the barman had exclaimed. ‘Looks like you needed that!’ And he’d fetched me another which I’d drunk in a similar fashion. To cut a long story short I’d ended up pouring out my tale of woe to my new best friend, AKA Bradley the Australian barman. Bradley listened sympathetically and told me about breaking up with his girlfriend. And then we’d bonded in that peculiar way you do when bitching about an ex. Eventually the pub closed, Bradley had cleared up and then walked me home.
And the rest you can figure out for yourself.
Anyway, he’s a nice guy and really easy to talk to. He’s not my soulmate but he’s fun and he’s taken my mind off Patrick on several occasions – and it’s not like he’s going to push me into becoming a perfect mother any time soon. There’s nothing more to it than that. Not that you’d ever convince Gideon though. As far as he’s concerned it’s only a matter of time before I book tickets with Qantas and rack off to chuck a few shrimps on the barbie with the sprogs in tow. There’s no way I’m going to mention meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday; Gids will die of excitement and Faye will think …
Actually, I don’t know what Faye will think.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ I say to Faye. ‘White wine?’
She nods. ‘The drier the better, please.’
‘Any excuse to see Mr Love God,’ Gideon stage whispers as I thread my way through the evening drinkers.
I roll my eyes.
I walk to the bar and lean against it, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. Bradley is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently until a small, tanned woman with a mane of white blonde hair serves me.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry to keep you. Where are the men when you need them?’
Another Aussie! What is it with this pub?
‘I ask myself that question most days.’ I smile, counting out my money. ‘Where are all the good men?’
‘Hanging out with the tooth fairy?’ She passes the wine across the bar and takes my change. ‘They must be somewhere. Gotta live in hope.’
‘Or die in despair,’ I sigh, and, balancing drinks and crisps in my hands, rejoin my friends. It’s one thing to joke about the man famine if you’re a twenty-two-year-old gorgeous Aussie surfer babe and quite another if you’re thirty-four and pretty average on a good day, wearing control knickers and your best frock. If all the good ones really are taken then where does that leave me?
Alone, that’s where, unlike Gideon and Faye, both of whom will be going home tonight to their partners.
Totally alone.
By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.
And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?
I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!
I am strong! I am woman!
And maybe a teeny bit pissed?
‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’
At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’
‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.
Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’
‘Thanks, babes.’
‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’
Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.
‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’
‘No!’ I laugh.
As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.
Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.
Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.
I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?
Time to see if Bradley’s in the mood for a coffee …
‘How was your trip home?’ I ask.
Bradley runs a hand through his thick blond mane. ‘Awesome! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel warm.’
I flick my hair back from my face. ‘So are you sad that you’re back?’
‘No. There’s lots to keep me here.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’ I’m more pissed than I thought.
But Bradley just smiles his dazzlingly white smile. ‘It sounds really lame but I came back because of a Sheila.’
A Sheila? Isn’t that Australian for a girl?
‘I was thinking about staying in Brisbane but she’s here and I’m useless without her.’
My chardonnay-saturated brain is a bit slow but I think he’s just told me that he’s come back because he wants to be with someone. Someone who lives in England …
Oh.
