Page 8 of The Matchmaker
“You’re getting the Malbec.”
“I want the cheap Merlot.”
“And you’re getting the mid-priced Malbec. It’s a Friday night. Live a little.”
Gemma continues to try and murder him with her eyes while he pours a glass with a practiced hand, but Adam’s attention has turned to me.
“How long have you been slicing those?”
I take stock of the handful of intact lemons next to me, and the one-point-five I’ve managed to get through. “Why ask questions you won’t like the answers to?”
He grimaces. “Maybe you should go home early today. It’s quiet enough.”
“I’m fine,” I say, as Gemma slams a tenner into his outstretched palm. It’s a lie, but I don’t want him to worry. Margins for the pub are tight, and I know he needs the help. I’m his only other member of staff. “I’m making lemon drop martinis.”
“For who?”
“For the people who will order one once they see how good they look. Frank wants a beer,” I add, nodding at one of our regulars.
“He does,” Frank calls from the other end of the bar, and Adam replaces the knife in my hand with a dishcloth before going over to him.
“You should take him up on that,” Gemma says, when he’s gone. She takes a long sip of her apparently unwanted wine and runs a hand through her hair, shaking out the blonde curls until they frame her face. Adam really was kidding before. Even after an eight-hour shift on her feet, with mascara smudges dotted around her eyes and a slump to her shoulders, she’s still the most striking person in the room. I hate her just a little bit for it. But like, in a loving friend way.
“I know.” I start polishing the glasses and putting them away as the rest of our patrons gather for the weekly village meeting. “I read on the internet that if I keep going like this my collagen will start to break down.”
“You don’t even know what collagen is.”
“I know I want it not to break down.”
She’s saved from responding by the urgent ringing of the village bell. It’s really just Nush’s bell. A small but loud brass one that she ordered online a few months ago, insisting it’d make our get-togethers more official.
No one particularly likes it, but Adamhatesit, which is very funny to me, so I keep my mouth shut.
He glares at her now as he sets down the pint, his skin flushing until it’s almost the same shade as his hair. “I told her to stop bringing the—Anushka!”
She gives him awhatlook, but stops ringing it as Frank joins her, his drink in one hand and a small scrap of paper in the other. Frank is the unofficial mayor of the village. Or leader. Or maybe a secretary or something. We’ve never really put a name to it. But he used to be a school principal and is very good at a) talking to groups and b) organizing activities for said groups, so no one really questioned when he started taking charge of our community catch-ups.
“Evening, evening. Before Anushka gets to her weeklydiscussion,” he begins, glancing at her. “We have a few items to discuss. Bridget would like to get more people signed up for the Tidy Towns committee. Ideally, someone that’s not just Katie, though thank you, Katie,” he adds, and I give him a thumbs-up. “There’s a storm coming next week, according to the news. Nothing too bad, but if you know someone who might need checking in on, pop them on the usual list, and we’ll make sure they’re looked after. We’ve had a letter from Glenmill advising residents not to use the back road by the lake next Thurs—next Thursday,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the sudden muttering. “In advance of some work they’re carrying out. And finally, the library in Rossbridge are looking for a volunteer storyteller over Easter to…thank you, Katie,” he says, noting my raised hand. “I’ll send you the details.”
“Goody two-shoes,” Gemma mutters, but she’s smiling as she says it.
“And unless anyone has any other items to add to the agenda…” Frank looks around, crumpling the note into his pocket. “…No? Then I pass the floor to—”
“Thank you, Frank,” Anushka says, taking her position in front of the fireplace. Nush is tiny, barely reaching my shoulder when we’re side by side, but whereas I tend to shrink when it comes to public speaking, she always makes herself seem ten feet taller. Gemma says it’s just good posture, but I swear it’s some kind of magic trick. “And thank you all for coming tonight. I’m here this week like I’m here every week. To discuss Glenmill and their reign of terror in our home.”
“I see she’s going for the dramatic angle today,” Gemma says, and I bite back a smile.
“They come with their promises,” Nush continues, speaking like she’s giving a rousing speech at the end of an action movie and not addressing a handful of people drinking in a pub. “They come with their elegant words and their expensive suits, and they take over villages like ours until there’s nothing and no one left. Until we are mere shells of who we once were. We’ve already seen what they can do to our land, but now we’re witnessing first-hand what they can do to our people. I mean, justlookat Katie.”
I stiffen as every head in the pub turns my way. Oh my God.
“Innocent, darling Katie—”
Oh myGod. “Nush—”
“—whose only crime is living near that hellhole they call a building site.”
“Make her stop talking,” I mumble to Gemma, who gives a slow shake of her head.
