Page 22 of A Wish For Jo
'Just wanted to say that I love your dress,’ Kylie slurred at Aaliyah. Jo had tried to dissuade Aaliyah from wearing the skintight body-con number with cut-out panels at the waist, arguing that they were going to the local pub, not a nightclub.
'Thank you.' Aaliyah regarded the young woman haughtily. 'I like yours too. Didn't it come in a bigger size?'
Jo gasped as Kylie crinkled up her nose, her booze-addled brain struggling to process the comment. Just as realisation dawned, one of her equally sozzled cronies hollered across the room. 'Kylie, get your arse over here. We're out of pink and Ed says the prosecco's not chilled. We'll have to chuck ice in it.'
Steadying herself on the back of Aaliyah's chair, Kylie leaned forward, her too-tight dress straining at the bust. 'I think you just said something very rude to me. I'm out celebrating with my mates, though, so I'll let it slide. This time. But don't think I didn't see you giving Ed the once-over. He's taken, you know.’ She straightened up, a side seam splitting as she did so. Clutching the fabric, she muttered 'bitch' under her breath and stomped off.
'Aaliyah, that was totally uncalled for,' Jo admonished. 'Women need to support one another, not make derogatory remarks. You should go over and apologise.'
'Not happening.' Aaliyah gave a faux yawn and stood up, smoothing the sides of her dress. Her move was timed to perfection, as Ed arrived at the table with two plates of curry and sides of steaming jasmine rice. ‘That looks so amazingly edible,' purred Aaliyah. Whether she meant the food or Ed remained to be seen.She knows Ed and Angela are a couple, thought Jo,so what’s her game?
'Bon appétit.' Ed set the plates down, made sure they had everything they needed, and skirted past Kylie's table.
'Have you got tattoos on your bum too, handsome?' One of Kylie's friends, all hair extensions and trout pout, sniggered and pointed at Ed's tattooed forearms.
Ed paused, made as if to pull his trousers down, then shimmied back to the bar.
'He's cute.' Aaliyah drained her cocktail. 'But those inkings are not to my taste. When skin is perfect, why spoil it?'
Jo had often wondered that, too. But some people just seemed to suit tattoos, as if they'd been waiting for a way to express themselves. Their body art said things they couldn't. Angela had got one, and it spoke volumes about her transformation from a lonely alcoholic and single parent to an independent woman with courage in spades.
'Speaking of cute.' Aaliyah pointed her fork at the bar. 'Who is that vision of hotness?'
Jo looked up. Currently at the bar were a couple of red-faced regulars well into their seventies. Not one of them, then. Behind the bar, Angela's son measured out shots of whisky.
'You don't mean the barman? Jamie?' Jo had never in a million years thought of Jamie as cute. Then again, he was barely out of his teens, and his normal countenance bordered on the downright dour.
'He's well fit,' replied Aaliyah. 'Look at them biceps straining through his T-shirt. And I bet he's got a six-pack too. Dhassim tried for one, bless him, but his abs were less than fab.'
Before Jo could reply, Aaliyah picked up her empty glass. 'I'll just get a refill, pet. You all right?'
Jo nodded mutely and watched as Aaliyah homed in on Jamie like a scantily clad heat-seeking missile. Smiling coquettishly at the two older gentlemen, she leaned over the bar, gestured to Jamie and whispered something in his ear. Whatever she said, it transformed Jamie's sullen features like sunshine breaking through clouds. Yes, he was a good-looking lad, but… Jo necked the rest of her wine. The last thing she needed was a budding romance between those two. It could only end in disaster.
CHAPTER24
'If you needhelp finding anything, just gie me a shout.'
Harvey put down the pack of hot cross buns — hadn't Easter been months ago? — and gave Janette a stiff smile. He'd only popped in for eggs, milk and bacon, and now he was browsing through the 'bargain' bin with its plethora of dodgy delights. Meanwhile, Janette followed him around under the pretence of dusting. More like ensuring he didn't stuff an out-of-date sausage roll up his jumper. Good lord, did he look like a shoplifter?
'You know, you remind me of someone.' Janette flapped her pale-blue feathery thing in Harvey's general direction. He sneezed, apologised and carried on rummaging. Battered tins, Mr Kipling cakes, Yorkshire pudding mix and crumpets with a suspiciously green tinge all nestled on a pile of tatty magazines several months old, if not older.
'And who would that be? Mel Gibson? Michael Douglas? That old codger offEastenders?' Harvey kept his tone light, but his insides contracted and he tugged his scarf further up his face. Why had he named bloody actors? If this nosy old biddy recognised him, he might as well pack up and leave. Game over: time to start afresh somewhere else. Except that he didn't want to leave. Not now he had a possible reason to stay…
'Aye, you're a big hit for yourself, laddie. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it'll come to me: I never forget a face. But don't even mention yourself in the same breath as Michael Douglas. He’s Hollywood royalty, with a chin chiselled tae perfection. Now, I'll have to leave you to it.' She shouted a welcome to a young mum clutching a baby to her bosom. 'Grab a basket and I'll sort you out in a minute.'
Harvey did as he was told, wrenching a basket from the stack by the door. He added the items he'd come in for, as well as a bottle of HP Sauce and a tub of spreadable butter. He fancied a bacon buttie when he got home, and no buttie was complete without a dollop of the brown stuff.
Returning to the bargain bin, Harvey rifled through the magazines. All trashy tabloid-style fodder, featuring vacuous celebs waxing lyrical about their oh-so-perfect lives. He'd turned down several requests for interviews in the past; he had no desire to have a camera crew poking around his house and some journalist prying into his business. Of course, he'd had no control over the stuff written after Lindsey died, or the scandal involving—
Harvey paused, an icy shard of horror prickling his spine. Staring up at him was a photo of Abby Kinsella, the architect of his downfall. He'd played his part, of course, but only as a bereaved innocent taken in by her cunning ways. Ridiculous, considering that he was a man in his fifties, but stupidity didn't come with an expiry date, unlike the hot cross buns.
'You all right there?' Janette sidled up, casually adjusting an errant bra strap. 'I've a two-for-one offer on baked beans, if you're interested. They'd go down a treat with the bacon. What's that you're looking at?'
Harvey quickly shoved the magazine beneath the others. The article pre-dated his fall from grace, but he didn't want Janette to see it and put two and two together. Or rather, putthemtogether, and draw the distasteful conclusion that so many people before her had. 'Nothing. Nothing at all. Can I just pay for these and … a bottle of whisky, please?'
Janette's cabinet of booze stayed under lock and key behind the counter. She gave a disapproving sniff and opened the cabinet. 'Are ye after the cheap stuff or a decent 12-year-old? This one's not bad, although I only drink the stuff when I've got a cold. It's no' good to drink alone, you know.'
Harvey bit his tongue, and pointed at the 12-year-old whisky. Now the old bat was giving him a lecture about solitary drinking!
