An Autumn Crush (37 page)

‘So where’s your big, fat, ugly
fiancée
then?’ sniggered Chianti.

‘If you mean me, I’m here,’ said Juliet from behind her. Then she grabbed Chianti’s brassy hair, pulled back her head and poured a full pint of beer straight onto her
face.

‘Me extensions!’ yelled Chianti. A few of them, which hadn’t been glued on properly, came away in Juliet’s hand.

‘Juliet!’ yelled Steve. But his formidable fiancée would not be silenced and no one – not even Alberto Masserati – was brave enough to wade in.

‘How dare you and your fake hair come in here and ruin our party,’ Juliet was snarling as she propelled Chianti towards the door. ‘Don’t you ever attack my man again or
the next time I’ll pull your fake fingernails out and stick them in your fake knockers!’

Chianti gave a startled yelp as her butt landed on the pavement outside and Juliet brushed her hands.

She bounced back into the pub just in time to see Little Derek lift his finger to Steve.

‘Don’t you ever ask me for work again, lad,’ he growled before slamming his unfinished pint down on the table. Then he marched out of the pub, followed by his brother.

‘Oh, flaming great,’ said Steve with a massive sigh. ‘What the heck did you have to wade in for, Ju?’ Had he been alone he thought he might have cried. Little Derek was
the only promoter he knew. He wouldn’t be able to wrestle in shows any more if Little Derek didn’t give him a job.

‘He’ll come round, lad,’ said Fred Zeppelin, giving Steve a squeeze on the shoulder, but the tone of his voice said anything but, because they all knew that Little Derek was a
right nasty beggar when he wanted to be, and no one upset his precious girl and got away with it.

‘Oh God,’ said Steve, dropping his eyes to look at his boots. When he lifted his head, the old man with the strange accent was in front of him and smiling. And holding out his
hand.

‘May I introduce myself,’ he said. ‘My name is Patrick Milburn. You might know my son, at least by name – William Milburn.’

Steve shook the old man’s hand, out of courtesy.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I know your—’

Patrick Milburn reached into his pocket and handed over a business card. Steve read it. Then he read it again and he felt little cells in his brain explode. The card had Patrick’s name on
it, below three large letters in white and red – GWE.
Global Wrestling Enterprises. William – Will – Milburn. The billionaire head of GWE. And this was his dad
.

‘I’m on a talent-scouting mission,’ said Patrick Milburn. ‘Son, how would you like to come over to America in the next couple of weeks and talk contracts?’

Steve was severely hungover the next morning, as were Jeff Leppard, Fred Zeppelin, Tarzan and the enormous and hirsute Apeman, Klondyke Kevin and Big Bad Davy. The Pogmoor
Brothers had to take turns in carrying each other home. The party that followed Patrick Milburn’s announcement put the party before Chianti’s entrance fifty miles into the shade.

But now, as Steve lay in bed, his headache wearing off thanks to the tablets and water that Juliet had given him, reality was intruding on his dream.

‘Nice to be asked,’ he said, putting his arm around Juliet. ‘But I can’t go. Not really.’

Juliet shrugged him off. ‘What do you mean, you can’t go?’

‘I wouldn’t go without you. And I wouldn’t ask you to leave your family.’

‘You are going, Steven Feast. And I’m coming with you.’

‘What about the baby? It will kill your mum and dad if they can’t see the baby grow up.’

Juliet fell back against him. ‘Steve, I don’t know how all this will play out. All I know is that you’ve wanted this chance all your life and you are going to take it. I
imagine you’ll be on the road quite often; I’ll come home then and stay with Mum and Dad. And when I’m away from them – and you – there’s always Skype.
We’ll work it out. Somehow. Other people do.’

‘I’d love to do it, Ju. Just for a few years.’

‘You are going to. Don’t argue with me. You’re always telling Guy to go for it, and now it’s your time to shine, honey.’

‘You are so deliciously bossy, Juliet Miller. I love you more than wrestling, do you know that? So what do you have to say to that then?’ Steve kissed her softly on her lovely, bossy
mouth.

And for once, Juliet Miller, who knew that if Steve Feast loved her more than wrestling, he loved her a hell of a lot, didn’t want to say anything.

Floz drove to the newsagent’s to get the Sunday papers, but didn’t drive straight home. Instead she took a long detour out into the country, through Maltstone and
out on the Higher Hoppleton Road. It was a farm-heavy area and some of the fields still had huge rolls of harvested hay in them. Scarlet poppies were out in force, standing tall, reverently still
and silent. She passed a trio of old ladies picking the last of the fat blackberries from the hedgerows to make lovely apple and blackberry pies with, so she imagined. Floz wasn’t sure where
the cottage was so drove quite slowly, but then she spotted the
For Sale
notice cancelled out with a diagonal
Sold
sticker. She pulled in, curious to see why Hallow’s had gotten
under Guy’s skin so much.

She pushed open the gate and had to walk down the drive for a while before the house came fully into view, as the grasses in the garden were thick and huge. But as soon as her eyes closed on the
house, she could see exactly why Guy Miller had coveted this cottage since he was a child.

Like Guy, she didn’t see the peeling paintwork on the windows, and when she looked through the glass, the crumbling plaster and awful carpet didn’t register. She saw a roaring fire
in the huge inglenook, she saw herself reading and sprawled out on a huge squashy sofa with an old black friendly cat like lovely Stripies purring on her knee. She saw Guy Miller in his
chef’s whites, bringing out a big tray of cheese and bread and pâté for them to share. Floz gasped. Where had that thought come from? Why was she thinking about sharing a house
with Guy Miller of all people?

Floz felt quite wobbly as she walked back to the car.

First thing Monday morning, Guy got a call from his solicitor to say that all the paperwork on the restaurant was now complete. Burgerov was officially his to close up, gut,
fumigate and raise magnificently like a Phoenix from the ashes. He walked into work early with renewed vigour, ready to do battle. And because he walked in early, he found Varto sliding a bottle of
vodka from the bar into his locker.

‘Good morning, Varto,’ smiled Guy. ‘Whilst you’re in that locker, get your coat and all your belongings and leave my restaurant. You’re sacked.’

Varto turned to him with a cocky sneer on his face. ‘You know you can’t sack me,’ he said. ‘It’s not your restaurant. It’s Mr Moulding’s restaurant and
I think he have something to say if you try to sack me. He very friendly with my mama, you understand.’

Guy was stunned. Varto really had no idea that the ownership of Burgerov had been transferred. He thought some gossip might have leaked out, but Varto appeared to know nothing. Mentally Guy
clapped his hands together, and prepared to enjoy himself.

‘So you didn’t know that I’m the new boss? Kenny never told “your mama” that he’s sold Burgerov to me – and as your new boss, I’m sacking you for
stealing that vodka?’

‘Ees lies,’ said Varto. ‘You are not the owner.’ Guy noted that he never mentioned it was lies that he was caught nicking the vodka.

‘You go and ask Kenny then. Oh, sorry you can’t. You see, I’m presuming that by now Kenny will be on a flight to Spain. With Mrs Moulding. Goodbye, Varto. I’ll have your
P45 sent on.’

Varto started spouting very dramatic East European at Antonin; the latter returned it, then addressed Guy with the same arrogant mask on his face.

‘If Varto go, I go.’

‘Burgerov then,’ said Guy calmly, but with a giggle in his head.

‘And Igor and Stanislav will come as well. You will have no one to run your stinking restaurant.’

Well, if that was a blackmail technique, it didn’t work. Guy stood with his arms folded and a grin of high amusement.

‘I’ll take that as your formal resignation, shall I?’ he said. ‘Gina, you’ll be a witness to that?’

‘I will,’ said Gina, who was delighted to hear that Guy was taking over and welcomed the new regime with her whole heart.

After much slamming of locker doors and presumably swearing, Igor, Stanislav, Varto and Antonin stormed out of the restaurant, pausing by the gate to give Guy a chance to calm down and call them
back, offer them a pay rise and apologize on bended knee. They didn’t expect to see Gina stick a handwritten note in the window announcing that Burgerov would be closed until further
notice.

The morning was spent cancelling the few reservations that had been made and ringing the builders to ask if they were able to come any sooner than they were booked to do. Since all Guy’s
staff had walked out, he might as well start the transformation before the end of the month. Obviously he would keep Gina on, and Sandra the accounts lady and old Glenys the cleaner, and pay them
whilst they were off. It couldn’t have worked out better for him. Kenny hadn’t bothered to ring him and let him know that the transaction had been completed far earlier than
anticipated, but then Kenny had been mentally free of the restaurant and all its worries since the morning when Guy had offered to take it off his hands. Now Burgerov was no more. In a couple of
months’ time, it would be called by another name, have keen and clean staff and a menu that would call people like a siren.

The King was dead. Long live the King.

Floz was on Guy’s mind. He wasn’t stupid – he’d realized, of course, that Floz had been talking about her husband when she told him the story about the
man with the self-destruct button. Then he thought of her beautiful letters to the fictitious Nick, and how much love she obviously had inside to give. She must have a harvest of it, great store
cupboards of it saved for someone very special. He wished he could have been its recipient. He’d return that love ten-fold to her.

Her lovely face was in his head constantly, seared on his frontal lobe. He knew he just had to come right out with it and ask her to dinner – no messing. He didn’t want to give fate
a chance to screw things up for him again. He went to bed that night with a very simple plan formed in his brain.

The next morning Guy stood by the outside doors of Blackberry Court. He had rehearsed at least a million times what he was going to say, and a million times he had stuttered
and given a more rubbish variation of what he had said before. It was a beautiful day, crisp and bright, with just enough breeze to nudge the bronze leaves that still clung stubbornly to the trees.

‘Come on, Guy,’ he egged himself on. His arm came out and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened for an eternity. Ironic, he laughed, that he had found the guts to take this one step
further and she wasn’t in. Then he heard her sweet voice: ‘Hello.’

‘Oh, hi, it’s Guy. Floz, can I ask you a favour?’

‘Come up,’ she said and buzzed the lock open.

Stage one complete. He took the stairs three at a time. She was just opening the door. She was wearing jeans and a red top and her hair was loose and messy around her shoulders.

‘Come in, Guy,’ she said, feeling ever so slightly shivery. He was wearing a blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and dark chest hairs were just visible at the base of his throat.

‘Hi Floz,’ he said. ‘Look, er . . .’
Go for it, Guy
. ‘I wonder if you could spare me half an hour. I need to go over to Hallow’s and . . .’
Shite, he couldn’t remember what he’d thought of as an excuse to get her there. ‘I could really do with someone’s opinion on . . .’
think, think, you berk
‘the best layout before the builders start knocking walls down.’
Phew
.

‘Course,’ smiled Floz. ‘I’d love to see inside anyway. Not sure I’ll be much help, but happy to have a nosy. I’ll get my coat.’

Stage two accomplished.

Guy’s leg was doing a nervous shake on the clutch. He could have done a formidable Elvis impression from the waist down. He kangaroo-ed round the corner and
apologized.

‘Sorry, I’ve only been driving for twenty-three years,’ he said.

‘It’s the extra weight you’re carrying today,’ said Floz. ‘It’s obviously affected something technical under the bonnet that I couldn’t possibly know
the name of.’

They drove on in silence. Guy felt he should really say something sparkling and witty. ‘Lovely weather today.’
Oh FFS, Guy!

‘I love autumn,’ said Floz as they passed a field bursting with red poppies. ‘It’s such a beautiful season.’

‘All the best conker trees were round here when I was a lad,’ smiled Guy. One day he’d help his own children land the prickly cases. Then they would open them, pull out the
brown shiny conkers, take them home and soak them in vinegar to harden them up for contests at school, just as Perry had done with him.

Guy pulled onto the land of Hallow’s Cottage. The owner had no qualms about lending Guy the keys for the house so he could measure up and invite his builder friends in. Guy pushed open the
creaky door and they walked into the stale, slightly damp air of the cottage.

‘Oh wow,’ said Floz, turning full circle in the space. It was so much nicer being inside than peering through the dirty windows. It was a huge room – and that fireplace . . .
She saw it in her mind’s eye full of crackling logs and orange flames.

‘Do you think it’s too big?’ asked Guy, feigning consternation. ‘Do you think it should be divided into two rooms?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Floz. ‘It’s beautiful exactly as it is. I can just see it with a big leather Chesterfield . . .’

‘. . . big leather Chesterfield,’ said Guy at exactly the same time, which made them both chortle.

‘And a huge Chinese rug,’ said Floz.

‘Red,’ said Guy, seeing the same room that Floz did. ‘Huge logs on the fire . . .’

‘And
that
is the ideal spot for your Christmas tree,’ smiled Floz, pointing to the corner where the stairs were overlooked by a galleried landing. The space could have easily
accommodated a thirteen-foot tree.