are you?’
Charles River scoffs, as though I should know his name and his life story and be instantly wooed by his strong bone structure and luscious hair.
‘I suppose you could say I was once a friend, until I had served my purpose and the Cavendishes didn’t need me anymore.’ He leans even deeper against the bar until he’s pretty much stood in a straddled position. ‘Tiny Artie’s got plenty of skeletons in his closest. And a madwoman in his attic.’ He hides the last part behind a cough and a grin and I grasp my pint so tightly, the liquid inside trembles.
Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.Instead, I do exactly what arrogant men hate the most, laugh in his face. ‘All right, calm your tits, Charlotte Brontë.’ Charles River closes his mouth so quickly I hear his porcelain teeth crunch together with the motion. Leaning in close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek, I speak in a low voice, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t know who you think you are. And I don’t know who you think I am, but if youeversay anything along those lines again – to me, or to anyone else – I have access to enough sheep shit to fill a nice car and whatever shitty London flat you live in. That is a promise.’
‘You’re fucking insane.’ He draws his face away with a shiver.
I pat him on the shoulder and give a condescending wink. ‘Thanks again for the drinks, duck.’
Chapter 30
Arthur
Iam not the same man I was when I was here last. Back then I still had no confidence, but at least I was better at hiding it. Coming here as me, as opposed to the son of my parents, it’s exposing. Walking in here without them is as much of an embarrassment as walking in without my trousers. I feel vulnerable; I feel weak.
