The Gin O'Clock Club Read online

  Rosie Blake is a writer, recovering TV presenter and mother of many children. She has written for Cosmopolitan, The Lady, Best and Reveal magazines. She has appeared on ITV, Channel 4 and Sky. She enjoys hosting writing panels and running creative writing workshops. She has written comic women’s fiction for Atlantic Books and Sphere Fiction.

  She continues to attempt to become Julia Roberts’ best friend but is starting to worry it might never happen despite ‘liking’ all her Instagram posts.

  Do follow Rosie on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram – she has twins so she is always keen to chat.

  ALSO BY ROSIE BLAKE

  The Hygge Holiday

  SPHERE

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Sphere

  Copyright © Rosie Blake 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7515-7590-3

  Sphere

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Teddy Dowmunt, Dziadek, such an inspiration to me growing up. A man full of joy and fun, even in the face of pain. We all still think of you and love you.

  Come now, don’t make such a funeral face.

  It isn’t dying that’s sad;

  it’s living when you’re not happy

  OCTAVE MIRBEAU

  Darling Cora,

  I’m sitting in the kitchen downstairs and you are upstairs propped up in our bed surrounded by pillows, our ancient bedspread pulled up tight: a wedding present from a friend we haven’t seen in more than forty years.

  For a second I stare at the mug I am about to carry up.

  You’ll give me a shadow of that former smile as you watch me place it on the bedside table next to you. I’ll wait, offer to lift it to your lips, you’ll tell me you’re fine, grand: the words a whisper. It will grow cold, a thin film forming on the surface. I’ll read you the daily news, trying to skip the depressing stories until all I am left with is the sport that bores you and the horoscopes you don’t believe in.

  The mug will sit there, your eyes will open and close, you want to stay with me, to listen: not quite able. Your lids will finally flutter shut and your chest underneath your thin cotton nightie will lift and fall as I quietly remove the mug to repeat the whole process again.

  As I walk back down the stairs I’ll feel the familiar lump build in my throat.

  Don’t leave me, I’ll think as I swill the contents down the plughole. As I turn on the tap, hold the kettle underneath, click it down once more.

  Don’t leave me.

  I’ll reach for the teabags in the tin, labelled in your steady hand a lifetime ago now.

  Don’t leave me: please.

  What would I do without you?

  Teddy

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Love is knowing someone’s faults but loving them anyway

  GERALD, 87

  My hand slipped on the pole as the Tube juddered. Shirt sticking to my back I shifted, awkwardly pulling out my mobile, arms squashed at strange angles, to check I was definitely late. The carriage jolted and my phone flew from my grasp.

  ‘Oh, for . . . ’

  Going to crouch I slithered down the pole, past a yellow print dress and a man’s navy T-shirt, focusing on not planting my face in his denim crotch as I felt around for my mobile. I touched flesh as I grabbed the foot of the girl in the print dress. Sweat pooled under my arms, beaded at my hairline.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Locating my phone I re-emerged, hair plastered to my forehead. Pressing at the screen again I groaned. A new crack had sliced across one corner.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  A man opposite looked up from his newspaper, eyes sliding over to me, a frown already on his face.

  I didn’t have the energy to apologise or smile. I looked back down to examine the new crack, just next to the last crack, currently covered with a strip of Sellotape. Jabbing at the screen I could see the phone still worked and I was still late. Carefully I put it back in my jacket pocket.

  Why was I even wearing a jacket? Did I have a death wish? I didn’t have the room to shrug out of it, bodies pressed up against me at every angle. The girl in the print dress looked away as my hand closed over hers on the pole.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Sorry. Again.’

  Her eyes rounded in fright; it was the second assault on her body in as many minutes, so her reaction was fair. In the early years of being in London I might have made a joke, struck up a conversation with her. Now though I didn’t even blink, just wanting to get out of this oppressive heat, away from these sweaty strangers and on to the platform and away.

  It had been the longest day: three trains, a walk through Reading town centre to the courthouse, a sobbing client, a judge who seemed to think a female barrister was still an exotic creature, and a delayed return journey. I shifted my weight, briefcase heavy in one hand, my wig stuffed somewhere inside, a thick wad of paper, a brief for a case the next day. I was going to have to work into the night to prepare for it. Closing my eyes I breathed out slowly: one stop left.

  People pushed past to get on and off. A young guy appeared next to me clutching a crisp packet, the smell of Cheesy Wotsits immediately filling the confined space. Staring at him with narrowed eyes I cursed him in my usual silent custom: hoping next time he went to his wardrobe he found a small but deadly infestation of clothes moths: all his T-shirts just a tiny bit chewed.

  Why had I agreed to go tonight? It seemed like such a good idea when Luke mentioned it the previous week, on a day when I had some energy left. The graphic design company he worked for always threw great parties. I’d been to loads of them, and liked his colleagues. He’d been with them since leaving university over ten years ago, worked from home when it suited him and had a fancy title I always forgot when people (my mum) asked. This was their Midsummer Party, an excuse to get everyone out on to their roof terrace in Pimlico with some canapés and cold beers.

  I pictured a perspiring bottle of beer. What I wouldn’t do to be dressed
in white cotton, fresh-deodorant spritzed, an ice-cold drink raised to my lips. The girl in the print dress looked across at me in alarm as I licked my lips. The Tube juddered again and my hand slipped once more.

  Oh God, why was I here? I didn’t want to be on this packed Tube at 8.30 p.m. on a weekday night. I thought of the journey home I’d need to take in a couple of hours, the work I was going to have to do back in our flat. Someone nudged me and I felt a flutter of fresh anxiety.

  When I finally shoved my way out on to the platform, a wave of warm air lifted my hair as the train trundled away through the tunnel. Placing my things down I was finally able to remove my jacket, and breathe out. Pulling my shirt out of the waistband of my skirt, trying to feel less sticky and uncomfortable, I wished I’d packed a clean top. I would have a beer, cool down, see Luke and then head home.

  Examining my reflection briefly in the rounded mirror designed to let people know who was about to appear around a corner, I grimaced at my flustered, red face. Clipping my brown hair back, swiping my fringe aside, I grabbed at my things and strode on out, just wanting to get into the evening air. I knew Luke wouldn’t care, or notice, what I looked like. He’d seen a lot worse over the years – after Phil and Jenny’s engagement drinks (I still swear it was food poisoning), fresh back from my spinning class, and the time he’d walked in on me removing the moustache I’d convinced myself was real with hair removal cream – but I wanted to look nice. As a group, graphic designers were quite cuttingedge and I didn’t want to stick out. I used to enjoy shopping for clothes – finding vintage pieces on Portobello Road, designer steals in charity shops – but now my wardrobe was pretty functional: a lot of blacks and greys, clothes suitable for a barrister that could double up at events like this too.

  It was heaving, the roof terrace filled with people milling about as I pushed my way through, secreting my briefcase under a table of drinks. Peering round the crowd for a glimpse of Luke, his dark brown hair, his Romanesque profile (my grandmother always told me Luke had a good, strong jaw; I’d never really been sure how to respond so had often opted for ‘all the better for chewing things with’), I reached for a beer bottle nestled in a bowl of melting ice cubes.

  Just as my fingertips brushed the ice-cold glass I heard a noise, then someone stumbled into me, a stiletto heel sinking into my foot, cold liquid tipped down my shirt.

  ‘Argh.’ Tears stung my eyes from the sudden pain as sticky alcohol trickled down my chest.

  ‘Oh God, oops, these shoes are the actual worst.’

  Someone was clutching my arm and I looked down to see a tipsy Little Mermaid, all big caramel eyes and long red hair, swaying slightly in front of me. ‘I told Mike not to pour me that third one.’ She giggled, a high noise that made a few men nearby look round at us both. ‘Fourth one,’ she corrected herself. ‘Fourth one. Naughty.’

  I think she was talking to herself. She’d stopped clutching my arm at least.

  ‘Let’s get you a drink,’ she said, eyes lighting on the table and selecting two champagne glasses from it. ‘Here,’ she said, handing one to me. ‘I’m Storm, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met. Are you one of the freelancers?’

  I dabbed pointlessly at my shirt with one hand before accepting the fluted glass. ‘I’m Lo—’

  The mermaid didn’t seem to register I was speaking. ‘. . . but then I’m new and everyone has been soooo welcoming. My last company was full of a load of bitches so it’s been schamazing to be in a place where everyone is so nice, you know . . . ’

  I was suddenly desperate to get out of there. I shouldn’t have come and now I was sticky with sweat and Prosecco and I just wanted a cool shower and to be back in my own flat, alone, dry, cool, in a place where schamazing was not a word.

  The drunk mermaid was still yabbering at me though, her coral lipstick smudged. Suddenly her eyes swivelled over my shoulder. ‘Oooh, squeeeee, Hot Guy alert. Three o’clock,’ she said in a pantomime-whisper behind one hand, then she clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my God that is sooooo inapprope at a work thing, but he’s a dreeeeamboat, don’t you think?’

  Dreamboat? Is that a thing? I hadn’t dated for almost a decade. Was this the kind of lingo kids were using nowadays?

  ‘Who?’ I followed her gaze, seeing Mike, Luke’s boss, his stubbled head slightly sunburnt, who raised a glass at me. I nodded and then, as I did, I saw Luke just behind him, searching the crowd. His face lit up as his eyes came to rest on me.

  ‘Oh my God he is totally looking over now,’ Storm half whispered, sloshing Prosecco on the wooden boards between us. ‘Have I got anything in my teeth?’ A hand gripped my shoulder as she flashed me two rows of gummy teeth, right up close.

  Cringing, I stepped backwards. ‘You’re all good.’

  Luke was stuck in the melee, crushed between a girl obliviously tapping on her phone and a guy telling a story that involved a lot of big hand gestures. He raised both eyebrows at me, pursing his lips.

  ‘God, isn’t he dreamy?’ Storm sighed, her hand still on my shoulder, fingers digging into me, her nails painted scarlet. ‘And such a genius. He was showing us his animatic for the Fruitshootz campaign and he’s included some incredible images . . . ’ I felt a flicker of annoyance for this shapely Storm. What kind of name was Storm anyway? Bad weather, that was what. I shook off her hand.

  ‘And he has been so nice to me since I’ve joined, so attentive. Oh, oh God, he’s coming this way, play it cool . . . ’ She nudged me and I got the crazy urge to laugh out loud. Then I looked at her again, this uniquely named Mermaid: noticed the bronzed eyelids, the smooth skin, the toned figure, and repeated her words. So attentive. Oh, really? I couldn’t help looking down at my own damp, frumpy work clothes. My mouth settled into a thin line as Luke appeared in front of us.

  ‘Ladies,’ Luke said, his left eye slightly out of focus, a sure sign he was pissed.

  Storm giggled again and batted his arm. Luke leant in to kiss me, missed my lips, left a wet mark on my cheek.

  ‘Luke,’ I said, pointedly wiping my face, ‘I’ve just met Storm.’

  Was it nerves that made his eyes flick to her and back to me again?

  ‘That’s great, yeah, Storm arrived a few weeks ago as one of our junior designers. Glad you’ve hit it off.’ He grinned and waved his bottle of beer around. He was not picking up on my icy tone.

  Storm, however, was frozen to her spot, Prosecco tilted dangerously at a 45-degree angle, mouth half open. Her eyes flicking back to Luke, to me, to Luke, to me, as if she was trying to solve an extremely complicated crossword clue.

  ‘You’re . . . ’

  I stuck out my hand theatrically. ‘I’m Lottie, Luke’s girlfriend.’

  Storm sucked in her breath. ‘Girlf . . . soooo lush to meet you.’ She didn’t take my hand but instead nudged Luke with her hip, who spilt some of his beer. ‘Luke, you dark horse, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’

  Luke, you fucking dead horse. I stared at him as he pretended to act oblivious. Why hadn’t he told her he had a girlfriend?

  ‘Yup. Lottie is.’ He attempted to pull me towards him with one arm over my shoulders but my body remained stiff as a board and I just tilted like a skittle about to fall before returning to my original position.

  Luke, of course, didn’t notice.

  ‘And what do you do?’ Storm asked, focusing her caramel eyes on me.

  ‘I’m a barrister.’

  She whistled. ‘What, like in House of Cards?’

  I frowned. ‘Um . . . no.’

  ‘So you catch criminals.’ She giggled as she lifted one hand to make the shape of a gun.

  ‘That’s more the police.’

  Did this girl not know what a barrister was? Was she about to ask whether I made coffee?

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she tinkled, and Luke laughed.

  I didn’t have the energy, just wanted to turn around and go home. Everyone had obviously started hours before and I was feeling grouchy and like I didn
’t belong.

  I also really didn’t like Storm. I always tried not to send out negative vibes into the universe, knowing that is bad karma, but I couldn’t help sometimes wishing for bad things to happen to people who piss me off. Not major things, like a fire or anything involving a missing limb, but, for instance, now I was staring at Storm and wishing that every time she went to roll out her Sellotape she would never find the end.

  ‘Well,’ Storm said, nudging Luke for about the fourth time and me out of my evil Sellotape fantasy, ‘you guys are sooooo super cute together.’

  ‘We’re sho cute,’ Luke slurred, nodding and drinking his beer. ‘On our anniversary I sung her Ed Sheeran on my guitar.’

  ‘Luke.’ I felt my face grow hot. ‘Shut up.’

  He was laughing. Normally I would see the funny side but something about him was making me bristle. The evening sun had sunk but the day was still impossibly hot. I felt smelly and shapeless, wanting my bed. Storm was still gazing up at Luke, all winged eyeliner, tightly fitted dress, sunglasses popped on the top of her head, bobbing at his every word.

  I hoped next time she got into her car on a hot day the windscreen got smeared, and when she went to use the wipers she found the water had run out, forcing her to pull over, stop the car, get out and clean the windscreen by hand.

  ‘ . . . hellooooo . . . Lottie . . . ’

  Luke was waving in my face.

  ‘Sorry.’ I tried to pull myself together. ‘I was just thinking about . . . stuff.’

  I rarely wished bad things to happen to him. Rarely. So, so rarely.

  ‘Hey, Storm likes Childish Gambino too, isn’t that amazing? I’ve finally found someone who appreciates great music.’

  I looked at Luke, hoping that next time he went on an aeroplane he had to sit in the middle of a row of three between a large man eating Monster Munch and a toddler with a penchant for making friends.

  Chapter 2

  Love is . . . what got me into this mess in the first place