An Autumn Crush (26 page)

‘Thanks, Gina,’ Guy said wearily. He hadn’t the strength to think of anything more innovative.

‘Drink that coffee and have a break.’ Gina handed him the post. ‘You never know, there might be a big fat Premium Bond winner in there,’ she laughed.

‘I wish,’ said Guy. He smiled at her, genuinely grateful for her kind efficiency. ‘What would I do without you?’

Gina didn’t answer. She just went back into the hell of the kitchen and sighed. The first chance she got an ‘in’ with Guy Miller, she would make sure he never wanted to do
without her again. Underneath her lake-calm exterior were deep whirling waters ready to suck him down. She’d make him hers and keep him hers if it was the last thing she ever did.

Guy opened the first letter. It was the solicitor advising that completion on the sale of the restaurant would be sooner than initially thought. Great, thought Guy. That was
all he needed to know – that he would be wearing Kenny’s cast-off millstone around his neck in the very near future. The second was a large envelope containing a clutch of bound papers
from an interior design company pitching for the job of transforming Burgerov from shit-hole to palace. They had obviously done their homework, taken secret photos at some point inside the
restaurant and drawn up their vision of what they could do to it.

Guy’s jaw dropped open. If was as if they had peered into his brain and seen his ideal of that beautiful Florentine restaurant. Thick drapes at the windows, creams and tranquil greens,
stucco walls, tall flowers in the centre of the tables – it was the Burgerov he had envisaged so many times. Their pictures were stunning. Especially as the waiters they had sketched into
them were cleanshaven, scar-free and smiling.

Thanks to that coffee and those drawings, Guy was once again fortified. The Burgerov experience would soon be consigned to that part of his brain which imprisoned all his worst memories. One
dream, at least, was within touching distance. Guy Miller was back in the game.

That Thursday, Steve woke up early, having had a really rough night’s sleep. And doing easy plastering on a pub wall gave him too much time and opportunity to think about
it being Juliet and Piers’s big day. It was lucky that he had an early finish because he was wrestling that night. He called in at Burgerov on his way home. He needed to let off steam before
he went mad with all the possible outcomes of that date crashing around in his head.

‘I just don’t know what she sees in him,’ said Steve, sitting on a stool in the kitchen, as Guy magicked up some of his fabulous made-from-scratch mayonnaise with effortless
turns of his whisk. ‘Well, apart from the big car, big house, brilliant job, Coutts chequebook and designer clothes. And I suppose good looks. And the fact that he’s taking her out to
Four Trees. I mean, he would have to take her to the poshest sodding restaurant in the county.’

‘. . . Until very soon,’ amended Guy. ‘Then that place will be here.’ He sighed as he looked to the side and caught Varto making a right cock of a prawn cocktail.

‘Obviously I meant that,’ said Steve, who was looking very glum considering he had pulled the ultimate in leggy blondes – Chianti Parkin.

‘How did Juliet take the news about you and Chianti?’ asked Guy.

‘She wished me luck. She actually wished me luck!’ said Steve, throwing up his hands with an air of incredulity.

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You’ve both moved on at the same time. I mean, how long have you been trying to get Chianti to notice you? And now she has. So why are
obsessing about Juliet and her boss?’

‘I’m not!’ protested Steve. ‘I just can’t understand how she can fancy him. She loves him and thinks I’m a cretin.’

‘Steve, stop thinking about Juliet and go out with Chianti Parkin. How many litres of saliva have you dribbled over her? And now she’s interested.’

‘Yeah,’ said Steve, in a voice that suggested he’d just signed his own death warrant rather than witnessed six lottery numbers and the bonus ball coming up. ‘You’re
right.’

‘I wish I had as much luck with women,’ Guy chuckled.

‘One woman, you mean,’ Steve amended.

‘One Floz equals all of my back catalogue and yours put together.’

‘Excuse me.’ Behind Guy, Gina coughed to alert him to her presence. He turned and she asked him if the fish order had arrived.

‘She fancies you,’ whispered Steve, when she went into the larder. ‘Something rotten as well.’

Guy changed the subject. ‘I went to see the cottage.’

‘And?’ said Steve, watching Gina leave the larder and cast her eyes over to Guy. She really did have it bad for him. He was no expert at body language, but blimey – even Tim
Nice But Dim could have spotted her infatuation.

‘It’s a total wreck. And I’m going to have to forget it because I couldn’t nearly afford it.’

‘Have you tried asking the bank?’

‘No point,’ replied Guy.

‘I know a bank you could go to,’ said Steve.

‘Which? Bank of Toytown?’

‘Bank of Mum and Dad.’

Guy stopped whisking for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t ask them.’

‘They wanted to give you the money for the restaurant. If my son needed money and I had it . . .’

‘I don’t
need
it – the cottage is just something I want.’

‘You
do
need it,’ corrected Steve. ‘You need it to give you a kick up the arse to start living again. You need to start snogging women and dating and waking up with them
again,’ he said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. ‘And if Floz really has got an old flame back in her life, you’d do far worse than asking out that Gina bird. It’s time
to move on, Guy. Onwards and upwards.’

‘Will I do?’ asked Juliet, twirling in her new harlot-red dress which made the best of her full figure and neat waist.

‘You look lovely,’ smiled Floz. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Great,’ said Juliet, feigning ecstasy, although if truth be told she didn’t feel half as excited as she should. And even though she had starved herself all day, she
didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.

Her head should have been full of thoughts of Piers Winstanley-Black snogging her, but it wasn’t. It was full of jealous feelings about Steve going out with Chianti the next night, and she
hated that such negative vibes were eclipsing the excitement she’d anticipated. She knew it was unreasonable to feel like that. Nor was it logical. She was obviously in the grip of some bug
and not well.

A car drew up outside – a Bentley. Floz looked out of the window and put a thumbs-up at Juliet.

‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘Have a lovely time, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will,’ said Juliet, sticking out her boobs and her chin. ‘How can I not?’

Piers Winstanley-Black’s eyes were on stalks when Juliet got into the back of the car with him. But despite the sharp-cut suit, the hand-made shoes, the big handsome smile, Juliet’s
pupils refused to dilate.

When Steve had finished his wrestling bout that evening, he noticed the old man messing about with his mobile in the reception area. He also noticed the bulky teenager knock
into him accidentally and send him toppling over a stack of chairs. Steve rushed over to stop him hitting the ground.

‘You all right there, old lad?’ he said, giving the elderly gent his arm as support.

‘I’m fine,’ said the man, who had a very weird accent. Half-Arthur Scargill, half-John Wayne.

‘Can I get you anything? Glass of water or something?’

‘What’s your name, son?’ drawled the man.

‘Steve. Steve Feast.’

The man leaned on Steve’s arm as he stood.

‘I enjoyed watching you very much tonight. I was also here three weeks ago when you were the bad guy in that four-rounder. Impressive stuff.’

‘Oh, that night,’ chuckled Steve, remembering that was the night when Guy thought he had slept with Floz.

‘You’re a good wrestler.’

‘Aye, I am,’ said Steve. ‘But I should have been grappling in the fifties when it was big-time over here.’

‘Or wrestling now in America where it still is,’ said the old man.

‘I wish,’ said Steve, waving goodbye to the old fellow now that he could see he was all right. ‘Don’t I bloody wish.’

It was fairly quiet in Burgerov that evening, although a party of eleven were booked in at the stupid hour of 10 p.m. They were travelling up from Southampton en route to
Glasgow and had paid Kenny Moulding over the odds to feed them. Kenny didn’t pass on any of the profits to the staff who would have to work so late to accommodate them – obviously.

Steve’s words had been going around in Guy’s head since he left. He was right, he did both need and want to rejoin the human race and feel close to a woman again. The trouble was, he
didn’t just want any woman, he wanted Floz Cherrydale. He had to get on the right foot with her, talk to her, get her to know the real him, and get to know the real her, give it every chance
before he walked away and moved on. It defied reason why he had fallen so deeply and quickly for someone he had hardly spoken to – and who couldn’t stand the sight of him. All he knew
was that it wasn’t infatuation: this was love – indefatigably and absolutely. And he wanted to impress her so much that all thoughts of mysterious old flames were extinguished.

Guy checked his watch. Juliet would be on her date now, leaving Floz on her own in the flat. He had an hour and a half until the Southampton party arrived. A surge of adrenalin spiralled upwards
through him.
Yes, do it
. It was now or never.

He ripped off his apron and called to Gina: ‘I’ll be back in an hour. You’re in charge.’

He grabbed his car keys and strode out into the balmy autumn evening. The moon was huge and low and pink as rosé champagne. A
Wine Moon
, or a
Harvest Moon
as it was more
commonly known. He hoped that was a sign that tonight he was going to harvest the affections of Floz Cherrydale. Tonight he was going to make her take her previous opinion of him and rip it up into
shreds. Tonight they were going to start everything again.

Guy pressed the entryphone button outside his sister’s flat. He was so full of gung-ho natural chemicals, he felt he was either going to throw up or start ripping up
cars.

‘Hello?’ came Floz’s gentle voice.

‘It’s Guy,’ he said. ‘Can I come up?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Floz replied, her voice stiffening by ten degrees. She instantly predicted what would happen next: he would walk in, ask for Juliet, find out Juliet wasn’t
there and then use that as an excuse to do some saturnine Heathcliff-type frowning, as if his sister’s absence was Floz’s fault.

Guy bounced up the stairs and pushed open the flat door.

‘Hi, Floz . . . er . . . where’s Juliet?’

Yep, thought Floz. Correct so far.

‘She’s out. With Piers. Didn’t you know?’ replied Floz, getting ready for a sulky mask to drop over his face.

‘Ah yes, she did tell me.’ Guy slapped his forehead with his hand and it looked like the rubbish acting it was.

‘Can I help?’ she asked, wondering what the heck he was up to.

She looked so tiny, he wanted to fold his arms around her, lift her up and kiss her soft lips again until her pale cheeks were as flush-pink as the
Wine Moon
outside.

‘Guy? Can I help?’ repeated Floz.

Guy shook himself out of his reverie. ‘Sorry. I . . . er . . . wondered . . .’ His phone went off in his pocket. ‘I’m a Barbie Girl’, at a thousand decibels.
‘Oh God!’ Once again he’d failed to make the phone behave. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw it was Kenny Moulding who was ringing. Well, stuff him – for once he would
have to wait. Guy tried to switch off the phone but his big finger wouldn’t depress the switch properly.
Let’s go, Barbie
. He was so flustered he dropped the phone and it bounced
under the sofa. He fell to the floor, scrabbling around for it. He had the feeling that if he stamped on it and threw it from the window into a lake, the damned tune would still be playing. He
couldn’t lever the back off to remove the battery. He banged it on the coffee-table to kill it, all the while aware that Floz was frozen to the spot, watching him make an even bigger arse of
himself than all the previous times put together.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Guy. ‘I bought the phone from eBay. I can’t get rid of the last owner’s tunes from the memory, and however much I try and alter the
ringtone . . . anyway, all that’s very boring, sorry. Erm, Floz, I came to ask—’

Then the entryphone buzzed hard and impatiently as if someone was stabbing it.

‘Excuse me,’ said Floz, going to pick it up. Guy could hear the sobbing coming from the receiver at the other side of the room.

‘Come up, Coco,’ said Floz into the phone. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Oh shit.’ Guy meant to say this under his breath, but it came out loud.

Quick – there’s still time!

‘Floz, the thing is . . .’

Then Coco fell through the doorway and threw himself onto Floz.

‘Gideon and I are finished!’ he said. ‘He’s been seeing a florist behind my back. I looked at his mobile and he’s been making loads of calls to him. Oh, why are men
such bastards? Why, why?’ Then he spotted Guy and temporarily broke off his dramatic wailing. ‘Oh hi, Guy. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Coco,’ said Guy, his mouth a grim line. ‘Never better, in fact.’

‘What was it that you came for, Guy?’ asked Floz, holding Coco as he collapsed again onto her shoulder.

‘Why? Why me?’ cried Coco.

‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter,’ said Guy tightly. He was so angry that he had got so close to setting the record straight with Floz. Angry that fate – in the guise of an
hysterical gay perfume shop owner – had stopped him from asking Floz out. Angry that he’d lost so much time. Angry that Hallow’s Cottage was out of his reach after so many years
of coveting it. Angry that even his bloody phone was against him.

Then Juliet walked into the flat and announced that she had just thrown up all over Piers Winstanley-Black’s Savile Row suit.