‘I’ll see to them,’ George tells her abruptly, placing his second pint glass in front of the man and telling him the price.
She stares at him. He looks over at her briefly before coolly taking the man’s card and running it through the till. She gives me a curious look, then her gaze moves to Becky and her face shows signs of recognition.
‘Oh, hello!’
My friend is more familiar around here, probably because she used to visit her parents a lot more than I did.
I can hardly bear the fact that I didn’t come home enough while Dad was still alive. Now it’s too late to rectify my mistake.
‘Hi, Natalie,’ Becky chirps as I try to push these regrets aside. I need a break from my demons tonight. ‘How’s Amanda?’
Amanda is Natalie’s older sister, the one we went to school with.
‘She’s all right, thanks. Not enjoying her morning sickness much, though.’
‘I didn’t know she was pregnant.’
As Becky and Natalie catch up, George finishes with his customer and comes to stand opposite me, behind the bar.
‘You look happy to be out and about,’ he says with a small smile, proceeding to unbutton the cuffs of his denim shirt. He’s wearing it open over a black T-shirt.
‘First time in a while.’
He nods. ‘I heard.’
‘Has Mum been talking about me again?’
He shrugs. ‘She worries. What can I get you?’
I tap Becky on her shoulder, interrupting her mid-sentence. ‘Are we doing Prosecco?’
‘Absolutely. Get a bottle.’
I smile at her command.
‘You heard the lady,’ I say to George as he pushes one sleeve up to reveal a tanned, leanly muscled forearm.
Becky has already returned to her conversation with Natalie.
George smiles at me and pushes his other sleeve up. My heart skitters as I see that his skin is etched with the ink of several tattoos. I can’t stop staring as he gets a bottle of Prosecco out of the fridge and returns to the bar top, deftly peeling off the silver wrapper and unwinding the metal cage to free the cork.
I lift my eyes to see him watching me. Now his expression is serious.
He knows what I’m thinking.
‘Do you still have it?’
‘Yes,’ he replies in a low voice, easing the cork out with a small pop.
I want to ask if I can see, but I’ve lost my nerve.
He pours out fizzing liquid into flutes and I distract myself by opening my bag and pulling out my purse.
George shakes his head. ‘It’s on me.’
‘No, it’s fine—’
‘Leah,’ he cuts off my protestations, filling a champagne bucket with ice. ‘It’s on me,’ he repeats steadily, causing a shivery feeling to ripple over my entire body.
He passes one glass to Becky and she beams. ‘Ooh, thank you!’
Natalie leaves us to it and Becky spins around to face me, chinking my glass.
‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’
‘Enjoy your night,’ George murmurs, clunking the bottle into the ice bucket and going to attend to another customer.
I feel deflated as I watch him leave us.
Becky gives me a significant look. ‘Shall we take this to our table?’
I nod, silently agreeing.
‘It must have been so strange to see George again,’ she says when we’re comfortably seated at a wooden table by the window in the restaurant area. The sill beside us is crammed with ornaments: a pottery pug wearing a suit and tie, old-fashioned bottles and books, picture frames and a globe of the world.
‘It was very surreal,’ I reply, knowing that the description falls well short of conveying how it really felt to discover George sitting two rows behind me at Dad’s funeral.
‘Have you found out where he went?’
‘No. We still haven’t had that conversation.’
‘Seriously? I thought he was helping out at the farm.’
‘He is. But I don’t see that much of him.’
‘You’re avoiding him.’
‘For my own sanity.’
Her face scrunches up with sympathy and she reaches across to cover my hand with hers. A moment later, her expression becomes thoughtful. She cocks her head to one side and whispers conspiratorially, ‘If you’re avoiding him, why are we here?’
I shrug and smile. ‘Psychoanalyse away.’
She laughs. ‘Well…’ she starts.
I cut her off with a grin. ‘Actually, don’t. Let’s talk about something else.’
Becky launches into a story about the latest naughty thing Hayden has done, and I laugh and amuse her in turn with tales about Emilie being cheeky. Our children are the main topic of conversation for the next hour or so, and we’re aware of the irony, considering we’re hardly ever without them and should be making the most of our freedom. But Emilie is the one thing guaranteed to make me smile, so I don’t care.
‘I don’t know how the hell your parents managed to look after so many kids at once,’ Becky says at last.
‘Neither do I.’
‘They’re pretty special people.’
‘They are, and they were,’ I gently correct her, thinking of Dad.
‘How’s Jamie getting on?’ Becky asks hurriedly, realising we’ve accidentally strayed into sentimental territory.
‘He and Dani are great!’ I’m glad she knows that I don’t want to dwell. ‘They’re loving London life. I can’t believe it. Jamie always seemed so at home in the country so the thought of him hanging out in the big city is really making me smile.’
‘Are they coming back for a visit anytime soon?’
‘Not for a while. I think they want to get settled there first.’
We go on to talk about the life Becky left behind in Canada, and eventually come around to discussing what it’s been like for us both to move back home. I tell her about Mum’s upcoming knitting workshop and she says she’d love to come.
‘I won’t bring Hayden, though. He’d tear the place up.’
‘I have to bring Emilie.’
‘I’m sure Robin would have her. He’s working from home for the next few weeks. This Thursday lunchtime, you say?’
‘Yes, but honestly, don’t worry, she can come with me.’
No one aside from family has looked after her since – I freeze, stunned, at the sight of two tall girls, one with long blond hair and another with dark hair, ordering drinks at the bar.
Becky, seeing my expression, follows my gaze.
‘Too young,’ she states dismissively as George prepares their order.
She thinks I’m worried about the competition, which is insulting in itself, but she’s wrong.
The blonde girl over there is Katy. Katy, who babysat for us the evening of my parents’ party. Katy, who forgot to text to say that she was home safe after her taxi journey. Katy, who is inadvertently responsible for Theo walking out of our door that night in his desperation to check on her.
George glances past her and catches my eye.
‘What is it?’ Becky asks, now with alarm. She’s realised that she failed to hit the nail on the head.
And then Katy, perhaps wondering what has caused the bartender to look so perplexed, casually glances over her shoulder. As soon as she sees me, her relaxed smile wilts.