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CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
The only person who didn’t have a hangover on Boxing Day morning was Millie. At mid-morning she left for work, leaving behind a pale Sally making a late breakfast and two sickly young men.
‘Shallwego to the pub?’ George suggested, draining his third cup of black coffee.
‘Do we have to?’ Owen groaned and buried his face in his hands.
‘It’s the price for over-indulgence and mixing your drinks, lovie.’ Sally said, placing a plate of toast in front of them and running a gentle hand down Owen’s stressed neck.
‘Champagne, then sherry and wine, then more bubbly before port with the Stilton, followed by whisky. George raiding the cheap stuff from his dad’s drinks cabinet wouldn’t have helped either.’ She gave him a knowing look, before adding, ‘Bound to do some damage.’
‘Put like that, it’s painfully obvious,’ Owen mumbled from behind his fingers.
‘So how come you’re fine, Mum?’ George asked as he helped himself to some toast.
‘I’m not, Georgie, love. I’ve had years of practise at pretending to be fine, that’s all. And of course, I’m female.’
‘What that got to do with?’
‘Everyone knows, we’re the stronger sex,’ Sally teased, adding, ‘Higher tolerance for pain, don’t you know.’
Taking a bite from his slice of toast, George pushed his chair back. ‘Come on, then. Let’s all go to the pub. I need a hair of the dog.’ He grabbed another piece of toast.
Owen, groaning again, dropped his hands and watched George stride out to the hallway.
‘And he’s missing Millie.’ Sally said, taking off her apron.
‘So soon?’
Sally dropped a kiss into his tousled dark curls and whispered, ‘That’s love for you.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he mumbled.
The pub was heaving,mostly with the incomers, mostly the young demographic that the place had been redesigned to attract. As they settled at the usual table, George noticed the man he’d seen the other day. The one he thought he knew from somewhere. He was talking to Millie, and she glanced over to where the three of them were sitting. Almost as if they were the topic. Why would Millie be talking about them to that stranger?
‘See that man, Mum.’ George nudged Sally.
‘Which one, lovie?’
‘The one talking with Millie now. Do we know him?’
Sally looked at the man.
He was sitting on one of the tall bar stools, long legs still easily extending to the floor, slightly bent at the knees. Smart casual clothes. Slim, good bone structure, silver-grey hair, shortly cut. Fine profile.
‘Never seen him before,’ she said.
‘What about you?’ George nudged Owen, causing him to spill some of his beer.
Owen scowled. ‘How would I know him? I’ve never been to this part of London before. Why’d you ask?’
‘I’ve got a feeling I know him.’ George stared hard at the man. Then, suddenly decisive, he said, ‘Excuse me.’ Stood up and walked to the bar.
‘Millie, can we have another round?’ he asked.
‘You’ve only just had one,’ she said, turning to him in surprise.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ George said to the man.
