Marriage and Other Games (29 page)
The sense of camaraderie was overwhelming. It was the perfect environment to wash away the memory of the sterile, hostile prison. And a few drinks would soon fade the image of Ed and his burned-out, menacing demeanour. Fitch bought her a Sloegasm which, he explained, was part of the initiation if she wanted to become a proper regular. She sipped it appreciatively. It went straight to her nerve centre, dulling her anxiety, lifting her mood.
As the pair of them stood by the bar, she soon found herself noticed, and quickly surrounded by the shooting fraternity, who fired questions at her and bought her drink after drink. Fitch watched on, quietly protective, as two lads in particular seemed to adopt her as their own, showering her with compliments. He couldn’t step in and claim her. For a start, she was a free agent, and besides, it wasn’t the sort of evening where you expected to spend time as a couple and engage in quiet conversation. It was a free-for-all. Anyway, he suspected it would do Charlotte good to fraternise. She’d obviously been stuck in all week working on the house. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep an eye on her.
He watched as Darren and Bradley closed in on her. The pair of them were nice enough sober, hardworking and honest, but give them a few drinks and they were loose cannons. Fitch kept a wary eye. They both had the gift of the gab, broad-shouldered, bright-eyed country lads.
‘Are you with Fitch, then?’ they asked Charlotte.
‘Not “with” with. I’m just having a drink with him.’
The two of them exchanged glances.
‘Wouldn’t fancy your chances if his missis finds out.’
Charlotte bit her lip. ‘I thought they were separated.’
‘Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to cross Hayley. She still thinks Fitch belongs to her, even though she’s shagging this other bloke.’
‘Right.’
For a moment, Charlotte felt anxious. She didn’t want to cause trouble or step on anyone’s toes. And she could sense that the news was going to get back to Hayley, one way or another, that she had been in here with her husband.
‘Where are you from, then?’ Darren demanded.
‘London.’
‘Posh, then,’ countered Bradley.
‘Not really.’
‘You talk posh.’
‘I can’t help that.’
They both affected lugubrious expressions.
‘We haven’t got a chance with you.’
‘Either of us.’
‘You wouldn’t touch muck like us.’
‘Not with a barge pole.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘You don’t know, till you try. I might fancy a bit of rough.’
Oh my God. Had she really said that? Those Sloegasms were even stronger than they looked. She was flirting outrageously. There was no harm in it. The boys were enjoying the banter and so was she. They knew she didn’t mean it. There was no malice in any of these people, and no pretensions. They just wanted her to muck in and have a good time. There was certainly a party atmosphere. An impromptu band were gathering next to the piano, tuning up their guitars.
‘Right,’ said Darren. ‘You going to join in the talent contest, London Lady?’
Charlotte’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Talent contest? I didn’t see any signs.’
‘There’s no signs. It’s just what we do on a Friday. Everyone lobs a fiver in the bucket to enter. Winner takes all. Simple.’
Fitch leaned forward.
‘You’ve got to, I’m afraid. You won’t be accepted into the village until you’ve done something.’
She watched, rapt, as contestant after contestant went up and did their thing, the acts getting more and more shambolic as the alcohol took a grip. There were magicians and Shirley Bassey imitations, juggling, a duet of ‘Islands in the Stream’. Some were surprisingly talented, others dreadful, but whatever the standard it was entertaining and the audience were onside, clapping and cheering regardless.
Fitch stormed the stage and did a rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’. What he lacked in tunefulness he made up for in enthusiasm, and the crowd roared their enthusiasm, not least Charlotte.
‘That was fantastic!’ she told him as he climbed off the stage, his long hair slick with sweat.
‘Bit of a cliché.’ He grinned. ‘But it’s the only song I can sing. I do it every time.’
‘Come on, London Lady.’ Darren urged her forwards. ‘Show us what you’re made of.’
Charlotte was determined to do just that. She was no wet blanket, and she loved a challenge. Besides, she had a party piece. She’d performed it many a time among friends. And anyway, all these people were her new friends. She was sure of that.
Buoyed up by her Sloegasms, she shimmied over to the pianist.
‘Do you know “Makin’ Whoopee”?’
He gave her a thumbs-up and struck up the opening notes. Undaunted, Charlotte scrambled on top of the piano and struck the infamous pose Michelle Pfeiffer took in The Fabulous Baker Boys. She smiled at her audience, and began to sing.
Another bride, another June
Another sunny honeymoon
Another season, another reason
For makin’ whoopee
The onlookers whooped and hollered, delighted by the turn of events. Undaunted, Charlotte slithered and writhed on top of the piano, her bum in the air, her face in a sultry pout, crooning the words:
He’s washing dishes and baby clothes
He’s so ambitious, he even sews
But don’t forget, folks, that’s what you get, folks
For makin’ whoopee
Across the room, Fitch looked concerned and put his pint glass down on the bar. Charlotte dropped her voice down for the final stanza.
You better keep her
I think it’s cheaper
Than makin’ whoopee
There was uproar. Fitch shut his eyes. He knew what was coming next. He’d seen the film often enough. But Charlotte didn’t have the benefit of several days’ rehearsal with a choreographer, or a kind cameraman or editor. Instead of the graceful slither off the piano, she perched on the edge, looked down, swayed from side to side and fell through the air.
In two bounds, Fitch was at her side and caught her in his arms to a round of rapturous applause. Charlotte smiled drunkenly up at him.
‘Shit,’ she slurred.
The rest of the pub cheered as Fitch carried her effortlessly across the room and out of the door. The freezing night air hit her lungs and she gasped as if she’d had a bucket of cold water thrown over her. She went to struggle out of his grasp.
‘Put me down.’
‘No way.’
‘I want to stay. I’m having fun!’
‘You have no idea what those blokes are capable of.’
She would be mincemeat in her condition. He knew Darren and his cohorts only too well. When they’d had a skinful they could talk anyone into anything, and Fitch didn’t want to see Charlotte toyed with.
He strode purposefully up the high street and there was nothing she could do. She tried wriggling but he held her tight, like a naughty toddler, until he reached the front door of Myrtle Cottage and put her down. She slumped against the door jamb.
‘Key?’ he asked her hopefully.
She started helplessly patting at her pockets, but as soon as she moved away from the support of the wall it was obvious she couldn’t stand up. Fitch grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and fished about until he found the keys. As he unlocked the door, Charlotte fell over the threshold.
‘I think,’ she slurred, ‘I might have had a bit too much to drink.’
And she passed out.
When she woke the next morning she sat up gingerly. She didn’t know which was worse, the hideous thumping pain in her head or the memory of what she had done the night before. A little bit of her hoped it wasn’t true, that she had just dreamed it, but no - she felt fairly sure that she had done her best Michelle Pfeiffer impersonation in front of the whole village. What on earth had got into her? The few other times she had done it had been in front of friends, not three sheets to the wind, and she had been on a decent-sized grand piano, not an upright. God, they must be splitting their sides in Withybrook this morning. Her cheeks burned with the humiliation. She would have to face them, in the street, the post office - not in the pub, she was never going in the pub again. She was never going to drink again—
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Jesus!’
A deep voice made her jump out of her skin. She looked round, and realised that Fitch was sleeping in the armchair at the foot of her bed with his coat pulled over him.
‘Fitch?’
He stretched and yawned.
‘Good. You’re alive.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ she groaned. ‘Just about. What are you doing here?’
‘I thought I’d better stay here. Make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit. I managed to stay awake till about four, but I must have fallen asleep.’
He fixed her with a look that was half amused, half reproachful. ‘How many Sloegasms?’
‘People kept handing them to me.’
He shook his head in fond exasperation.
‘By the way,’ he added, ‘Darren texted me. You won, hands down. Sixty quid.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘It was unanimous.’
Charlotte slumped back on her pillows, not knowing what to think. ‘Oh my God,’ she groaned. ‘My head.’
He got up and pulled on his coat.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You get up, get yourself ready. You’re coming with me.’
‘No way!’ she protested. ‘I’m staying right here. I’m going to sleep it off.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he said firmly, pulling back her bed covers. ‘The best cure for a hangover is fresh air and exercise. If you stay in bed you’ll still feel rough at lunchtime. If you come with me you’ll be miraculously cured. Trust me.’
He looked down at her, grinning.
‘You’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll meet you outside my house. Bring your coat.’
Charlotte whimpered and pleaded, but Fitch was having none of it. She stumbled blindly into the bathroom to do her teeth, vainly trying to recollect the night before. She couldn’t remember coming home, or getting into bed. Thank goodness she had woken up fully clothed. Not that Fitch would have tried anything on, she was sure, but the thought of him trying to undress her inert drunken body was beyond the pale.
Twenty minutes later she obediently turned up outside his house, to find him already waiting in his Defender. She could see two figures in the back seat, and Dido bobbing up and down in the boot, excited.
‘I’ve been to collect the girls,’ he explained. ‘I always have them at the weekend. Jade and Amber, this is Charlotte.’
Charlotte climbed into the front seat and turned to smile at Jade and Amber. They were sweet - all pink and orange striped tights and felt pixie hats, with long pigtails and gaps in their front teeth. They chirruped away at her.
‘Daddy says you’re from London.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve never been to London. Is it nice?’
Charlotte considered her answer carefully.
‘Parts of it are very nice. Like Big Ben. And the Thames. And London Bridge. But some bits of it aren’t very nice at all. You’ll have to see for yourselves once day.’
‘Do you live near Big Ben?’
She didn’t live anywhere any more.
‘I used to live . . . quite near.’
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