Sue Cross was born in Cheshire, England and has lived in Hong Kong, Mauritius, Australia and Spain. She was the founder of Susan Molyneux, a skin care company. After retiring from the demanding business world, she decided to write, using her experiences abroad to paint vivid pictures of life in the colonies in the changing times of the 60’s and 70’s. It was due to the encouragement and camaraderie of the U3A Marbella Writers' Group that she decided to pen her first novel. She is now working on the sequel and has also compiled a series of short stories, some of which were Writing Group assignments. Here is a brief synopsis of Tea at Sam's, her debut novel:
TEA AT SAM’S
All that Celine, a girl without guile, wants is a happy family life but she soon awakens from her dream of marital bliss when she discovers that James, her selfish, egotistical husband, has a dark secret. Her life takes a new turn when she returns to England from Hong Kong, broken hearted and joins an art class. This leads her on a fresh discovery, not only of her true self, but also of friendships that can never be broken. When Nick, an old flame, returns to her life she is compelled to make some life changing decisions.
Tea at Sam's is available on Amazon as a paperback or ebook. For further information please check out Sue's website www.suecross.com
TEA AT SAM’S
All that Celine, a girl without guile, wants is a happy family life but she soon awakens from her dream of marital bliss when she discovers that James, her selfish, egotistical husband, has a dark secret. Her life takes a new turn when she returns to England from Hong Kong, broken hearted and joins an art class. This leads her on a fresh discovery, not only of her true self, but also of friendships that can never be broken. When Nick, an old flame, returns to her life she is compelled to make some life changing decisions.
Tea at Sam's is available on Amazon as a paperback or ebook. For further information please check out Sue's website www.suecross.com
Here is an extract from Tea at Sam's:
The ride had taken under an hour along precarious hairpin bends that looked down onto a checkerboard of plains surrounded by craggy mountains. The raw beauty filled Celine with wonder and her incident with Justin was pushed to the back of her mind as she revelled in the landscape. They arrived in Ronda late morning and descended from the bus by the famous Puente Nuevo bridge that straddled the enormous El Tajo gorge where dissidents were once flung to a gory death. The Moorish influence was everywhere in the old town and Celine decided to split from the rest of the group to get inspiration for her next painting as the others wanted to go shopping. As she wandered the narrow pebbled streets, she once more felt at home in this foreign land. Enthralled, she took many photographs in the hope that she could use them as a prompt for more paintings.
Cafés would soon be full of customers enjoying a meal but, in the meantime, waiters stood on the pavements like wax works staring into space, in their own private worlds, waiting for some lunchtime activity. The shops in the Old Town were small and exclusive; jewellery twinkled on rich dark velvet and on display were leather handbags, belts and shoes plus tourist items which somehow looked incongruous amidst the traditional buildings with wrought iron balconies like heavy black mantilla lace. The narrow streets, designed for donkeys and pedestrians, were crowded with traffic and there was much tooting of horns.
Suddenly, bells sang out. A middle aged woman, dressed entirely in black emerged from one of the many ancient churches. She shuffled along, her back bent prematurely as if she had forgotten to leave her burden at the altar. An older lady reverently decorated one of the many shrines to the Virgin, using fresh flowers, each one a tender offering.
Celine meandered contentedly into a restaurant, just off a square. There were no tourists to be seen and it was cool and welcoming inside. Crisp yellow tablecloths matched the shirts of the staff. Behind the bar bottles were lined up like soldiers and reflected the light from above. Sitting down on a softly cushioned chair she glanced up. Rustic beams stretched across the white ceiling and three enormous metal paella dishes were suspended from the wall, whether for use or ornament she was not sure. Pictures of bullfights graced the walls and Celine hoped that she would never have to witness such an event. One painting of a matador, the epitome of machismo, grabbed her attention. There he stood in his gold embroidered waistcoat ready to face danger or death for the sake of honour and Celine understood that this was a very different culture to her own. Andalucian lanterns hung festively around the bar and ceiling; the Moorish influence once more evident and the background Flamenco music made her feel oddly at home, once again. She wondered what Nick was doing and hoped that Justin would not cause any further trouble. Most of all she prayed that her encounter with Justin would not spoil her tenuously rekindled relationship with Nick.
Waiters dressed in black aprons with matching bow ties busied themselves behind the bar as lunch time approached. Olives were being dispensed from a large plastic container into small terracotta dishes and tapas were displayed in the chiller on the bar, ready to be devoured.
One of the waiters approached her with a haughty half-smile, notebook poised.
“Buenos dias, señora.” He bowed slightly, revealing shiny black hair combed over a bald patch.
“Buenos dias. Un café con leche, por favor.” Celine remembered a little of the Spanish that Nick had taught her on their trip from the airport and she hoped that she wouldn’t need to say anything else.
Soon a rich coffee aroma filled the air as the noisy machine went into action, first grinding the dark roasted beans before steaming water mingled with them, creating a divine infusion The coffee ceremony completed, her drink was placed with pride in front of her.
“Café con leche, señora,” he said solemnly.
“Gracias.” Celine said with unaccustomed confidence.
She took a sip of the strong warming drink. As a bonus, a chocolate had been placed in the saucer. She let it melt slowly in her mouth until she reached the hazelnut and then, crunching it, savoured the flavours and textures.
A middle aged man, dressed in navy blue and wearing a walrus moustache was sitting at the bar doing a puzzle, oblivious to the outside world, absorbed in his conundrum. He stopped occasionally to swig his brandy.
Soon, a young man strolled into the café and had an animated discussion with the waiter. There was much waving of arms. They were probably just discussing the weather. The young man wore a defiant pony tail and tight jeans. He had deep lines at the sides of his mouth.
‘Perhaps the consequence of hard living,’ Celine thought.
He appeared careworn as he began to pace the floor, hand on his mouth. Deep in thought, he produced a tape measure and started to measure the bar.
The puzzle man never looked up.
A thick set woman wearing an apron and cap walked purposefully to the kitchen chewing her bottom lip and carrying a ladder. She headed for the kitchen where noises of activity had begun and a smell of garlic and onion frying permeated the air.
The maitre d’ wearing a black suit lifted the best wines with pride into a display cabinet and then stood back to admire his work. Satisfied, he made his way to a swarthy man with long sideburns. More animated discussions were loudly pursued.
An older waiter with a thick shock of white hair started to put the olives on the tables in preparation for the lunch time trade. It was 1 o’clock - an hour before the Spanish would arrive for the most important meal of the day.
The man sitting at the bar must have finished his puzzle. He ordered another brandy and flicked through his paper in a desultory manner.
The waiters pursued their work with purpose and seemed to be enjoying the routine. All over Spain the same ritual would be repeated. Table cloths changed. Coffees served with pride. Lunches prepared. Wine poured. Olives displayed. Everything going like clockwork. At that moment, a familiar face appeared at the café door. It was the middle aged woman who left the church looking so worried. She made her way to the puzzle man. There was much agitated pleading from her as the volume of her voice increased with each sentence. Her dark eyes were shadowed as if by a secret tragedy, her face a spider web of lines. He avoided her gaze and looked only at his paper.
An unwilling eavesdropper, Celine felt a mixture of compassion and embarrassment.
“Porque, Enrique?” The woman questioned, her voice now a wail.
He did not answer but kept his gaze on his glass.
“Yes, why Enrique?” Celine wanted to ask him but knew she could not.
Resigned, the woman left the bar, her shoulders a little more stooped.
He ordered another brandy. And Celine thought of James.
The waiters carried on as if nothing had happened. They worked on automatic pilot. They had seen it all before.
Realising that had she stayed with James she could be this woman and feeling an empathy with her, Celine wanted to go to her and say something comforting. But what could she say? An invisible foreigner sipping coffee in a corner. Their lives separate. For the first time Celine was truly convinced that it was for the best that she and James had parted. Parted before she became a stooped woman with a burden too heavy to leave at the altar.
Celine paid her bill and went out into the startling sunlight to meet her companions.
Click the following link for the paperback in UK http://tinyurl.com/d8hoo9e
Click the following link for the paperback elsewhere http://tinyurl.com/cxne46z
Click the following link for an ebook http://tinyurl.com/cydxfq2
~ ~ ~
Café Lit selected this short story recently for publication. So, cheers and enjoy!
WHISKEY ON THE ROCKS
Dermot thought that he must've heard “Lady in Red” at least eight times since being in Riley’s Bar. Taking another slug of his whiskey, he glanced at his watch. It was only ten thirty but felt more like three in the morning. His eyes felt gritty, his brain like blancmange.
The barman wiped the counter as if in a trance, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as if watching an apparition, oblivious to his last two remaining customers.
“Could I have another orange juice please?” Simon's question broke his reverie and he served the stranger his third orange juice of the evening.
“Sure. More ice?” The barman had a soft Dublin accent and his hands shook as he opened a bottle of juice.
“Yes, please and a packet of those peanuts.” Simon decided to give it another ten minutes and head for home.
The phone on the wall jangled, making the barman jump. He grabbed the receiver as if it was a hot coal.
“Yes. How do you know? Okay, thanks for the tip off. Sure.”
Slamming down the receiver, he turned up the volume of the music centre before disappearing into a room behind the bar, his eyes darting from side to side like a trapped animal.
Dermot called out, “Another whiskey - on the rocks,” but his words evaporated in the stale air.
Crunching the last piece of ice in his glass, Dermot swivelled on his stool to face the stranger who had been sitting silently at the bar with him for the past hour.
“Not seen you here before.” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Er, no. The barman seems to have disappeared. Not very friendly is he?” Simon looked directly at Dermot and saw a smartly dressed man in his late twenties with dishevelled brown hair. He wore a grey suit, his pink silk tie undone and hanging forlornly round his neck like a useless rag. The man was clearly as drunk as Simon was sober.
“I stood her up.” Dermot announced as he crunched the last piece of ice in his glass, swivelling on his stool to face the stranger who had been sitting silently at the bar with him for the past hour.
“Pardon?” Simon asked.
“Left her at the altar. Couldn’t go through with it. My life’s a mess. Should have told her before. I’m just a ruddy coward. The guilt's eatin' at me stomach but I've no regrets. No, no regrets. She'll be at her mother’s house by now. God, I can imagine the sobs and her mother’s bloody righteous indignation." Dermot slurred before slumping across the bar.
Simon wondered if he had dropped off to sleep. ‘He must be drunk to sleep through this racket,’ he thought.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Look, I’m supposed to be on a blind date but she didn’t turn up, so I’ll be off in a minute. Where’s that useless barman got to?” Simon addressed his new acquaintance in the hope that he might hear him.
Dermot sat up suddenly, as if revived from a coma. “Reckon we’ve got the place to ourselves,” he said before staggering behind the bar where he poured himself another drink, gazing at the golden nectar as if his life depended on it. “Wanna whiskey?” he asked.
“No thanks, recovering alcoholic. Silly place for me to meet someone on a blind date.”
“What you do for a living?” Dermot was back on his stool again, staring at Simon as if for the first time.
“I’m a pharmacist.”
“Is that arable or do you have live stock?” Dermot asked.
“Neither. I’m a pharmacist,” Simon realised he was yelling and both men laughed. “What job do you do then?”
“I work for the police department, believe it or not.” Dermot shook his head as he said this.
“Interesting. Don’t worry - I won’t ask you any questions.” Simon drained his drink and checked the time. “Well, I’m off. Got an early start tomorrow. Hope it works out for you. Bye now.” Much as he felt sorry for the man, he did not feel equipped to be an agony aunt and hated the sour smell of the bar; too many ghostly memories in such places.
He made his way across the worn carpet with the sickly green swirls and noticed that the bar tables had not been cleared of dirty glasses, even though it was now past closing time.
The door seemed to have stuck. Irritated, he tried again. “Barman,” he called, “can you let me out.”
“Lady in Red,” the music played on as Simon battled with the door.
“No use, mate. We’re locked in. You might as well have a whiskey.” Dermot staggered across to escort his new friend back to the bar, but didn’t make it.
Viewing the collapsed form at his feet, Simon dragged him over to a sofa, where he left him to slumber. In repose his tortured features had become serene, almost childlike.
Simon allowed himself the luxury of gazing at the row of bottles lined up behind the bar, beckoning him to just have just one little drink, but he fought the urge, knowing that it could never be just the one.
Instead, he went in search of an escape after switching off the infernal music. Frustration mounting, he tried the door behind the bar, expecting to see the barman. Feeling like an intruder, he entered a shambolic office that reeked of grime and cigarette smoke. Suspicious looking posters glared out from the walls. Simon glanced around and, to his relief, found a door to the outside. He tried it and a waft of crisp, clean night air rushed in. Freedom at last.
He hesitated for a moment. Should he leave the stranger asleep or call for help? He decided on the former after throwing some punts onto the desk. That should easily cover the cost of the orange juice and peanuts.
Feeling as if he’d been in a battle, he hurried home, deciding never to enter a bar or go on a blind date again.
The next morning, as he picked up his newspaper from the hall mat, a picture on the front page accosted him. It displayed the disappearing barman. Above it, the headlines shrieked, “Sean O’Connery walked into a police station in the early hours of the morning, saying that he had given birth,” Simon held his breath as he turned the page and continued to read, “to the idea that not all bombers were bad people. He gave himself up, claiming that his identity had been discovered by a plain-clothes policeman and his associate in a bar last night. “
~ ~ ~
A short story written for a Marbella Writing Group assignment.
THE MODEL PATIENT
As the alarm jangled, Katy put the pillow over her head. She had been dreaming of devouring a chocolate eclair and wanted to finish it. But the alarm was getting louder and the dream fainter so, feeling grumpy, she reached out for the offending article and switched it off. 6am. Still lusting for the chocolate eclair, she stumbled into the bathroom, where she went through her usual ritual. The diuretic tablets had worked and she peed for a long time before jumping on the scales. With a look of horror, she stepped off them and repeated the process.
‘Blast, I’ve put on two pounds,’ she thought, ‘it must have been that champagne last night.’
Massaging a dollop of peach nut and aloe vera exfoliant into her depilated body, she wished that she’d had an early night instead of going to Annabelle’s. After a shower, she dressed quickly in a pink tracksuit and matching trainers, spritzed a generous amount of Diorama on her wrists, grabbed her new Hermes bag and left the apartment.
Engine running, the taxi was waiting for her. “Mornin’ love. Where to?”
“George Street Studios,” she barked before answering a call on her mobile.
“Hi sweetie, I’m on my way. Yes, I know it’s an important shoot but... Ok sweetie. Ciao.” Katy swore to herself before putting an extra strong mint into her mouth, savouring its cool sweetness. She was starving but Katy was resigned to the fact that it would be another day of coffee and mints. Maybe champers tonight as a little treat.
To get herself into the mood she stuffed her iPod earpieces in and listened to the Arctic Monkeys while she brushed her long blonde hair and hummed to the beat.
Arriving at her destination, Katy prized her 6 foot frame from the confines of the taxi and ran into the studio.
“Darling, hurry up, make-up’s waiting for you and Vogue’s here already,” Jasper lisped before kissing her on both cheeks.
Katy devoured two cups of coffee and puffed a cigarette while Jackie, the makeup artist, got to work.
“Had a late night did you? I’ll need a ton of concealer to hide this lot.” She chuckled as she wielded a long handled brush.
“Get lost.” Katy muttered under her breath as she lit another fag.
Pushing the make-up artist to one side, Katy stripped off to her G string. The false lashes were pricking her already sore eyes but, ever the professional, she slipped on the white Versace dress and the gold Jimmy Choo’s with the sky high heels that she would be modelling.
Popping another mint into her mouth and ignoring the hunger pains, Katy sashayed into the studio. She’d kept the team from Vogue waiting an hour. What did they expect, she only got out of bed for a minimum of £10,000. They were lucky to have her. The photographer looked bored as he flicked through a magazine - he was used to divas.
“Darling, you look fab - u - lous!” The artistic director rushed towards her wringing his hands, “go and stand by the lilies, sweetie.”
As Katy tottered over to the set, the combination of hunger and a hangover from hell caused her to take a tumble. As she fell, she hit her head on the corner of a glass topped table which, in turn, cut her head open. Blood splattered the pristine material of the Versace like spilled paint and mayhem broke loose in the studio. Jasper, who was now in a state of hysteria, threw a bucket of water over the prone model which had the desired effect of bringing her round.
“Someone call an ambulance.” The artistic director yelled.
The makeup artist, the only person on the scene who had managed to stay calm, piped up, “It’s on its way and I’ve put the kettle on for some tea.” She strode out to the kitchen, her sensible shoes squeaking slightly.
By the time the ambulance men arrived, Katy was conscious but groggy.
“What happened?” she squeaked.
“Just a little accident. Come on dear, we’ll take you to the hospital. You’ll need a few stitches for that head.” Bob, the ambulance driver was reassuring.
At the mention of stitches Jasper fell into a dead faint, landing on Katy.
“Best bring him in too while we’re at it,” said Bob.
“What about the dress. The Versace - it’s ruined darling.” The artistic director looked pale.
“Blow the dress - get me to the hospital.” Katy was back on form.
Reflecting on her life, sudden tears streamed down her face as the doctor stitched her head.
Trying to distract her, he asked, “What do you do for a living?”
Taking a deep breath she responded, “I’m about to embark on a new career. I’m going to open a cake shop.”
The ride had taken under an hour along precarious hairpin bends that looked down onto a checkerboard of plains surrounded by craggy mountains. The raw beauty filled Celine with wonder and her incident with Justin was pushed to the back of her mind as she revelled in the landscape. They arrived in Ronda late morning and descended from the bus by the famous Puente Nuevo bridge that straddled the enormous El Tajo gorge where dissidents were once flung to a gory death. The Moorish influence was everywhere in the old town and Celine decided to split from the rest of the group to get inspiration for her next painting as the others wanted to go shopping. As she wandered the narrow pebbled streets, she once more felt at home in this foreign land. Enthralled, she took many photographs in the hope that she could use them as a prompt for more paintings.
Cafés would soon be full of customers enjoying a meal but, in the meantime, waiters stood on the pavements like wax works staring into space, in their own private worlds, waiting for some lunchtime activity. The shops in the Old Town were small and exclusive; jewellery twinkled on rich dark velvet and on display were leather handbags, belts and shoes plus tourist items which somehow looked incongruous amidst the traditional buildings with wrought iron balconies like heavy black mantilla lace. The narrow streets, designed for donkeys and pedestrians, were crowded with traffic and there was much tooting of horns.
Suddenly, bells sang out. A middle aged woman, dressed entirely in black emerged from one of the many ancient churches. She shuffled along, her back bent prematurely as if she had forgotten to leave her burden at the altar. An older lady reverently decorated one of the many shrines to the Virgin, using fresh flowers, each one a tender offering.
Celine meandered contentedly into a restaurant, just off a square. There were no tourists to be seen and it was cool and welcoming inside. Crisp yellow tablecloths matched the shirts of the staff. Behind the bar bottles were lined up like soldiers and reflected the light from above. Sitting down on a softly cushioned chair she glanced up. Rustic beams stretched across the white ceiling and three enormous metal paella dishes were suspended from the wall, whether for use or ornament she was not sure. Pictures of bullfights graced the walls and Celine hoped that she would never have to witness such an event. One painting of a matador, the epitome of machismo, grabbed her attention. There he stood in his gold embroidered waistcoat ready to face danger or death for the sake of honour and Celine understood that this was a very different culture to her own. Andalucian lanterns hung festively around the bar and ceiling; the Moorish influence once more evident and the background Flamenco music made her feel oddly at home, once again. She wondered what Nick was doing and hoped that Justin would not cause any further trouble. Most of all she prayed that her encounter with Justin would not spoil her tenuously rekindled relationship with Nick.
Waiters dressed in black aprons with matching bow ties busied themselves behind the bar as lunch time approached. Olives were being dispensed from a large plastic container into small terracotta dishes and tapas were displayed in the chiller on the bar, ready to be devoured.
One of the waiters approached her with a haughty half-smile, notebook poised.
“Buenos dias, señora.” He bowed slightly, revealing shiny black hair combed over a bald patch.
“Buenos dias. Un café con leche, por favor.” Celine remembered a little of the Spanish that Nick had taught her on their trip from the airport and she hoped that she wouldn’t need to say anything else.
Soon a rich coffee aroma filled the air as the noisy machine went into action, first grinding the dark roasted beans before steaming water mingled with them, creating a divine infusion The coffee ceremony completed, her drink was placed with pride in front of her.
“Café con leche, señora,” he said solemnly.
“Gracias.” Celine said with unaccustomed confidence.
She took a sip of the strong warming drink. As a bonus, a chocolate had been placed in the saucer. She let it melt slowly in her mouth until she reached the hazelnut and then, crunching it, savoured the flavours and textures.
A middle aged man, dressed in navy blue and wearing a walrus moustache was sitting at the bar doing a puzzle, oblivious to the outside world, absorbed in his conundrum. He stopped occasionally to swig his brandy.
Soon, a young man strolled into the café and had an animated discussion with the waiter. There was much waving of arms. They were probably just discussing the weather. The young man wore a defiant pony tail and tight jeans. He had deep lines at the sides of his mouth.
‘Perhaps the consequence of hard living,’ Celine thought.
He appeared careworn as he began to pace the floor, hand on his mouth. Deep in thought, he produced a tape measure and started to measure the bar.
The puzzle man never looked up.
A thick set woman wearing an apron and cap walked purposefully to the kitchen chewing her bottom lip and carrying a ladder. She headed for the kitchen where noises of activity had begun and a smell of garlic and onion frying permeated the air.
The maitre d’ wearing a black suit lifted the best wines with pride into a display cabinet and then stood back to admire his work. Satisfied, he made his way to a swarthy man with long sideburns. More animated discussions were loudly pursued.
An older waiter with a thick shock of white hair started to put the olives on the tables in preparation for the lunch time trade. It was 1 o’clock - an hour before the Spanish would arrive for the most important meal of the day.
The man sitting at the bar must have finished his puzzle. He ordered another brandy and flicked through his paper in a desultory manner.
The waiters pursued their work with purpose and seemed to be enjoying the routine. All over Spain the same ritual would be repeated. Table cloths changed. Coffees served with pride. Lunches prepared. Wine poured. Olives displayed. Everything going like clockwork. At that moment, a familiar face appeared at the café door. It was the middle aged woman who left the church looking so worried. She made her way to the puzzle man. There was much agitated pleading from her as the volume of her voice increased with each sentence. Her dark eyes were shadowed as if by a secret tragedy, her face a spider web of lines. He avoided her gaze and looked only at his paper.
An unwilling eavesdropper, Celine felt a mixture of compassion and embarrassment.
“Porque, Enrique?” The woman questioned, her voice now a wail.
He did not answer but kept his gaze on his glass.
“Yes, why Enrique?” Celine wanted to ask him but knew she could not.
Resigned, the woman left the bar, her shoulders a little more stooped.
He ordered another brandy. And Celine thought of James.
The waiters carried on as if nothing had happened. They worked on automatic pilot. They had seen it all before.
Realising that had she stayed with James she could be this woman and feeling an empathy with her, Celine wanted to go to her and say something comforting. But what could she say? An invisible foreigner sipping coffee in a corner. Their lives separate. For the first time Celine was truly convinced that it was for the best that she and James had parted. Parted before she became a stooped woman with a burden too heavy to leave at the altar.
Celine paid her bill and went out into the startling sunlight to meet her companions.
Click the following link for the paperback in UK http://tinyurl.com/d8hoo9e
Click the following link for the paperback elsewhere http://tinyurl.com/cxne46z
Click the following link for an ebook http://tinyurl.com/cydxfq2
~ ~ ~
Café Lit selected this short story recently for publication. So, cheers and enjoy!
WHISKEY ON THE ROCKS
Dermot thought that he must've heard “Lady in Red” at least eight times since being in Riley’s Bar. Taking another slug of his whiskey, he glanced at his watch. It was only ten thirty but felt more like three in the morning. His eyes felt gritty, his brain like blancmange.
The barman wiped the counter as if in a trance, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as if watching an apparition, oblivious to his last two remaining customers.
“Could I have another orange juice please?” Simon's question broke his reverie and he served the stranger his third orange juice of the evening.
“Sure. More ice?” The barman had a soft Dublin accent and his hands shook as he opened a bottle of juice.
“Yes, please and a packet of those peanuts.” Simon decided to give it another ten minutes and head for home.
The phone on the wall jangled, making the barman jump. He grabbed the receiver as if it was a hot coal.
“Yes. How do you know? Okay, thanks for the tip off. Sure.”
Slamming down the receiver, he turned up the volume of the music centre before disappearing into a room behind the bar, his eyes darting from side to side like a trapped animal.
Dermot called out, “Another whiskey - on the rocks,” but his words evaporated in the stale air.
Crunching the last piece of ice in his glass, Dermot swivelled on his stool to face the stranger who had been sitting silently at the bar with him for the past hour.
“Not seen you here before.” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Er, no. The barman seems to have disappeared. Not very friendly is he?” Simon looked directly at Dermot and saw a smartly dressed man in his late twenties with dishevelled brown hair. He wore a grey suit, his pink silk tie undone and hanging forlornly round his neck like a useless rag. The man was clearly as drunk as Simon was sober.
“I stood her up.” Dermot announced as he crunched the last piece of ice in his glass, swivelling on his stool to face the stranger who had been sitting silently at the bar with him for the past hour.
“Pardon?” Simon asked.
“Left her at the altar. Couldn’t go through with it. My life’s a mess. Should have told her before. I’m just a ruddy coward. The guilt's eatin' at me stomach but I've no regrets. No, no regrets. She'll be at her mother’s house by now. God, I can imagine the sobs and her mother’s bloody righteous indignation." Dermot slurred before slumping across the bar.
Simon wondered if he had dropped off to sleep. ‘He must be drunk to sleep through this racket,’ he thought.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Look, I’m supposed to be on a blind date but she didn’t turn up, so I’ll be off in a minute. Where’s that useless barman got to?” Simon addressed his new acquaintance in the hope that he might hear him.
Dermot sat up suddenly, as if revived from a coma. “Reckon we’ve got the place to ourselves,” he said before staggering behind the bar where he poured himself another drink, gazing at the golden nectar as if his life depended on it. “Wanna whiskey?” he asked.
“No thanks, recovering alcoholic. Silly place for me to meet someone on a blind date.”
“What you do for a living?” Dermot was back on his stool again, staring at Simon as if for the first time.
“I’m a pharmacist.”
“Is that arable or do you have live stock?” Dermot asked.
“Neither. I’m a pharmacist,” Simon realised he was yelling and both men laughed. “What job do you do then?”
“I work for the police department, believe it or not.” Dermot shook his head as he said this.
“Interesting. Don’t worry - I won’t ask you any questions.” Simon drained his drink and checked the time. “Well, I’m off. Got an early start tomorrow. Hope it works out for you. Bye now.” Much as he felt sorry for the man, he did not feel equipped to be an agony aunt and hated the sour smell of the bar; too many ghostly memories in such places.
He made his way across the worn carpet with the sickly green swirls and noticed that the bar tables had not been cleared of dirty glasses, even though it was now past closing time.
The door seemed to have stuck. Irritated, he tried again. “Barman,” he called, “can you let me out.”
“Lady in Red,” the music played on as Simon battled with the door.
“No use, mate. We’re locked in. You might as well have a whiskey.” Dermot staggered across to escort his new friend back to the bar, but didn’t make it.
Viewing the collapsed form at his feet, Simon dragged him over to a sofa, where he left him to slumber. In repose his tortured features had become serene, almost childlike.
Simon allowed himself the luxury of gazing at the row of bottles lined up behind the bar, beckoning him to just have just one little drink, but he fought the urge, knowing that it could never be just the one.
Instead, he went in search of an escape after switching off the infernal music. Frustration mounting, he tried the door behind the bar, expecting to see the barman. Feeling like an intruder, he entered a shambolic office that reeked of grime and cigarette smoke. Suspicious looking posters glared out from the walls. Simon glanced around and, to his relief, found a door to the outside. He tried it and a waft of crisp, clean night air rushed in. Freedom at last.
He hesitated for a moment. Should he leave the stranger asleep or call for help? He decided on the former after throwing some punts onto the desk. That should easily cover the cost of the orange juice and peanuts.
Feeling as if he’d been in a battle, he hurried home, deciding never to enter a bar or go on a blind date again.
The next morning, as he picked up his newspaper from the hall mat, a picture on the front page accosted him. It displayed the disappearing barman. Above it, the headlines shrieked, “Sean O’Connery walked into a police station in the early hours of the morning, saying that he had given birth,” Simon held his breath as he turned the page and continued to read, “to the idea that not all bombers were bad people. He gave himself up, claiming that his identity had been discovered by a plain-clothes policeman and his associate in a bar last night. “
~ ~ ~
A short story written for a Marbella Writing Group assignment.
THE MODEL PATIENT
As the alarm jangled, Katy put the pillow over her head. She had been dreaming of devouring a chocolate eclair and wanted to finish it. But the alarm was getting louder and the dream fainter so, feeling grumpy, she reached out for the offending article and switched it off. 6am. Still lusting for the chocolate eclair, she stumbled into the bathroom, where she went through her usual ritual. The diuretic tablets had worked and she peed for a long time before jumping on the scales. With a look of horror, she stepped off them and repeated the process.
‘Blast, I’ve put on two pounds,’ she thought, ‘it must have been that champagne last night.’
Massaging a dollop of peach nut and aloe vera exfoliant into her depilated body, she wished that she’d had an early night instead of going to Annabelle’s. After a shower, she dressed quickly in a pink tracksuit and matching trainers, spritzed a generous amount of Diorama on her wrists, grabbed her new Hermes bag and left the apartment.
Engine running, the taxi was waiting for her. “Mornin’ love. Where to?”
“George Street Studios,” she barked before answering a call on her mobile.
“Hi sweetie, I’m on my way. Yes, I know it’s an important shoot but... Ok sweetie. Ciao.” Katy swore to herself before putting an extra strong mint into her mouth, savouring its cool sweetness. She was starving but Katy was resigned to the fact that it would be another day of coffee and mints. Maybe champers tonight as a little treat.
To get herself into the mood she stuffed her iPod earpieces in and listened to the Arctic Monkeys while she brushed her long blonde hair and hummed to the beat.
Arriving at her destination, Katy prized her 6 foot frame from the confines of the taxi and ran into the studio.
“Darling, hurry up, make-up’s waiting for you and Vogue’s here already,” Jasper lisped before kissing her on both cheeks.
Katy devoured two cups of coffee and puffed a cigarette while Jackie, the makeup artist, got to work.
“Had a late night did you? I’ll need a ton of concealer to hide this lot.” She chuckled as she wielded a long handled brush.
“Get lost.” Katy muttered under her breath as she lit another fag.
Pushing the make-up artist to one side, Katy stripped off to her G string. The false lashes were pricking her already sore eyes but, ever the professional, she slipped on the white Versace dress and the gold Jimmy Choo’s with the sky high heels that she would be modelling.
Popping another mint into her mouth and ignoring the hunger pains, Katy sashayed into the studio. She’d kept the team from Vogue waiting an hour. What did they expect, she only got out of bed for a minimum of £10,000. They were lucky to have her. The photographer looked bored as he flicked through a magazine - he was used to divas.
“Darling, you look fab - u - lous!” The artistic director rushed towards her wringing his hands, “go and stand by the lilies, sweetie.”
As Katy tottered over to the set, the combination of hunger and a hangover from hell caused her to take a tumble. As she fell, she hit her head on the corner of a glass topped table which, in turn, cut her head open. Blood splattered the pristine material of the Versace like spilled paint and mayhem broke loose in the studio. Jasper, who was now in a state of hysteria, threw a bucket of water over the prone model which had the desired effect of bringing her round.
“Someone call an ambulance.” The artistic director yelled.
The makeup artist, the only person on the scene who had managed to stay calm, piped up, “It’s on its way and I’ve put the kettle on for some tea.” She strode out to the kitchen, her sensible shoes squeaking slightly.
By the time the ambulance men arrived, Katy was conscious but groggy.
“What happened?” she squeaked.
“Just a little accident. Come on dear, we’ll take you to the hospital. You’ll need a few stitches for that head.” Bob, the ambulance driver was reassuring.
At the mention of stitches Jasper fell into a dead faint, landing on Katy.
“Best bring him in too while we’re at it,” said Bob.
“What about the dress. The Versace - it’s ruined darling.” The artistic director looked pale.
“Blow the dress - get me to the hospital.” Katy was back on form.
Reflecting on her life, sudden tears streamed down her face as the doctor stitched her head.
Trying to distract her, he asked, “What do you do for a living?”
Taking a deep breath she responded, “I’m about to embark on a new career. I’m going to open a cake shop.”