‘Ha ha, yeah, of course it is. Because it’s Tom’s happy place, too. Okay, go ahead and overthink it, then. But don’t let that get in the way of actually doing anything about it, hmm? Right, can you pass me those napkins? I’ve found this amazing video that shows you how to fold them into cute little Christmas trees and I’ve been itching to give it a go. Up for the challenge?’
‘You do remember that I was effectively banned from textiles lessons after repeatedly slicing my fingers open with the pinking shears, right?’
‘No scissors involved here. Just cloth, YouTube and misguided grit.’
At seven o’clock – an hour past their scheduled arrival time and in response to a series of increasingly irritated voicemails left by Becky – the organiser of the private room booking finally confirmed they were no longer coming. The no-show was a devastating one: the deposit the group had paid to reserve the space for the night came nowhere close to making up for what the pub should’ve raked in from the group on booze sales alone. And all the wasted food they’d bought in especially – and had already begun to prepare based on pre-orders – didn’t bear thinking about.
There were a few other smaller groups and couples enjoying the festive set menu, but even I could tell that, for the only pub in a busy little village like Scarnbrook to be 75 per cent empty in the immediate run-up to Christmas, something was very awry.
After helping to clear a table – and praying that I would never have to handle a piece of jagged, heavy slate masquerading as a plate ever again – I found Becky slumped in a fireside armchair in the private dining room, her head in her hands.
I pulled up a chair next to her and squeezed one of her shoulders. She looked up at me through mascara-damp eyes.
‘It’s him. He’s done this.’
‘Who?’
‘That bastard Christian Woods. I’m telling you.’
‘But the deposit…?’
‘A few hundred quid means nothing to him. He’s playing the long game.’
‘Shit, I’m so sorry, Becky.’
‘Thanks. You might as well head off – it’s not like we need the extra help any more.’
I looked at the open fire roaring where aWho Wants to Be a Millionairequiz machine used to reside. Staying here in this cosy establishment was way preferable to heading up the lane to my distinctly unfestive and fluorescent-lit rental. More importantly, Becky needed a friend right now. And I got the impression my presence alone would mean something.
‘Nah, it’s warmer here than back at my place. In all senses of the word.’
She gave me a quick hug before standing, wiping underneath her eyes and tapping her cheeks a few times as if to dislodge her disappointment.
‘Right, I’m going to head back out there. Maybe you could put the cutlery back in the dresser so it doesn’t get dusty? God knows when it’ll next see the light of day.’
I saluted my compliance with a sympathetic grin as she went back into the main area of the pub, leaving the door ajar behind her.
I looked around the beautiful room. What a fucking waste. And what a fucking bastard that Christian Woods bloke was if it was indeed him who’d planned all of this for his own greedy gain.
And then I remembered: tonight was the night Tom’s company was having its Christmas party. I tapped out a quick message to him, my fingers shaking as the potential of the idea took hold.
Mally:
Hey, bit last minute, but are you still in need of a venue tonight?The private dining room at The Star is suddenly free and the kitchen isbursting with food that will otherwise go to waste?
Tom replied almost instantly.
Tom:
Er, are you serious? Because let’s just say ‘drinks in the office’ isfast turning into ‘awkward silences in the office’ and I feel like DavidBrent.
Mally:
Yeah! Give Becky a quick call, see what she says. But they couldreally do with filling the place up tonight.
Tom:
Understood. And the local taxi firm owes me one. Fingers crossed!
