Page 38 of One Last Try

“Catesby is good.” Mathias sits at the bar and swigs his pint while spooning off chunks of dessert. “Dry and crisp.”

Mathias’s main course had to get plated up on one of those massive oblong dishes we usually reserve for Sunday roasts. He polished off the lot and originally refused a pudding, but when I slid a hearty slice of whitechocolate cheesecake in front of him, he shrugged and pulled it closer to himself, all whilst hiding his smile.

“Wintour was too sweet,” he continues. “And fizzy. This cheesecake is the fucking dog’s bollocks, by the way. Did you make it?”

I shake my head. “Tyler did.”

“He’s good. Next time I’m trying Fawkes.”

“No. No, you’re not.” I renew my head shaking, but for different reasons now.

Mathias is still taking his drinks two at a time, and he’s beginning to show signs of inebriation. His eyes are slightly unfocused, his coordination seems a little less than the razor sharpness it usually is, and he’s louder, more talkative than I’ve ever seen him. Fawkes would finish him off.

“We only sell Fawkes in half pints because it’s so lethal. It’s ten point five per cent ABV,” I explain. It’s essentially apple-flavoured wine.

“So I’ll have two half pints, then.” He pops another piece of cheesecake into his mouth, and I hover near his end of the bar even though Viv is waiting to order, because I’ve learned that sometimes when Mathias eats his food he makes these delicious, involuntary, and dick-achingly indecent moans.

He doesn’t this time, but his brow creases, and I swear he’s going to close his eyes, and—

Fuck, okay. Yep, I need to fix Viv’s drinks.

“You can try one half pint of Fawkes after the music round,” I tell him before turning to Viv. Hopefully all that grub will suck up some of the booze in his bloodstream.

15

Friday 4th April 2025

Owen

The music round was a roaring success, and despite Mathias’s earlier assurances of no singing, everybody including him was howling along with all the tunes.

Tom and Bryn ended up staying an hour after the quiz to drink Fawkes with Mathias and me, whilst also continuously reaffirming their need to get home and relieve their babysitter.

“I know why they call it Fawkes,” Tom says, as I’m physically pushing him out the door at twelve thirty. “Because I’m about to have an explosionin my pants.”

“Aha, yes, very funny. Now please get out of my pub. It’s gone midnight, and kick-out was ages ago.” Another gentle shove.

“Get it? I’m gonna shit myself,” Tom says.

I give him a thumbs up and wave them off.

“Are they driving home?” Mathias says. He pulls a chair out from behind a table, sits, misses, smacks his ass against the solid flagstone.

“They’ll walk. They live just down Fernbank Lane, past the horses’ paddock.” I reach out and help him to his feet. “You need to get back to the cottage and into bed.”

“Booooo,” he says. “I actually need more potatoes.”

“Tomorrow, yeah? Tyler finished at ten and my potatoes aren’t as good as his.”

“I think you’ve got lovely potatoes.” Mathias bursts into giggles before he finishes his sentence.

“Okay, mate, it’s beddy-byes time now.” I hook my hand under his armpit and guide him to the door. I haven’t cleaned or shut down the coffee machine or cashed up yet, but I shouldn’t be long. I lock up the pub and aid Mathias across the road.

“I can do it myself. I’m a grown-up,” he says before promptly falling into a yew hedge. “Sorry.” I’m eighty per cent sure he’s apologising to the plant. “Watch yourself, there’s a bush there.” Actually, I’m no longer certain who he’s talking to.

“Come on then, Wild Card, up we get.” I help him to his feet once again, and half guide him, half push him to the door. “Do you have training tomorrow?”

He slumps against the porch wall. “Yes, but not until the afternoon.” His eyes are already closed and his head tilted up to the thatch, as though he might fall asleep here, outside and standing up.

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