We dash off to do our respective jobs. I switch on the battery-operated candles, check Athena has the catering under control, confer with the jazz band who are all set up on the small stage area, and fill up the ice well behind the bar.
Roxy checks over the guest list as Houdini comes bounding in. She ushers him back outside with the promise of a treat, but not before he steals a cushion and what she doesn’t see is that he also took her purse. ‘Argh, I can’t run in these heels. Why is he so fast?!’
‘The cushion is a ruse. He’s got your purse too. If you’re not quick enough the money and your credit cards will be lost forever. We don’t know where he’s stashing those but he will hide the purse in the drain near the lemon tree.’
‘What … how many has he stolen already?’
I pull a face. ‘Eleven. Twelve if we count yours.’
She blinks rapidly as if in shock. ‘What does a dog need money for anyway?’
‘Ice cream? The clock is ticking, Roxy.’
I leave her to chase Houdini and only hope she hasn’t left her run too late. When she returns, her hair is slightly askew as if she’d had a quick game of tug-of-war with Houdini and lost, but from behind her back, she brandishes the cushion victoriously. ‘Winner!’
‘That’s a different cushion. Where’s your purse?’
‘Covered in dog slobber and emptied. We’ll worry about that later, eh?’ She checks her reflection in the mirror. ‘Oh my hair’s a mess!’
‘Go fix yourself up. We can wait a few more minutes.’ Roxy dashes to the bathroom while Athena carts out bowls of fruit to the bar for cocktail garnishes. There are slices of lemon, wedges of lime and triangles of pineapple.
‘Wherearethe mixologists?’ I ask as Roxy returns, hair pristine once more. ‘Has anyone seen them?’
‘No,’ she says as Gran join us.
‘Don’t panic, darling. They’ll be here.’
I twist my hands together. ‘Can you call them?’
‘Sure, sure.’ Gran says distractedly while she makes herself the world’s biggest cocktail. ‘But let’s give it a few more minutes. You know locals around here …’
‘Island time.’ An excuse for everything from arriving late to forgetting about an invitation entirely. Especially if it relates to work. You’ll get there when you get there and that’s all there is to it.
There’s no rush, not even for a cocktail party where the mixologists are crucial for the event. I attempt to channel Gran’s level of zen but I quite can’t manage it. ‘Do we know what ingredients the Lucy Strike cocktail is supposed to contain?’
Gran waves me away. ‘We’ll wing it. Grenadine fixes everything.’
‘It’s supposed to be spicy isn’t it?’ I ask. We’ve advertised Lucy’s eponymous cocktail far and wide and got a lot of traction on social media with the post.
‘Tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce then.’
‘Isn’t that just a bloody Mary?’
‘Not today,’ Gran says. ‘It’s a Bloody Lucy.’ The joke breaks the tension I’m battling and I relax my shoulders.
‘And for those who want a mocktail, we’ll make it without alcohol and call it a Bloody Shame,’ Roxy says, provoking a gale of laughter.
I’ve got a lot to learn about the art of letting go. These two are as unruffled as ever, while I’m catastrophising about the Lucy Strike cocktail of all things.
I swing my gaze around one last time. Everything is in order. The goodie bags are lined up near the exit so guests can take one when they leave. The moody lighting is on ‘sexy’ as Gran calls it.
My heart thrums with excitement. It’s a gift to be able to share this special place with people and I only hope they appreciate all the effort Gran’s put in. It truly is the most beautiful of spaces to commit to the worship of words, just the way Gran envisioned.
Roxy fires up the laptop ready to sign up new members, and I duck my head into the kitchen. Athena is organised and ready to go. She gives me a thumbs up. ‘Just say the word and we’ll serve the canapés.’
‘Perfect. Thank you.’
Back at the bar one lonely mixologist has arrived. Leo, the guy Gran has employed for the summer. ‘Where are the others?’ I ask.
