Page 7 of The Matchmaker
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “I used the earplugs, Nush. I used the earplugs, and I drank warm milk, and I put on a white noise podcast, but none of it worked because I live ten minutes down the road from a construction site and, every morning at seven a.m., theywake me up.”
She gives me a long look. “What about chamomile tea?”
I bite back the urge to snap at her, knowing it’s just sleep deprivation making me go all rampagy. Nush doesn’t like the hotel any more than I do. She moved here a few years ago because she wanted to find some peace and quiet, and so she could, and I quote, “Not have to smile so much.” The development is a nightmare in her eyes, and she’s still convinced we can stop it, even if she has to resort to increasingly illegal measures to do it.
Last week she asked me how I felt about arson.
I’m still not sure if she was joking or not.
She frowns at me now, pursing her lips as though the mere sight of me offends her.
“I don’t look that bad,” I say, when she doesn’t stop.
“I disagree. Do you know that meme where someone tried to make a Disney princess cake for their kid, but they can’t bake, and it ended up looking like someone sat on a zombie version of Belle?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s what you look like.”
“Put the weapon down, Katie. She’s not worth the jail time.” Gemma takes a seat next to Nush, clutching a thermal flask. “You do look like crap, though.”
“Can we not— you’re supposed to be my friends,” I say accusingly.
“Friends tell each other the truth,” Gemma says. “And I’m telling you, you look like death warmed up. Still not getting any sleep?”
“Obviously not.”
“Maybe if you wear your hair up,” Nush begins, and I bat her hands away as she reaches for me.
“No touching my staff, please,” a disgruntled voice warns, and, a moment later, Adam emerges from the back room, a crate of freshly washed glasses in his hands. My boss is a fitness-obsessed, constantly busy redhead who was only in his late twenties when his dad died and left the pub to him. I was just a kid at the time, and he took on a kind of big brother role in my life, letting me sit at the bar and do my homework before opening each night. This routine developed into a few hours on the weekends washing dishes and became a full-time job at eighteen when I decided the college route wasn’t for me. Ten years later and I’m still here. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
Kelly’s is the only pub in Ennisbawn. You might think that one pub would be enough for the three-hundred-odd inhabitants of the village, but you would be wrong. There used to be two when I was growing up. And there were five of them back in the day, according to Granny. But one by one, they closed, their owners moving on with no one willing to take their place. Kelly’s is the only one left, but luckily for all of us, it’s also the best one.
A little set back from the main village and overlooking a small lake, it’s the kind of building you see on postcards or tourist adverts. Whitewashed stone walls with bright red windowpanes, it’s old, cozy, and perfectly imperfect with a limited menu of snacks, salty soups, and cheese toasties. There are dozens of nooks to sit by yourself and deep brown leather booths to sit with others, all of which are comfortable enough to sleep on (and sometimes people do). The only decorations are the photographs on the wall, which have faded with time, but Adam’s never bothered to replace them. There is no television, no karaoke machine. There is just conversation, sometimes music, and always a huge sense of comfort. Of familiarity. Like you could have walked in fifty years ago or walk in fifty years from now and, bar a few changes in technology, everything would be the same. The same smells. The same sounds. The same grumpy publican, glaring at his customers from behind the bar.
“Anushka, if you’re going to sit there, you need to buy something,” Adam continues.
“I’m drinking water,” she protests.
“Yeah, from the tap.” His eyes slide to Gemma with an equally unhappy look. “And what about you? You know how I feel about outside drinks in here.”
“You would deny a single mother her evening caffeine?”
“At least get something to go with it,” he says, putting the crate down next to me. “I’m trying to run a business here.”
“So you should encourage a beautiful woman to sit at your bar.”
“And if you see one, you can let me know. Red or white?”
Nush cackles, sliding off her stool as Gemma glares at him. “Rude.”
“I’m just warming up,” he tells her. “Red or white?”
“Red. Small,” she adds, when he plucks a bottle from the shelf. “Merlot.”
