Bootlegged Angel (19 page)

The preparation stage, which as any top chef knows is crucial, involved taking a loaf of bread out of the freezer and defrosting it in the microwave and then making sure that the butter was soft
enough to spread.

‘If there’s a frying pan, I can do the Bacon and Egg, but what does she put in the Egg Salad?’ I asked Mel, who was layering a pile of plates with paper serviettes.

‘Mayo, onion, tomato and pickled egg,’ she said.

‘Oh, I get it,’ I said, looking at the menu. ‘Pickled egg?’

‘The big jar on top of the fridge with those brown spherical things floating around. Ivy pickles them herself.’

‘She’s keen on eggs, isn’t she?’ I observed.

‘Gets them free, that’s why.’ She looked up at me. ‘You have fed the chickens out back, haven’t you?’

I’d wondered what that noise was outside the bathroom window.

‘Er . . . do it now. What do I give them?’

‘Their feed is in that metal bowl on the end of the shelf.’

I had seen it when I had first found the kitchen to make coffee and had thought it was muesli. I had come that close to adding milk.

Out in the back garden of the pub I found myself confronted by hundreds of brown feathery prototype dinosaurs flashing their vicious beaks and complaining loudly until I threw corn on to their
heads and backs. Some of them still weren’t satisfied and just clucked on and on like a woman does when she knows you’ve got a hangover and your defences are down . . .

Oh my God. Amy.

I flung a pound of corn over the lead hen and ran back and through the pub to get the mobile out of the car.

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Amy as she lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last one. ‘You come down here to check out a dustbin full of empty
beer bottles and within twenty-four hours you’re running a pub and a battery farm on the side. That’s about the strength of it, right?’

‘If you knew the circumstances, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge,’ I said, soaking up some passive smoke.

‘I’ve found that snap judgements are usually the best when it comes to your little escapades, Angel, they save so much time.’

‘Now, now, sweetheart, you’re always saying I should get out more and develop my own interests,’ I said smarmily, easing the BMW into the nearside lane for the turn-off to
Whitcomb.

‘Not if the interest is called – what was it? – Mel?’

‘Amy, please,’ I said, trying to sound shocked. ‘Mel is a sweet girl, but she is very young and she’s been very helpful to me. And she’s also . . . disabled.
She’s in a wheelchair.’

‘Oh,’ said Amy, briefly subdued. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘A traffic accident,’ I said carefully. If I had told her that Mel had fallen off a EuroDisney float whilst dressed as a mouse, she would have slugged me. ‘I don’t think
it’s permanent.’

‘How permanent is this pub thing, then?’

Time, of course, was money to Amy.

‘A couple of days, tops. It’s the perfect place for me to do my job for Veronica, just snoop about a bit more then write up a report for her. Call the brewery and tell them to put in
a relief manager.’ I took my eyes off the road to watch her face. ‘Why not stay down here with me for a couple of days? You’re ahead of schedule on the photo-shoot aren’t
you?’

I had met her off one of the Eurostar trains which stopped at Ashford, or Ashford International as they now proudly called it. When I had called her that morning, she had given me an earful
about missed messages and then listened in eerie silence as I told her what I had been up to.

She hadn’t said anything then, just filled me in on her Paris trip. Her photo-shoot with Nigel had been completed in one day rather than the three that had been scheduled. The three models
employed – Neemoy, Sasha and Max – had been everything a fashion photographer could want: tall, beautiful, vacant and – added bonus – uncomplaining. There had been no
tantrums (except from Nigel), the clothes had been in the right place at the right time and even the sun had shone for the outdoor shots with the Pompidou Centre in the background. Nigel had worked
harder and faster than she had ever known and it was only in the evening that he had announced that he was taking a few days off for a romantic tryst in a new gay bar he’d been told
about.

(‘Did he have friends there?’ I had asked and Amy had said: ‘Not yet.’)

So Amy had taken charge of a bag of undeveloped film, just in case Nigel never made it home, and chaperoned the three models around Paris by night. That had put her in a bad mood as much as
anything I had done. Well, you know what models are, always watching their weight, existing on a stick of celery a week or simply inhaling melon cocktail in restaurants with wine lists longer than
War and Peace
. Too tired to go clubbing, too paranoid to go drinking, always wanting to be left alone but really pissed off when nobody recognised them.

All they had going for them was their looks and long, long legs.

I could see they were beautiful and I knew they had long legs from the adjustments I’d had to make to the two front seats in the BMW. I was quite surprised the three of them had fitted in
the back seat. I think BMW would be too and I considered writing to them to congratulate their designers.

‘You see me as some sort of pub landlady?’ Amy choked on her cigarette. ‘This isn’t some schoolboy fantasy of yours, is it? Sleeping with a woman who runs a
pub?’

Sometimes her insights were frightening.

‘No, nothing like that, just thought you might like a change.’

‘Getting eight hours’ solid sleep would be a change.’

‘But I could use three barmaids.’

As I said it, I looked in the rear-view mirror but the expressions on the beautiful faces of Neemoy, Sasha and Max didn’t twitch, just stayed beautiful.

Amy left it for a minute, then said: ‘They are paid up until Friday.’

‘And they could wear TALtops. They could be walking, working adverts for you.’

‘I could get a photographer down,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘We could try a few shots – country pub, barmaids . . . you don’t have to be on a catwalk to model a
TALtop.’

‘Yeah, that’s good,’ I encouraged her.

‘Could make the Saturday broadsheets, the lifestyle sections.’

‘Yeah, lifestyle.’

‘Is this pub photogenic?’

‘There it is,’ I said, turning into the car-park.

‘Oh fuck,’ said Amy.

‘But it’s very rustic inside,’ I said quickly. ‘And you’ll be doing interiors, won’t you?’

‘I suppose,’ she said hesitantly.

Then she turned in her seat and addressed the three girls in the back who so far had not said a word and may not have said a word from birth for all I knew.

‘Listen, girls, we’re going to rig another shoot here in . . . in . . . the country in a traditional country pub. It’s a bit off the wall, like you’ll have to look like
you’re working for a living, but it could just get you into the newspapers without having to show your tits.’

She was still talking as I pulled up outside the Rising Sun. I could see Dan’s face pressed to one of the windows trying to make out who was in the car.

‘I’m going to zip up to town to arrange a photographer, so while I’m gone, Angel here will be your boss.’

‘Call me Roy,’ I said, smiling.

Amy took it the wrong way and glared at me.

‘It’s important they call me Roy,’ I said. ‘That’s what they know me as here.’

Amy exhaled loudly down her nose.

‘Very well,
Roy
here is the boss. And you know the first rule of modelling, girls: don’t fuck the boss.’

‘You mean fuck
with
the boss,’ said Neemoy, the tall, voluptuous one with the ebony skin.

‘That too,’ said Amy.

Amy surveyed the bar of the Rising Sun first with horror, then with muted disdain and finally just a sneer.

‘Rustic, did you say, Angel?’

‘Yes,
darling
,’ I stressed, hoping Mel had not picked up on the ‘Angel’.

Mel was zipping around collecting dirty glasses and banging them down on the bar as loudly as she could. There weren’t many empties, but she was making the most of them. Dan was standing
back at his corner of the bar staring open-mouthed at Neemoy, Sasha and Max. Two youngish men in suits drinking Coke and eating sandwiches, which I guessed were egg, were doing likewise.

‘Are those tankards silver?’ Amy asked, ignoring all of them.

‘Not really. Mostly pewter, I’d guess. Maybe silver plate.’ I could guess what she was thinking. ‘A tie-in with the silver thread TALtop?’

‘It’s a thought. I’ll see if that nice little man in the Silver Vaults will supply some.’

‘I don’t think they hire them out,’ I said, but she wasn’t listening.

‘Does the pub do food?’

‘Kitchen’s closed,’ said Mel, driving her chair so close to the three models that they all took a step back to protect their toes.

‘No problem,’ Amy said airily. ‘I’ll get something on the way back. You should let Sasha loose in the kitchen. There’s nothing she can’t do with tofu, is
there, Sasha my sweet?’

‘Lots of people don’t eat meat these days,’ said Sasha, looking at her fingernails.

‘How about eggs?’ I said automatically.

‘Eggs are OK,’ she said, bored.

Thank God for that.

‘Let me see what I can fix up once I get back to town. I’ll give you a bell tonight.’ She held out her right hand, palm up. ‘Car keys, please.’

‘You’re taking the Beamer?’ I said stupidly.

‘It’s mine.’

‘Technically. But I’ll be without transport.’

‘Not going anywhere, are you?’

Neemoy, Sasha, Max and I made sure we had all our stuff out of the BMW and we stood and waved goodbye as Amy gunned the engine and scattered gravel as she drove off.

I turned to my new bar staff to give them the pep talk I was sure they were expecting.

Sasha had her hands inside her large leather shoulder bag, rolling a fat, five-skin joint from a pouch of Drum rolling tobacco and a bag of what looked like seeds and leaves in equal
proportions. Neemoy had unwrapped a King Size Mars bar and was munching away ecstatically.

‘She’s not coming back, is she?’ Max, the short-cropped blonde asked.

‘Not today,’ I said weakly.

‘Good. This pub sells tequila, right?’

I had the awful feeling that I had just introduced the Barmaids From Hell to the Pub From Hell, but I was delighted to be proved wrong. Within half an hour, the girls were
wiping down the bar, filling the dishwasher (I didn’t know there was one), cleaning ashtrays, even lugging crates of bottles up from the cellar.

True, Neemoy was on her third packet of crisps, Max had discovered that vodka would do at a pinch as there wasn’t any tequila and Sasha was singing quietly to herself as she counted the
glasses on the shelf under the bar. She did it first from left to right, then started again, right to left. No one knew why she was doing it and no one asked.

‘Doesn’t look like you need me any more.’

Mel had parked her chair at the table where I was enjoying a late breakfast. I had made myself some fresh coffee (instant) and an omelette with some dried herbs I had found in the kitchen. They
were so dried they were dust and I knew I could have soaked more flavour out of whatever Sasha was smoking. It was only made palatable by the view I had of Neemoy leaning lengthwise over one of the
long tables with a cloth and a spray gun of all-purpose cleaner.

‘Hey, look, I’m really grateful to you covering for me at lunchtime like that. Did you manage?’

‘Had to. Dan helped out behind the bar, so I slipped him a tenner out of the till. I did the lunches. You took about £23 in wet sales, just over sixty in dry.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Drinks as opposed to food. I’ve left you £10 float in the till, the rest is in the safe.’

‘There’s a safe?’

‘In the kitchen under the sink. Do you want the keys?’

‘I’d rather not have the responsibility,’ I said.

‘Comes with the job.’

‘What job?’

‘Running the pub. You’d better do a stock check, prepare the order for the brewery and you’ll have to go to a cash-and-carry or somewhere to get the basics in, bread, milk,
stuff like that. I’ll talk to Ivy when I see her, find out if there are any bills need paying or if she’s expecting her area manager, anything like that. Keep an eye out for Trading
Standards officers doing spot checks to see if you’re selling watered-down whisky or short pints. Don’t serve any kids and don’t let the one smoking dope anywhere near the
kitchen.’

‘In case what?’ I asked, catching on. ‘In case we get an inspection by the Food Standards Agency?’

‘No,’ Mel said seriously, ‘because there are sharp knives in there.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The local police might turn up if they hear Ivy’s in hospital, but they won’t bother you if you’re running an orderly house. If the VAT inspectors turn up, just plead
ignorance. Pretend you don’t know where the cash books are.’

‘I don’t.’

‘That’s for the best. I’ll keep the safe keys then, but I’ll look in tonight after I’ve been to the hospital.’

‘How are you getting there?’ I asked, realising that I didn’t actually know where Ivy was.

‘My mother will drive me when she gets home from work.’

‘She’s got a car?’ I said without thinking.

‘No, she tows me behind the lawn mower.’

‘Could she give me a lift if I sat on your knee?’ I asked innocently, just to show I could handle sarcasm.

‘I don’t think so, it’s only a small car and the chair takes up the back seat. Where do you want to go anyway? I thought your . . .’

‘Yeah, my partner took the car but now it looks like I’m going to have to go shopping, or so you said.’

‘And leave these three to run the pub?’ she said loudly.

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not for me, I’m out of here.’

‘I’ll come with you, for the walk. I need a break.’ I looked around at Neemoy dusting the pelmet above one of the windows – although sadly she was tall enough to do it
without standing on a chair – and at Max carefully cleaning the optics under the spirits bottles and then at Sasha who was manhandling a vacuum cleaner down the trap-door into the cellar.