Fern Britton - A Good Catch

‘That’s for people like you. You want to go to college, don’t you?’

‘Art school. But my dad wants me to do a secretarial course.’

‘Sensible.’

‘I don’t want sensible. I want to be an interior designer. To make beautiful houses for beautiful people, and …’ She looked down at her feet in their pretty pink suede court shoes, ‘and I want to be married and have children.’

Jesse lifted his arm and put it round her shoulders, aware of what he was doing, thinking again of her smooth skin and her firm thighs. He couldn’t seem to stop himself: the mix of alcohol, the heat of the pub and his raging hormones had put his body and his mind at odds with each other. ‘Do you now? And who have you got your eye on?’

It was now or never, under the starry night sky, and still slightly drunk she looked him full in the eye and breathed, ‘You.’

His father’s words – you’d do a lot worse than to marry that girl – drifted through Jesse’s alcoholic haze.

Greer felt his arm lift a little away from her and he was silent for a moment before he started to laugh. Now his arm was back by his side, searching for his other arm to cross defensively over his chest, his heart.

‘You’re a funny one when you’re drunk, aren’t you?’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go back. The others will be wondering where we are. We don’t want to start any rumours, do we?’

She stayed where she was, horrified and ashamed that she’d played her hand so openly.

‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

He looked down at her and held out a large hand. ‘Come on, you. We all say silly things when we’re pissed. I promise not to tell. Now take my hand and let’s go back.’

*

The party had degenerated into several couples clinging to each other in a slow dance. Around the edges sat groups of people chatting or snogging. The fire pit for the hog roast had died down to a mellow glow and the hog itself was just a charred carcass. Greer glanced around to find her parents. She saw them through a window sitting inside in the bar.

Her feeling of relief was swiftly abated when a breathless Loveday ran up to them in distress.

‘Jesse, your brother’s challenged Ricky the DJ to an arm-wrestling match. He’s ever so drunk and I’m frightened he’s going to hurt him.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Jesse, and he sprinted off into the pub.

A crowd had gathered around Grant and Ricky. Ricky was a big lad with strong arms and a beer belly, and he was holding his own. Grant’s tattooed muscles, though, were as dense and hard as granite. He was staring into the DJ’s pudgy face and through bared teeth said, ‘Come on, fat boy. You can do better than this, can’t you?’

Ricky dug deep and strengthened his grip. ‘You don’t scare me, soldier boy. I was in the Falklands. I’ve killed people.’

‘Yeah?’ grimaced Grant, pushing his muscles till they quivered. ‘Well, you’re a tub of lard now, aren’t you?’

There was a sudden parting of the crowd as Mickey and Jesse pushed through. Their arrival momentarily broke Grant’s concentration and Ricky, seeing his chance, slammed Grant’s arm down. The crowd cheered but quickly quietened as they saw Grant smash his fist into Ricky’s face. There was the sickening sound of crunching bone and a splatter of blood arced from the DJ’s nose across the crowd.

Someone must have dialled 999 because within minutes two police cars and an ambulance had arrived, their sirens and blue lights strobing the peace of the harbour.

A few of the more drunken and troublesome teens lingered on the harbour, looking for trouble, before they were herded away by the police; the party quickly broke up, with only the hardened rubberneckers lingering. Ricky the DJ was put in the ambulance with a police officer and driven off to Truro and Treliske Hospital.

Grant was handcuffed after attempting to resist arrest and was being questioned in the bar. It wasn’t long before a Royal Marines Police vehicle arrived and he was locked in the back for the return journey to his Plymouth barracks. Jesse could only watch helplessly as Grant was driven away. Thanks to him, the night had ended on a downer and all the excitement and expectation that had been flowing through the crowd had now drained away, just like the remains of the punch that Pete was pouring down the sink.

Jesse was left with the difficult of job of going home to tell his parents that Grant was, once again, in trouble.

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