Sweet Deception (6 page)

“How much have you had to drink?” His question was rhetorical, more of a rebuke than anything else. He shook his head, “Couldn't you let your parents have this one day without ruining it?” I wanted to explain what had gone on—that I hadn't intended for any of this to happen. But
he'd clearly already made his judgement, so instead I dropped my eyes, unable to stomach his look of reproach. I heard him sigh. “I think it's time I took you home.”

I wasn't about to argue with that.

He looked around the room. At first I wasn't sure what he was doing, but then I saw Petra. He inclined his head, and she came over to join us.

“We're leaving.” His tone was brusque.

“So soon?” She sounded disappointed, but then her eyes darted between us, and she seemed to sense there was something going on and shut up.

My parents were on their way over to check on Winston. Richard guided me across the room, skilfully heading them off. His grip on me was firm, but he needn't have worried—I wasn't about to object. The sooner I got out of here, the better.

He made our excuses to my parents, saying he had to get back to London to do some work that night.

“And pass on our apologies to Kate,” he said smoothly, casting a glance towards my sister, who was apologising profusely to Winston and Grace. “She seems to have her hands full at the moment, but I'll call her during the week to catch up.”

“Of course. We're just sorry you couldn't stay longer.” My mother's eyes moved to me, making it clear that she knew I was the reason for our abrupt departure.

My father looked at me with concern. “Are you okay, poppet?”

I felt a twinge of guilt for making him worry. It was the last thing he needed in his condition. “I'm fine.” I managed a smile. “You don't need to worry about me.”

With that, Richard caught me by the arm and led me out. It was probably just as well—I'd already caused enough damage for one day.

Brakes screeched, and the car came to a sudden halt, throwing me forwards so I woke with a start. For a moment I couldn't work out where I was, mostly because it was now dark. I sat up and looked round and saw that we were stuck in traffic on the Euston Road, just coming up to Kings Cross. That meant I'd slept the entire way back to London—no doubt courtesy of all the champagne I'd drunk at lunch.

Richard glanced back at me. “You all right?”

I nodded, too groggy to form a sentence.

The Mercedes inched forwards. All around us, horns blared, as drivers became increasingly frustrated with being overtaken by pedestrians. We'd hit the Sunday night rush hour, as everyone flooded back into London after the weekend. The mood in the car was quiet and tense. Even Petra didn't attempt any conversation—I think she could sense that Richard wasn't keen to engage in idle chatter.

“Can you drop me at the Nick?” I asked, breaking the silence. It was the bar where I worked, and spent most of my free time, too. I'd planned to go home and change before heading there, but at this rate it was going to take another forty minutes to get back to the flat.

Richard raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Have you got a shift tonight?”

“Seeing a band.”

He sighed. “Fine. Just tell me where I'm going.”

I directed him towards Camden, where the Nick was located just off the main high street. It was quite a journey for Lindsay and me to get there, but it was one of the best venues for up-and-coming rock bands, so we considered it worth the trek.

Ten minutes later, Richard turned right onto a dark, cobbled alley. The Nick was buried at the end of the street.

He pulled up outside the bar. Two guys with shaved heads and tattoos covering their arms walked past us. I could see Petra's hands automatically tighten on her handbag, her eyes widening with fear. The skinheads gave us a look of undisguised curiosity—I was certain they'd never seen a £100,000 sports car parked outside the Nick before—and disappeared inside the bar.

“Well?” I made no effort to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Are you going to let me out sometime tonight?”

Petra went to say something to Richard—presumably to tell him that she didn't feel safe here—but he put a reassuring hand on her wrist, to say that he had it all under control.

He made no move to get out of the car, but instead turned in his seat so that he was facing me. “So what's your plan, Charlotte?” His voice was more reasonable than usual. “Are you meeting Lindsay here?”

I shrugged. “She said she'd try to drop by later.”

“I see.” His face remained impassive, but I could tell my answer hadn't made him happy. He ran a hand over his face, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Look, Charlotte, I'll be honest with you. I don't like leaving you alone at a place like this.”

I pulled a face. “Why? What's the big deal? I work here most nights.”

“I know that.” He spoke with slow deliberation, obviously trying to be reasonable and avoid a fight between us. “But tonight you're not working. You were drinking earlier and you seem—how shall I put this?—upset. I don't like leaving you in this state.”

“In what state?” I could see he was genuinely concerned, but that just annoyed me even more. Why did everyone insist on treating me like I was a child? “I had a few drinks earlier, but where's the crime in that? I'm over eighteen. I can make my own decisions—”

“I understand that—”

“Yeah? Then when are you and everyone else going to start realising that I can take care of myself?”

I glared at him, challenging him to disagree with me. He looked at me for a long moment, but seemed to think better of arguing back.

“Now,” I said, “will you let me out of this car so I can get on with my evening?”

Finally he did as I asked, and opened the door and stepped onto the pavement, bringing his seat forwards to allow me out.

I grabbed my bag, and clambered from the car, my tiny denim skirt riding up my thighs as I did so. I could see Richard's jaw tighten at the sight of my exposed skin, and I hurriedly straightened my clothes, before heading for the bar.

“Charlotte?” His voice stopped me just as I was about to go in. I turned back to face him. He was still standing by the open car door. His eyes were serious and filled with genuine concern. “You know that if you ever need anything, you can call me. I won't judge.”

The sincerity in his voice threw me. I swallowed hard. I could cope with the bickering between us, but any sympathy or real feeling just didn't feel right.

“Yeah?” I jutted my chin up, wanting to get us back on our normal footing. “Well, don't wait by the phone.”

With that, I turned away and headed towards the Nick. Right now, all I wanted to do was forget that today ever happened.

*  *  *

I pushed open the double doors and stepped into the bar. Immediately the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hit me. There may have been a smoking ban in place for years now, but it had been far longer since the Nick had last been refurbished, and the tobacco odour still lingered on the shabby furniture and peeling paint. A long time ago, the building used to be a police station—hence the name—and in honour of that, there was police paraphernalia around the walls: old truncheons, handcuffs and helmets.

Strangers tended to be quite disparaging of the Nick. Tourists often stumbled in here by mistake, looking for a quintessential English pub, and invariably headed straight back out again. It was, in all honesty, a bit of a dive, and had that unmistakably early nineties grunge feel to it. But the great music made it a cool place to hang out.

I looked around the room, searching for a familiar face. The place was heaving, which was always the case on nights with live bands, and it took me a moment to spot Lindsay sitting up at the wooden bar, talking to one of the other staff, Steve, who was on duty tonight. Even though she had her back to me, I knew immediately that it was her—she was
kind of hard to miss, with her shocking-pink hair. It was a bold colour, but somehow she managed to pull it off—I think it was because she kept her hair short, in a pixie cut that framed her pretty face, so it wasn't too much. It also suited her wild demeanour. She was a pocket rocket: just a fraction over five feet and bird-like thin, she made up for her small stature with her big personality.

I walked over to where she sat, and hopped up on the stool next to her, making the mistake of resting my arm on the bar, right on something sticky. I quickly peeled my skin away, and rubbed at it with a napkin. Sadly the place never felt particularly clean.

As Steve hurried off to serve a group at the end of bar, Lindsay swivelled round to face me. “So look who finally decided to make an appearance.” She folded her arms, and pretended to pout. “Although I don't know if I want you sitting with me. I still haven't forgiven you for this morning. You know the rule—if you're going to have guests round that early, then make sure they don't bother me.”

“Yeah?” I fired back. “Well, I still haven't forgiven you for letting Richard in. I thought we had a deal—he comes over, and you tell him I'm out. You're meant to have my back.”

We mock-glared at each other for a moment.

“Hmmm.” She pretended to muse on the subject. “So I suppose we should just call it quits, then?”

“That seems like a good idea.”

We grinned at each other. Lindsay and I had been friends for the past eighteen months, ever since I started working at the Nick. Back then we'd both lived near the pub, in separate flat-shares. My first week working here, we'd gone out clubbing after our shift ended on Saturday night, and hadn't got home until the Monday afternoon. Those thirty-six hours of mayhem had bonded us for life. She was the only person who could keep up with my partying.

With Steve busy serving someone, I leaned over the bar and helped myself to a bottle of tequila and a shot glass. As I downed the clear liquid, Lindsay raised an eyebrow. “Bad day?”

“The worst.” Another shot.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“It might do you good . . .”

I thought about it for a moment. I wasn't usually much of a sharer, but Lindsay looked genuinely interested.

“It was pretty much the usual boring waste of a day—except this time my sister got engaged to that tool of a boyfriend of hers.”

The bitterness in my voice took even me by surprise. Lindsay must have picked up on it, because she arched an eyebrow. “So? Why do you care? I know the guy's a dick, but it's not like
you
have to marry him. Anyone would think you were secretly in love with him, or something.”

I froze as she said that last part. It was meant as a joke, but the thought that this might have crossed anyone's mind sent a shiver through me.

“You're right.” I turned away from her, and poured another shot. “I'm making a big deal about nothing. Let's forget it. I'd rather just drink.”

“Yeah?” Lindsay frowned. “I'd have thought after last night you'd have had enough.”

I was surprised to see that she seemed serious. “What are you—my mother?” I elbowed her in the ribs. “You're meant to be my drinking buddy, my partner in crime. I've had enough judgement from Richard today—I don't need another babysitter.”

She didn't smile at that like I'd thought she would. In fact, she looked like she was about to say something, but before she could, the owner of the bar, Malachi Gold, appeared.

Despite the Jewish name, Malachi was pure East End. A former boxer, he'd retired ten years ago, with enough takings to buy this place. He was a character in his own right. He wasn't especially tall—maybe five foot eight—but he was built like a brick wall. No one messed with him.

He came over to where Lindsay and I were sitting, and planted his meaty forearms on the bar. He nodded at me. “Thought you had the night off.”

“Plans changed. I can help out if you want.” The bar looked busy—well, of course it would be, with Oblivion
headlining. And I could do with something to take my mind off today.

His eyes narrowed. “You been drinking?”

I squeezed my thumb and forefinger together. “Just a little-itty bit.”

“Then stay that side of the bar.” He picked up the tequila bottle. “And do me a favour, stay away from this.”

Once he'd left, I rolled my eyes at Lindsay. “What is it with everyone today? It's like you all took party pooper pills. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd been taking tips from Richard.”

She said nothing. I waited for a moment, and then slid from the stool.

“Anyway, the gig's about to start. You coming?”

Without waiting for her to answer, I headed towards the backroom, where the shows were always held.

The backroom was even more crammed than the bar. Health and Safety would have had a fit if they'd seen the groupies packed shoulder to shoulder, sweat on foreheads, jackets piled on the chairs at the back. I stripped off my jumper and threw it in the mix. Then I grabbed Lindsay's hand, and shouldered my way through the crowd so we were nearer the stage.

Just as we got there, the lights dimmed and a huge roar went up from the crowd. The band ran out on stage, five guys in black leather. One of them stepped up to the
mic—coal-black hair to his shoulders; tattoos covering his arms and stretching up his neck. He looked like trouble. Just my type.

“My name's Brett.” He had to shout into the mic to be heard. “And we're Oblivion!”

As they started to play, the room erupted, and the crowd surged forwards, cheering and punching the air. But my eyes remained firmly riveted on Brett. I'd just found my evening's entertainment.

*  *  *

Once the band was finished, Lindsay and I streamed outside with the rest of the crowd, and fought our way to the bar. As Lindsay ordered for us, my eyes scanned the room for Oblivion's lead singer.