The Gin O'Clock Club Read online

  BOBBY, 75

  ‘Why are you giving me the cold shoulder?’

  We had been back in the flat for all of three minutes. I ignored his question.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said, stumbling slightly over the long word.

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘I’m not patronising you.’

  I had spent the rest of the party avoiding him, drank way too much Prosecco in a very short period of time and when I had gone to leave (no one else was looking close to departing) Luke had insisted on accompanying me. Storm gave him an enthusiastic wave goodbye which Luke had, of course, returned.

  ‘You were being weird all the way back with your shifty eyes and your muttering I couldn’t quite make out but was loud enough for me to know it was happening,’ he said, following me into our bedroom. ‘I knew something was up.’

  I spun round. ‘I don’t have shitty eyes!’

  ‘I didn’t say shitty – shifty, shiiiffftttyyy,’ he said, still slurring the words. ‘Is this about Storm?’ He looked up at me and put one hand over his heart. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Apparently you have been really attentive.’ I made sure to do the quotation marks with my fingers.

  ‘What? So I’m not allowed to talk to women any more?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if it was just talking but it sounds like you are swanning round the office flirting with the new, young graphic designers the moment they arrive.’

  ‘What? I don’t do that . . . You’re being irrational.’

  ‘Oh, typical. Deflect attention back on to me being delusional. Crrrraaaaazy Lottie,’ I said in a pretty crazy voice. ‘She must be imagining things, it must be all in her head.’ I jabbed at the side of my head with my forefinger.

  Luke stared at me, dumbfounded.

  ‘Gaslighter,’ I muttered, knowing I was being rather extreme. I was past the point of taking anything back, though. I was at that stage of the argument where you just have to crack on. I had committed to this argument.

  ‘I’m not a—’

  ‘You didn’t tell her you had a girlfriend,’ I interrupted, triumphantly.

  ‘What am I meant to do? Start every conversation with this information? We’ve only spoken about twice. And we were talking work: it would have been weird.’

  ‘You still could have told her,’ I repeated, determined to try and stay on track. ‘How do you think it made me feel?’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sorry I wasn’t wearing my Luke luvs Lottie sandwich board that day.’ He threw up both arms to the ceiling.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to be so mad but it isn’t stopping you.’

  He started getting undressed and I held up a hand. ‘Woah, woah, woah.’

  He paused, one leg out of his jeans.

  ‘What are you doing? I’m not sharing a bed with you tonight, we’re not OK,’ I said, indicating the space between us with rapid hand movements.

  ‘Are you’ – he stumbled, one hand out on the bed to right himself as he stepped out of his jeans and underwear – ‘what the . . . you can’t be serious. I haven’t done anything, Lottie.’ His voice was louder now and for the first time he seemed to have sobered up.

  He sat stubbornly on the side of the bed, arms folded. ‘I’m not sleeping on the sofa when I haven’t done anything wrong.’ He would have looked more serious if he wasn’t wearing one sock and no pants.

  ‘Well, I’m not sleeping on the sofa.’ I moved across to the bed too.

  He started mimicking my voice and that was all it took to make my blood boil again.

  ‘Stop it, Luke.’

  ‘Schtop it, Luke.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Oh my God, put some pants on. I can’t fight with you if I can see your penis.’

  He stood up abruptly, waggling said penis at me, and I squealed and threw a scatter cushion towards it. ‘I’m being serious, Luke.’

  He stopped then, voice low. ‘Lottie, I’m being serious now. Please can we just go to bed? I don’t want to argue with you about who I’ve been hitting on in or out of the office.’ He was trying not to slur his words and had now, at least, put one hand over his offending appendage.

  I tried to unscramble what he’d just said, the evening’s bad mood still making a whooshing sound in my head. ‘So you are admitting to hitting on Storm?’

  Luke’s mouth opened as he swiped his other hand through his hair. ‘No, God, woman, no.’

  ‘So someone out of the office.’ I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  ‘What? You’re not even listening.’ The other hand flew up so both hands were clutching his head, his voice growing increasingly exasperated. ‘I am not hitting on anyone. I hit on you. When I get to see you. Now will you please just get in our bed and stop being a mad person.’

  ‘I’m not being mad,’ I said, wondering why I was continuing this, why my blood was still boiling, why I didn’t just get in the cold shower I had envisaged earlier and then get under my crisp sheets? ‘I’ve got the brief to do, I have to work. Some of us have jobs that—’

  He cut me off with a hand. ‘No, we’re not doing this tonight.’

  ‘Are you trying to say my job isn’t stressful?’

  Luke breathed deeply once in and out, his voice, when it came, slow and precise. ‘I am going to bed now. In our bed. You do what you need to do and I will see you in the morning.’

  ‘Me and my shitty eyes.’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Fine.’ I seized my pyjamas and marched out down the corridor and into the living room. Realising I had left my briefcase, I retraced my steps, sullenly walking back into our bedroom, catching his look of relieved surprise before scowling and picking up the forgotten item.

  His shoulders drooped. ‘Night, Lottie.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I muttered, closing the door on him.

  Tear-stained, feeling stupid and stubborn and unsure how I even got into this row, I sat on the sofa, opened my briefcase and started pulling out folders, feeling even more miserable as I took in all the work. I couldn’t concentrate, still running through how it had all escalated. It wasn’t the first argument I’d had like that with him this month. Sometimes I felt like I came home with all this energy and just needed to lash out and Luke was there and I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  I shook my head. Although this time obviously I was right. I was right to be cross. Storm had said it. He had been ‘attentive’ and how could any man fail to be attracted to her? She was so young and sexy and her crush on him was so obvious. How could he resist those doe eyes? Those adoring compliments? Oh fuck, was I being mad? I paused, swiping yellow highlighter over some typed notes. Concentrate, Lottie, I needed to remember some of this stuff for court tomorrow. Now wasn’t the time to think about my relationship, or lack of.

  My eyes fluttered closed, the lever arch folder resting on top of me. Hours later, the folder slithered off me and on to the floor with a thunk. I woke, mouth dry, cushion damp from dribble, not knowing life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

  Chapter 3

  Love is like finding a part of you that you didn’t know was missing

  ELVA, 91

  I hadn’t closed the curtains of the living room so I was awake at dawn, sunlight making rectangular patterns on the carpet. I groaned. My neck ached, my body stiff from the position I had adopted on our sofa.

  Struggling into a sitting position, I wearily noticed the scattered papers from the folder that had slipped off my lap in the night, automatically stretching to scoop up the nearest one. I might as well keep working until I needed to get up.

  I went to check the time, reaching for my phone, frowning as I noticed I had five missed calls. The time was 6.01 a.m. but I was distracted by the name that flashed up: Grandad.

  Five missed calls. All from Grandad. All from this morning: 05.43, 05.47, 05.51, 05.56, 05.59.

  I felt
my palms dampen in an instant, a swirling in my stomach. I clicked on the ‘1 Voicemail’ message and listened. I must have made some kind of noise because moments later Luke appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up at every angle, dark stubble, one eyebrow raised in a question.

  There must have been something on my face because I saw my own fear reflected back in his as he rushed across the room and crouched down next to the sofa. Tears had already started spilling out of my eyes as I listened to my Grandad’s choked sign-off.

  Luke didn’t say anything as I lowered the phone, as I whispered, ‘Grandma.’ He knelt on the carpet and folded me into a hug, his whole body reeking of beer, cigarette smoke and Luke. He was reassuringly warm from our bed, his arms clamped around me tightly, his thumb rubbing my lower back. My body was shaking in his arms, his T-shirt already damp from my tears.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispered. ‘Hey, it’s going to be all right. I love you. It’s going to be all right.’

  My eyes were squeezed shut, his words mixed up between all the thoughts and memories in my head, the shifting world, the things I had to do that day, my grandad. For a crazy second I wondered if I was dreaming. I heard the crunch of paper as I realised Luke was kneeling on the notes I had been working on.

  I pulled back suddenly. ‘I better get up; I need to finish this.’

  Luke’s face was slow to comprehend as he noticed the papers I was rescuing. He shifted his position on the carpet.

  ‘You’re crushing them.’ My voice sounded different: higher.

  He pulled one of the pieces of paper out from under his knee and smoothed it down, then started stacking the stray papers.

  ‘Don’t, you’ll get them mixed up. I’ll do it,’ I said, dropping to join him on the carpet.

  ‘Here.’ He handed me his pile and stood up. ‘Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I . . . ’ I was still kneeling on the carpet, my head awash with emotion. I could barely make out what he was saying. I had to get going, get up. I bit my lip, absentmindedly shuffling papers.

  ‘I need to ring Grandad . . . ’

  ‘OK, I’ll make you coffee.’

  I caught sight of a note I had highlighted on the top sheet of paper. ‘I should get ready for work . . . ’

  Luke paused on the way to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll ring Grandad, then I need to work.’ I was talking to myself, my brain going nineteen to the dozen. ‘I can’t believe . . . ’ I tailed away, the thought of Grandma’s face making my eyes swim.

  Luke turned back around. ‘You shouldn’t have to work, Lottie.’

  I didn’t register his words, still lost somewhere else. ‘I’ll ring Grandad, no, I’ll have a shower. Oh God, I was meant to be seeing Amy tonight, bridesmaid stuff, she wanted me to—’

  Luke came back over to me, gently removing the papers from my hand. I looked up at him then, my eyes still watery so that his face was blurred.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You take a shower. I’ll make the coffee and I’ll message Amy to postpone. She’ll understand and then you can call your grandad back.’

  I nodded at him slowly, relieved he was taking control. I could feel my heartbeat slow a fraction as I stared at his stubbled chin, his lips moving with the words.

  Standing under the shower, letting the water pound at my skull, I closed my eyes, not sure if it was tears or water running down my face. My lovely grandma. What would Grandad do now? We had known this day wasn’t far away but it was a shock that it had happened, that she was no longer here. I swallowed, reaching for the shampoo and squeezing it into my hand. What had I said to her last? I had been round there last week. I had sat and read to her from her book. Only Chapter Six.

  I didn’t want to think about that now. I couldn’t. I had to get through the day. I started to run through all the things I had to do, rubbing furiously at my hair.

  I needed to finish reading the court documents, remind myself of the details of the trial, get to the courthouse in time to meet with my client before we went into court.

  After showering I moved through to our bedroom, needing work clothes, frowning as I tried to recall why it was I had spent the night on the sofa. It really didn’t seem to matter any more. Luke had left my coffee on the chest of drawers, a banana next to it. I pulled out my clothes for the day.

  I knew I needed to call Grandad back.

  Luke came in and sat on the edge of the bed, two hands wrapped around his own mug. Coffee, no milk. He was watching me as I clipped my bra, bent down to pull on my tights.

  ‘Don’t go to work, Lottie. Can’t you call someone in chambers, they co—’

  ‘I need to go, it’s too last-minute to call off and my client needs me.’ I cut him off, tugging my tights up high and reaching for my shirt.

  ‘But surely if you told them w—’

  The words came out hard and quickly. ‘You know I can’t, Luke.’

  I could see Luke straining not to raise his voice, keep a level expression on his face. ‘Your grandad will be—’

  ‘I know I need to call him,’ I said, my voice getting louder, snapping at him as if spoiling for another fight. I was so quick to lose my temper these days, the shock of the news and the lack of sleep only making me feel more out-of-body.

  I felt anxious, panicked, nothing made any sense. I just needed to get dressed, get out of the flat, look over my work, get to court, represent my client. I just needed to get through the day. Then I could think. I couldn’t cope with anything else at the moment.

  ‘OK. Look, make sure you call me, OK? Let me know how you’re doi—’

  I had already left the flat before he had time to finish the sentence.

  Four hours later I was standing in court attempting to focus on what the man in the dock was telling me. He was a massive man, barely contained in the witness box, and he was swearing passionately that he had not hit my client with a chair leg. I was about to bring on a witness who was adamant he had, but that witness was also the sister-in-law of the man in the dock’s ex-girlfriend, and he had already claimed she was lying. My head was spinning to keep up.

  The phone call to my grandad had been short and desperately sad, made moments before I met with my client outside the courthouse, the facts of the case blurring in my mind. I had arranged to see Grandad that evening, blocking out the disappointment in his voice as he asked where I was.

  ‘The funeral director’s already here, they’re taking her body away . . . ’

  I could barely focus on the case, the other barrister’s latest objection, the judge’s lined face glaring down at me as I stumbled to respond in any sort of decent time. ‘Do you need a moment, Miss Campbell?’

  The relief as we were released for the day was enormous. I barely remembered walking out of the courthouse with my client, shaking his hand, agreeing the details of the next day.

  My parents had called from Singapore and I attempted the world’s most disconnected Skype chat while nursing a coffee in Starbucks. They had lived out there since I was seventeen, when Dad got a big promotion for the trading company he worked for. I had refused to move with them, wanting to finish my A-levels. I went to live with my grandparents instead and somehow I had never moved out there.

  I mainly spoke to Mum, who seemed to be peering over the lip of her laptop, the angle distorting her face. ‘Your dad is dreadfully sad, obviously.’

  Grandma and he had been close when growing up and Grandad had always hinted that Dad’s emigrating had broken her heart a little. Dad moved into the screen over Mum’s shoulder, tired eyes and mouth turned down. The distance between us seemed greater than ever. Coupled with the bad reception and delay, the conversation was stilted and sad.

  Staring desolately out of the window at people passing, the day muggy and still, I felt an urge to hear Luke’s voice, to apologise for flying off the handle the night before, to tell him I loved him. Today had been tiring and lonely and I kept thinking back to the way I’d felt when he
’d wrapped his arms around me on the sofa that morning. Luke, who barely had any family of his own – both his parents had died when he was in his late teens and early twenties – knew loss: he had loved Grandma too.

  Head pounding, the edges of a migraine beginning, I squeezed my eyes closed and listened to the ringing. Someone picked up Luke’s work phone, the tail end of a throaty laughter choked down as a female voice said, ‘Blaze Designs, how can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, I . . . ’ My eyes flew open. The only female voice I’d been expecting was Sandra, the receptionist who came on the line if it went unanswered. In her early fifties with a mouse-like voice, she would always promise to tell Luke I’d called, and then she’d update me on the latest developments in the lives of any member of One Direction. She had a massive crush on Harry Styles, which she knew was unusual. This had come out unexpectedly at one of their Christmas parties and had really tickled me. We had got on ever since.

  ‘Is Luke there?’ I asked the stranger, wishing he had answered. His work landline was normally a reliable way to catch him.

  ‘Luke?’

  ‘Yes – Luke Winters.’

  ‘Oh, that Luke,’ the vaguely familiar voice tinkled with a small laugh. ‘And who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘It’s Lottie,’ I snapped, already losing patience. I just wanted him on the phone.

  There was a long pause on the end of the line and I scraped the toe of my shoe along the bottom of the window, wiping a mark in the steam.

  ‘He left the office earlier, I’m afraid.’ I still couldn’t place the voice but then a picture floated into my head: long red hair, caramel eyes, smooth skin. In all the drama of the day I hadn’t thought about Storm. My hand clenched tighter on the phone, knuckles whitening. Why was she answering Luke’s work phone? Warming his desk while he was away from it?

  ‘Shall I get him to call you back when he’s around?’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, hanging up with a stab of one finger. I flung the phone back in my handbag, not caring if I made the cracks any worse. I stayed brooding in the window of Starbucks, glaring at anyone who looked vaguely happy. One woman was holding a bag containing a new shoebox, a big smile splitting her pretty face. I hoped she got home, lost the left one, and when she found it had already bought a new pair and worn them.