Authors: Derek Farrell
Chapter Eight
Ray and Dash were hunkered on a couple of upturned buckets with a large tin bath between them.
“How’s it going?” I asked, popping my head into the desolate downstairs ‘Parlour’ that would, once upon a time, have been the receiving room for the landlord of the pub.
Two heads – identical bleach blond French crops and jet black eyebrows over midnight dark eyes – popped up.
“Alright, shirter,” said Dash.
“’Ere, this shit’s playin’ havoc wiv me manicure,” Ray sniggered, peeling a label from a beer bottle and slapping it on his forehead. “We’re gonna need more hot water soon.”
“An’ if you need any tonic water, give us a shout,” his identical twin brother said, slapping an identical label on his forehead.
“Well, it aint, strickly,
tonic
. It’s ever fizzin…”
“Effervescent,” his brother corrected
“Whatever: it’s fizzy stuff for when you get the squits on ‘oliday. We got a job lot off Yog Stopidoros.”
“If you slap it in a shot of gin,” said the other one, “nobody’d ever know the difference – just like Schweppes, it is. With the added bonus that you ain’t gonna accidentally shit yourself.”
“Um,” I said, wondering if this afternoon could get any weirder, “I think we’re OK for tonic right now.”
“Well, let us know,” they chorused and went back to peeling the
not to be sold individually
labels off of the beer bottles I planned on selling individually this evening.
Dash and Ray were my brother Paddy’s stepsons. Their mum Tash had suggested I could save a few quid on stock by using the vast quantities of Eastern European and bulk-buy beers that her dad had stocked in his garage. “Course, I’ll need to strip off the giveaway labels,” I had commented.
Tash had put down her needlework (she’d taken, lately, to making samplers featuring quotes from the works of Mickey Spillane) and fixed me with a rather sardonic stare. “Mate, if you really think anyone’s reading the labels of their beer bottles, you need to get out more.”
As I headed out to collect the dresses, I passed Caz, Jenny and Dominic Mouret and heard Jen saying “Absolute bloody nightmare. Wish I’d
never
said a word,” to which Mouret made some soothing comments. “I’m like a dog on a bloody leash, Dom,” she snapped, as I headed for the door. “And Dad’s not much better.”
I reached the door just as it swung open and a small, rather mousey redhead with a broad West Country accent barrelled in. She was dressed in what can only be described as a tartan kaftan, strung with enough beads to fuel a whole Mardi Gras. The remaining gowns were flung carelessly over one of her shoulders, a series of shoulder bags slung over the other and both hands held out before her, clutching three vanity cases.
“So sorry,” she said in a broad West Country accent. “I’m Liz. Liz Britton. Makeup and hair?” she prompted. “You must be Danny.”
“Here,” I said, “give me a few things to carry up.”
“Cheers.” Liz dumped the frocks into my arms, rearranged the shoulder bags and vanity cases and headed in the direction I’d indicated by a nod of the head.
As we headed across the bar, I decided once again to clarify the reality of the situation. “You know that Lyra’s only doing three songs and a bit of chat, right?”
“That’s the deal,” she answered.
“It’s just that, from what I remember, Cher had less wardrobe for Caesar’s Palace.”
“That’s Lyra,” Liz smiled. “Once a
diva
, always a
diva.
..”
As we approached Lyra’s dressing room door, it suddenly swung open and a flustered looking Ali Carter almost collided with us.
Ali Carter is one of those women who seem, permanently, to be aged somewhere between twenty and fifty. She’d been bar-tending at the Marq for longer than anyone could remember. Today she was dressed in a solid but slightly dowdy smock blouse over a pair of supermarket brand jeans and a pair of clogs that looked like they’d been purchased some time before decimalisation. This was topped off with a utilitarian haircut, minimal makeup and a face now showing a mixture of hurt, anger and confusion. I didn’t know what we’d just missed but, whatever it was, it had totally destabilised her.
There was no sign of Morgan: I guessed that, as he hadn’t passed Liz Britton and me on our way across the bar, he’d left the pub by the back door.
I was just about to ask Ali what was up when she turned, a hard glint in her eye and addressed Lyra. “Smirnoff, Absolut or Finlandia, Ms Day?”
Liz made a noise in her throat that was somewhere between a cough and a squawk of surprise. Lyra, who’d been picking unseen lint from the shoulder of her black silk blouse, clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles showed white.
“
I beg your pardon
,” she said, icily.
“The vodka, Ms Day. The vodka you just ordered me to bring. Would you like Smirnoff, Absolut or Finlandia?”
Lyra Day raised an immaculately plucked eyebrow, lifted the lid on her jewellery box, withdrew a drop earring of green crystals and made a show of holding it against her earlobe, whilst staring into the mirror. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, dear.
Everyone knows
that I’m a recovering alcoholic. You must have misheard me. Coffee,” she said brightly, turning around and tossing the earring back into the box. “Strong and black, there’s a good girl.”
Ali nodded at Lyra, said “I’ll fetch that coffee,” brusquely and left the room pulling the door closed behind her with such force that the noise echoed around the room like a gunshot.
Chapter Nine
Liz Britton crossed to the singer, put her hands onto Lyra’s shoulders and turned the woman to face her. “Oh Lyra. You were doing so well.”
Lyra’s face took on the look of a woman who knows the game is almost over and then she glanced across Liz Britton’s shoulder, saw me still holding the last of the dresses and the haughty look she’d worn since stepping out of the Merc slid back into place.
“What are you gawping at?” She demanded and I went about hanging the dresses up and making wordless squawking noises, before fleeing the room.
I headed back downstairs just as Morgan Foster stepped in through the back door, slipping a mint into his mouth. He saw me and stopped dead, a guilty look sliding across his features. “Oh, Danny. Um, I...um. Oh sod it,” he gave up: “I needed a fag. And Lyra...”
“Doesn’t know you smoke,” I finished for him.
“She gave up so many of her vices,” he confessed and I had to resist the urge to let him know that she might not have given up as many as he thought, “and I agreed to knock the nicotine on the head. But sometimes – when the stress levels go up...”
“Don’t worry,” I answered, “your secret’s safe with me. Liz Britton’s with Lyra,” I added and his face brightened.
“Thank God,” he said and excused himself to head off up the stairs. I walked down the hallway, through the parlour, nodding to Dash and Ray and into the kitchen where Ali had just boiled the kettle.
“Ali,” she stiffened, but didn’t turn to face me. “Ali, I’m sorry about that. Lyra’s, well, she’s...”
“A bitch,” Ali finished for me, sniffing noisily and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “She got really nasty, Danny. Told me if I didn’t bring vodka there and then she’d get me fired.”
“She’s not gonna get you fired,” I said.
“Too right she’s not.” Ali turned to face me, an impassive professional mask back on. “I know that type
very
well. She’s bullying the wrong barmaid, cos this one bites back. D’you think she’ll want chocolate biscuits or plain?”
I went to hug Ali and she stiffened, turned her back on me, said “Sod it, let her have both,” dumped a pile of biscuits on the plate and poured the kettle into the cafetiere standing by the tray.
“Better make enough for three,” I said, “I’ll take it up to her majesty.” I hefted the tray from the counter, “hopefully it’ll keep her sober long enough to do the bloody performance and get out of our hair. Then we can get on with the real business of running a pub.”
I took the coffee up the stairs and was aware, as I approached the dressing room, of voices coming through a crack in the not-quite-closed door.
“...disgusting,” Lyra was saying. “She’s young enough to be your daughter and you’re pawing her on the bloody street.”
“She’s Jenny’s friend,” Morgan answered, his voice trying hard to sound soothing and calm, but an underlying tension evident. “I was giving her a hug hello.”
“
Lyra
!” Liz Britton now. “I don’t think this is helping.”
“Keep out of this, Liz!” Lyra snapped back. “You’re not the one who’s had to put up with years of him hiring one ‘secretary’ after another – half of whom wouldn’t know Pitman’s from a fucking Pit-bull – and slipping them the sort of
dictation
they don’t teach in secretarial schools. And now he’s got me
doing favours
for girls who went to school with his daughter? Since when did you ever
do a favour
for anyone, Morgan? You’re up to something, I know it and if it’s got anything to do with getting into that little tart’s knickers I’ll rip your balls off.”
“Oh for
Christ’s sake
,” there was a retort, like someone punching a table top and I hoped the dressing table – which had been borrowed from my Aunt Maz – hadn’t been damaged. “For once and for all, Lyra,” Foster’s voice was no longer trying to be placatory; there was a rod of fury in it, “I am
not
trying to shag the girl. I am
trying
to help you get back your self-respect, rebuild your confidence and restart your career, and all you seem intent on doing is sabotaging it at every step.”
“And why would you want to do that?” Lyra demanded, “If not to keep me busy while you rut around with girls young enough to be your daughter?”
“Perhaps,” he said, the calmness back again, “because I love you.”
This seemed as good a point as any for me to step forward, kick the door with my boot and announce that coffee was served.
I started to pour as Caz and Jenny Foster drifted into the room.
“...so clever,” Caz was saying, “and brave too. Aren’t you poppet,” she patted me on the bum and winked cheekily.
“Um,” I glanced at Lyra, who was giving Caz the sort of look that used to turn people to stone in Greek mythology.
“Caz’s been telling me how you’ve really worked to get this place up and running,” Jenny said, picking a chocolate finger off the tray and popping it into her mouth, “Ooh, I could murder a coffee,” she mumbled through the biscuit, stealing one of the cups and slurping noisily from it. Lyra winced and I made sure to hand the second cup, balanced delicately on its saucer, directly to her. I didn’t really want to witness what would happen if Lyra ended up
sans café
.
“So, anyways,” Jenny continued, “I think it’s brilliant that you’ve shown such gumption and got your arse in gear. Not let a few setbacks knock your confidence,” she added, popping another chocolate finger into her mouth. “Unlike some people, who’d have been more than happy to sit on their backsides feeling sorry for themselves and bemoaning the way their lives have turned out.”
“Jenny,” Lyra’s voice was arctic, “would you be a darling and bring up the shoes; I think they’re still in the boot of the car.”
“In a minute,” Jenny answered, “I wanted to talk to Dad about the wedding. Caz has had a brilliant idea: she’s fairly sure she can get Henry Holland to make the dress for me at mate’s rates. It won’t be cheap, even then, but it’s Holland. What do you think, Dad? Would be totally dreamy.”
“Fetch the fucking shoes, Jenny, or you’ll be shopping for frocks at Asda!” Lyra, snapped, the cup perfectly poised before her lips.
The two women locked eyes in the mirror and the atmosphere crackled. Then, muttering something about what the last slave had died of, Jenny stalked out of the room.
Foster sighed. “Lyra...”
“Oh don’t start, Morgan. And as for you,” Lyra put the cup down and swivelled to face Caz, “I don’t know what your game is, but I’m warning you to back off!”
“Game?” Caz frowned, “I don’t understand...”
“
I don’t understand
,” Lyra mimicked the cut glass accent that a lifetime of top schools had provided Caz with. “Listen, love,” she picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table and jabbed it threateningly at Caz, “you can drop the airs. I don’t know what this is all about, how you managed to persuade my idiot husband that this
fiasco
would be a good idea, but I’m here to tell you that whatever you think he’s gonna be able to do for you ain’t gonna happen.”
“Lyra, for Christ’s sake,” Foster pleaded, shooting an apologetic look at Caz.
“And lay off Jenny,” Lyra continued. “If I’m paying for this bloody wedding,
I’ll
decide where she gets her dress from; not some stuck up little posh tart. Got that?”
Caz, whose father had paid a small fortune for her education, flared her nostrils, smiled sweetly, said “I’ll just go get the plunger; I think the ladies loo may be blocked,” and got the hell out of the room.
As she passed me, her eyes were blazing furiously and her knuckles were so tightly clenched I thought she was in danger of grinding her French manicure to powder.