We moved away from the doorway to allow his team to enter the room, which they all did while cooing and squealing at their unexpectedly luxurious surroundings. As they all took their seats, Becky came up beside me, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Milly Allister, once again you’ve outdone yourself. The room looks amazing! You’d never know I’d had my first snog up against a pool table pretty much where we’re standing right now!’
She winked at me before bundling me into another massive hug.
‘Right, I’d better let the kitchen know to get the starters out. Reckon you could give me a hand bringing them through?’
‘Amelia Allister, at your service!’ I replied.
It was the first time I’d said my real name aloud in twenty years.
By eleven thirty, the pub was empty of all customers – I’d been given the honour of ringing the bell for last orders – with the exception of Tom and his WeFacilit8 colleagues. They were rambunctiously waiting for a minibus to take them on to Rotunda – a sticky-floored nightclub in the next suburb over, devoid of any positive attributes whatsoever beyond a dancefloor and a late licence.
Tom hung back from the throng, joining me at the bar that I was wiping down with a frankly magical potion called Bar Keepers Friend. Before I’d even clocked his presence, he slung one long arm around my shoulder, and tossed his grey tweed coat over his own with an ironic flourish. It was tempting to transfer my weight into what was fast becoming my favourite human nook, but I kept my core firm and continued wiping.
‘They missed the apostrophe.’ His words bumped up against each other in a way I hadn’t heard before, his breath sweet with eau-de-whisky-and-mince-pie.
‘Erm, who, what, where?’
Tom pointed at the bottle of cleaning product. ‘Surely there should be a possessive apostrophe after the word “Keepers”. Without it, the word “Friend” is grammatically redundant.’
I picked up the bottle and took a closer look at the copy. Huh, he was right.
‘Is this how our chats work?’ I placed the bottle back down and focused on rubbing the surface in a vaguely ‘wax-on, wax-off’ fashion.
‘You what now?’
‘Well, last night I drunkenly bored you to death with adjective-related chitchat, and nowyou’redrunkenly talking to me about possessive apostrophes. I’m starting to detect a linguistic pattern.’
‘You didn’t bore me, Mal. But are you saying thatI’mboringyou?’
My breath caught, and I decided to chance an honest answer since he probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation by the end of the night.
‘You know you’re not.’Keep wiping, Mally.
‘Good.’
‘Minibus is here!’ someone called from the doorway to a cacophony of cheers and West Country ’wahey’s.
He removed his arm from me and I exhaled, unaware my breathing had been in glitch mode.
‘Now then, Miss Mally. I know you’re still feeling delicate from last night’s chundering, but are youabsolutely sureI can’t convince you to join us at the legendary establishment that is Rotunda? Even for a single orange juice and lemonade? It’s just that I have so many other language-based observations I’d love to get off my chest.’
Tom’s eyes were fixed on mine, but his pupils were dilated. And, as tempted as I was to say ‘yes’, even the thought of stepping into that place sober made my stomach churn and eardrums ache.
‘Not this time, Thomas.’
He stuck out his bottom lip in exaggerated disappointment, and my brain immediately leapt back to that vulnerable little boy from the playschool picture.
‘Next time, then?’ he asked, swinging his coat back round from the faux-casual shoulder sling. I had to lean back at the waist to avoid the thick material whipping me in the face. He attempted to put the coat on but couldn’t successfully locate the armhole.
I snorted and put down my cloth, finally – my arm was killing me. ‘Tom, you piss-head. Let me help.’
Tom chuckled. ‘Please.’
I guided his firm arms into their respective holes from behind, standing on my tiptoes. Once his arms were in, he turned to face me, and I instinctively rose up on my tiptoes again to turn up his collar to protect him from the cold.
‘Why thank you, Mally, you hangover-head.’
