Alice Ross - A Winter's Wish

‘Watch what you’re doing,’ she huffed, flinging the Frisbee back at him. And off she’d strutted up the beach. Leaving a speechless Stan gawping after her.

‘Phwoar, mate. You missed a chance there,’ sniggered his mate. ‘She’s drop-dead gorgeous.’

She was drop-dead gorgeous but Stan had the distinct feeling she was also way out of his league. ‘Seemed a bit of a snotty cow to me,’ he replied.

‘I’d be snotty as well if someone had almost sliced my head off,’ his mate went on. ‘You should go after her. Buy her a drink.’

‘Nah,’ said Stan. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the others and crack open a couple of cans. I’m parched.’

And that, he’d thought, had been the end of it. Until, two nights later, they were in the local nightclub.

He first spotted her as she made her way to the bar. Wearing a tiny pair of white shorts and a pink camisole. With her jet-black hair in two long plaits, she’d looked about twelve. But, remembering the luscious body in the bikini, was obviously a fully grown woman. Stan pretended he hadn’t seen her, until his mate piped up, ‘Hey, isn’t that Frisbee girl over there? The one from the beach?’

Stan cast a cursory look in the direction of the bar. ‘Dunno. I can’t remember what she looked like.’

‘Well, I can. That’s definitely her. And she’s clocked you. She’s looking right over here.’

Stan’s heart skipped a beat as he turned his head once again and met her emerald-green gaze. But the brief moment was broken as a crowd of rowdy German guys barged to the bar.

Stan did his best not to think about her after that. Larking about with the lads, he knocked back more than his fair share of lager and was on his way back from the loo when he spotted Frisbee girl hemmed in a corner, one of the rowdy Germans leering over her. As inebriated as he was, Stan could tell it was not a place she wanted to be.

Without even thinking of the consequences, he weaved his way over to them.

‘You ready to go?’ he asked her, hoping he sounded more assertive than he felt.

Her eyes grew large. ‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ she replied with a shaky smile.

‘She vill be leaving with me,’ the German informed him.

‘I don’t think so, mate,’ retorted Stan, wondering how he hadn’t noticed the guy was a good foot taller than him and twice as broad, before he’d had this sudden attack of gallantness. The German sucked in a breath and straightened his back, adding several more inches to his already impressive form.

‘Maybe we should ask her who she wants to leave with,’ Stan piped up, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking half as much as his legs.

They both turned to the girl. Looking completely terrified, she grabbed hold of Stan’s hand.

‘I’d like to go now, please,’ she said.

Stan gave her a reassuring wink and, before the German could grow even taller, they scuttled out of the nightclub.

‘Thanks,’ she said, once outside. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him.’

Stan shrugged as he tried desperately not to notice the shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her top. ‘It was the least I could do after almost slicing your head off the other day.’

She laughed. ‘You’re right. That hurt. But you’ve redeemed yourself tonight.’

Stan smiled, breathing in the light, flowery scent of her perfume. ‘I don’t think we should go back in,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for a drink or something?’

She screwed up her nose. ‘Not really. I’m a bit knackered. I’d rather go back to the hotel.’

‘I’ll walk you.’

She smiled her thanks. ‘I’m Bea, by the way. Short for Beatrice.’

‘Stan,’ said Stan. ‘Short for Robert.’

That feeble joke which, to his delight, she’d found highly amusing, combined with his heroic antics, evidently wiped the previously Frisbee-marked slate clean. They were inseparable for the remainder of Stan’s holiday. But, as much as he was having the time of his life, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was temporary. Just a holiday romance. And when he returned home, he wouldn’t hear another word from her.

Yet, despite Bea continuing her travels for the next few months, and him being back behind his accountancy desk, via the wonders of modern technology they did maintain contact. And when they both ended up working in London less than a year later – Stan for an international accountancy company; Bea for an advertising agency – their relationship went from strength to strength, resulting in them eventually buying a flat together. They worked hard and played hard, building a great network of friends and a fantastic social life. But all that seemed a million light years away now – in LBM.

As Stan slammed shut the dishwasher door and pressed the ‘On’ button, he realised he wanted that life back. Every single bit of it. But it had gone. For ever.

That thought making him even more depressed, he grabbed his jacket and headed to the pub.

Chapter Three

From behind the bar of the Duck Inn, Phil McNally folded his arms over his chest and observed the hustle and bustle of a Sunday night in Buttersley. There was nothing unusual in this activity. There hadn’t been many Sunday nights during his seven-year ownership of the pub that Phil hadn’t folded his arms over his chest and observed the village’s residents relaxing in the plush surroundings. And all the regulars were there tonight: Joe, the window cleaner with his girlfriend, Candi; Jenny Rutter, who now ran guided tours up at the manor house, and her man, Peter; Derek Carter, the vicar, who never said no to so much as a wine gum; and Mrs Gates from the grocery store, wearing a wig that looked like it might have been one of Marie Antoinette’s cast-offs. Added to the colourful mix of local characters were those who had travelled from the surrounding area specially to savour all the Duck had to offer – the comfortable interior, the beautifully decorated conservatory, the carefully selected range of culinary delights.

Phil had been brought up in the trade. His parents had run a variety of pubs over the years, from those on council estates, where only the most audacious ventured out after dark, to eventually buying their own small hotel on the outskirts of Harrogate. Phil had learned everything he could from them, helping out as soon as he was old enough. And along with all the requisite business skills, they’d also instilled in him the ethic that hard work pays off: an adage to which they were testament. They’d worked hard and saved hard – saved enough, in fact, to help Phil buy the Duck.

‘That should cover the deposit,’ his dad had said, shoving a cheque into Phil’s hand.

‘I can’t take that,’ he’d gasped, wide-eyed at the number of noughts.

‘Oh yes you can. That pub’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

Phil had bit his lip. The Duck was a good opportunity. An excellent opportunity. One that rarely came up. At twenty-five he’d been biding his time, waiting for the perfect place to come on the market, working and living with his parents, saving every penny. But even so, he didn’t have enough to cover the deposit.

‘I’ll pay you back when it takes off,’ he’d vowed.

And he had. The pub’s balance sheet had been healthy enough before he’d taken over. The only pub in the village, in an idyllic setting on the duck-ponded green, guaranteed its local trade. But, after carrying out meticulous research, Phil spotted a couple of new trends in the market: affluent young families were moving to the area bringing with them lots of disposable cash and regular epicurean visitors. And, culinary tastes were becoming much more discerning.

So he set out to exploit both these developments, adding a fabulous new conservatory to the back of the building, and offering a tempting selection of grub to suit all tastes – from the traditional to the exotic. Instilling a sense of pride in his staff, he’d built up a good, loyal team, most of whom had been with him for years. And his marketing outlay – huge initially – was now non-existent. Word of mouth, always the best recommendation, proved much more effective.