Page 13 of New Beginnings at the Little Christmas Inn
‘You wouldn’t be intruding at all. We’re just friends. I told you earlier, the last thing on my mind is a boyfriend. I haven’t the time, for one thing.’
‘Just wanted to add my congratulations,’ Mark said, making Livvy jump. She hadn’t heard him come in. ‘That was a magnificent meal, Fabio. I hope Livvy’s given you the job?’
‘Looks like it.’ Fabio grinned. ‘You two go back in, I’ll get a pot of coffee on.’
When he joined them, bringing home-made petit fours, Livvy had set out three brandy glasses and a bottle. ‘Delamain Pleiade,’she said, opening it. ‘Aged for sixty years. I’ve kept it to one side for a special occasion.’ Adding a measure to each glass, she raised her own and added, ‘Which this most certainly is. Welcome aboard, Fabio! Welcome to The Runaways.’
They clinked glasses and sat in silence for some time, savouring the spirit as it warmed its way down.
‘You still going to call it The Runaways?’ Fabio asked, unbuttoning his chef’s white tunic.
Livvy swirled cognac around her glass, staring at the mellow tones as they shifted and caught the light from the candles. It had been a bottle her father had given her and not one for sale behind the bar. He’d know exactly what to name the place. Something that would sum up what it was all about. Good food, seasonal and mostly locally sourced, great company, decent beer and wine. Branding had been something the Smith-Lygott organisation had excelled at.
Over the last few weeks, she’d often considered giving him a ring and asking his advice. But she wanted her pub to be just that – her pub. Not part of her father’s empire. Some stubborn part of her wanted to prove to him that she could do this herself, go it alone. ‘I don’t know. I don’t like the name, but I don’t, as yet, have an alternative.’ She put the glass down carefully. ‘Do you happen to know what it used to be called, Fabio? I might reinstate the original.’
‘I do, as a matter of fact.’
Something in his tone worried her. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me it was The Hang’d Man or something like that?’ she asked, horrified.
‘Nah, babes. Nothing so gruesome. It was The George.’
‘The George,’ Livvy repeated. She thought it over. A not unusual pub name, especially for one of this age. Ordinary but classy. ‘It might just do,’ she said out loud.
‘And what about the restaurant?’ Mark put in.
‘Something simple,’ Livvy answered, while thinking it through. ‘Eat at The George?’
‘The George,’ Fabio added. ‘Eat and drink and a warm welcome awaits.’
‘Or The George. Drink. Eat. A warm welcome. That’s it!’ Livvy cried.
‘Perfect,’ the men chorused.
‘Perfect,’ Livvy echoed. ‘I think this calls for another drink, don’t you?’ She poured them all another measure. ‘Thank you, Fabio,’ she said as she toasted him. ‘And thank you, Mark. To a successful partnership, and friendship.’
For a second Mark’s eyes flickered, then he raised his glass. ‘To friendship, he murmured.’
CHAPTER 10
Dry white wine – crisp and no nonsense, with aromatic and tangy secondary notes. Hidden depths. Quaffable.
The following day, after talking Brittany through how she saw the pub working and introducing her to the contactless payment system, and till, Livvy suggested they have a quick look around what their competitors in town were doing. ‘Lunch, or maybe several lunches, are on me,’ she offered with a grin. She thought it would give her the ideal opportunity to get to know her new employee.
With Brittany bribed with a free lunch, they drove down the steep Harbour Hill to Lullbury Bay. Livvy caught sight of a beautiful Victorian cottage charmingly called Christmas Tree Cottage. It already had a huge tree erected outside, fully decorated and with an enormous white star on top. She parked the van behind a row of yachts, dry moored for the winter, their halyards clinking in the stiff breeze coming off the sea.
‘This is the pub where the RNLI crew drink,’ Brittany drawled an explanation as she led Livvy to The Old Harbour Pub.
Livvy eyed the enormous Father Christmas figure lashed to the door frame. It appeared to be knitted and wobbled slightly in the wind whipping across the harbour.Odd thing to greet your customers with.Following Brittany to the bar she ordered drinks from the gruff man serving and sat down.
‘Is it a locals’ place?’ she asked, looking around at the intricate rope knots and framed pictures of the lifeboat hanging on the walls, all bedecked with red tinsel. A Christmas tree stood in a corner near the wood burner, chaotically decorated in baubles and tinsel. ‘Santa Baby’ played jauntily in the background. She could just about glimpse a pool table in the adjoining room. It smelled of the sea in here, damp and salty and was, apart from themselves, completely empty.
‘Suppose.’ Brittany flicked back a long lock of blonde hair and took a sip of her white wine. ‘But it’s popular with the grocks in the summer. Grockles. That’s local lingo for the tourists,’ she explained at Livvy’s blank look. ‘Super place to sit out in the sun and watch the weekenders get their 4x4s stuck as they try to tow their boats out of the mud at low tide. Great laugh.’ She grinned. ‘It was always the place to get a pint of cider when you were underage. Claude, that’s the landlord, turns a blind eye.’
‘Risky. You could lose your licence.’
‘Don’t think old Claude is bothered. He’s been here donkeys. He’s pretty ancient. Heading into retirement any time.’
Livvy observed the man behind the bar who she assumed was Claude. White-haired, with a shaggy beard and an impressive handlebar moustache he looked quite a character. The place had all the feel of somewhere ticking over until its owner decided he’d had enough. ‘Do they serve food?’
