Jenny Colgan - Where Have All the Boys Gone?

There were people everywhere, on every available seat, leaning against the bar, hovering around the fire. A couple of dogs dozed blissfully under bar stools.

There wasn’t a single woman there.

The room gradually fell silent as Katie and Louise hung by the door, taking it all in. There were tall men, short men, thin men, fat men. Rough-looking fishermen, with tattoos on their knuckles and salt in their hair. Intense-looking techie men with specs, rucksacked travellers. A couple of tweedy young bufton-tuftons at the bar who could have been (and were) the local laird having a pint with the local vet. Prosperous-looking farmers, furtive-looking labourers. Bald, ruddy country men, withered old men. Men everywhere.

Finally, after a long pause, Louise leaned over to Katie. ‘Is this my surprise party? Or heaven?’

‘Come in if you’re coming then,’ came a voice. ‘Don’t let the weather in noo.’

Somebody said something the girls couldn’t make out, and there came a hearty guffaw from the back. Stiffening, Katie eventually took a small step forward.

Behind the bar was the most extraordinary gentleman. He was precisely the height of the bar itself, with three tufts of hair, one on either side and one on the middle of his head, and his cheeks were ruddy. He looked like a garden gnome.

Space cleared at the bar for them instantly, and Katie and Louise had the uncomfortable experience of settling themselves gracefully on stools whilst being eagerly watched by every single person in the room. Katie had scanned as many faces as she dared without looking as if she was up for trade, but there was no sign of Iain. Surely if he was there he would have leaped up immediately anyway. She smoothed down her skirt, wondering if perhaps her prized Kenzo Japanese-style skirt was pushing it a bit for in here. Everyone else’s clothing appeared to have holes in it too, but not for fashionable reasons.

‘What can I get you lassies?’ asked the miniature barman. Katie had been going to order a vodka tonic, but didn’t want to put the barman in a difficult position vis-à-vis reaching the optics.

‘White wine please.’

‘Same for me please,’ said Louise.

‘Ah, foreigners,’ said the man, but not in an unfriendly way. He ducked behind the bar and started shifting through what sounded like many bottles and kegs. ‘Now…wine, wine, wine. I know we had it in here somewhere.’

‘I don’t know whether to be over the moon or scared shit-free,’ whispered Louise. ‘It’s like a cross between The Box of Delights and The Accused.’

‘Sssh!’ said Katie as the barman straightened up, beaming and holding up a sticky, dusty bottle of something so old its label had peeled off. It was less white wine than a kind of rusty yellow, and half empty, with a screw top. There was a crust around the top.

‘That looks lovely,’ said Katie politely.

‘Is that Feather’s sample bottle?’ came a masculine voice behind them. ‘Bloody been looking for that for months.’

The tiny publican’s eyes widened. ‘It is too, you know.’

A huge beefy hand reached over their heads and hit Louise on the ear.

‘Oww,’ said Louise. ‘Sorry, I forgot I had an invisible head.’

‘I’ve just stopped you drinking horse piss,’ said the voice. ‘I’d have thought you would have shown a bit more gratitude.’

The girls turned around on their stools. A tall, chunky man with a pink, florid face stood in front of them, in a ratty old tweed jacket.

‘Really?’ said Louise. ‘Or is that the worst chat-up line ever invented?’

The man blinked twice, then smiled. ‘It belongs to Fitz’s mare. ’Course, you’re more than welcome to find out through empirical testing. Lachlan, get us a couple of glasses.’

‘Right away,’ said Lachlan, and busied himself at the back of the bar.

‘I don’t want to come on like a health and safety inspector,’ said Katie. ‘But why are we being served horse piss in a bar? Is it like, a hazing ritual?’

‘I’m sure Lachlan just forgot,’ said the man. ‘Or I forgot to pick it up.’ He took the bottle and put it down by his briefcase, then held out his hand. Both the girls declined to shake it.

‘Craig MacPhee. I’m the vet around here.’

‘Yeah? Or are you just taking the piss?’ said Louise. ‘Ha aha aha.’

He smiled. ‘Can I buy you a real drink?’

‘Yes,’ said Louise promptly.

‘Thank you,’ said Katie. The normal hubbub had restored itself to the pub, as the two women ordered vodka tonics (Lachlan had a little step behind the bar, so it wasn’t difficult at all).

It was a quarter past eight, and still no sign of Iain. Katie sipped her drink as Louise pestered Craig as to whether there was more to vetting than horse piss and sticking your hands up a cow’s bottom.

Finally, the little door pinged to announce another customer’s arrival, and it was Iain, his collar turned up against the chill, his lovely green eyes roaming the room as he hung up his coat, to general murmurings of welcome.

‘Lovely girls! You both came!’ he said as he approached the bar, looking as if they were the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen.

‘Hey,’ Katie said.

‘I hope that’s vodka or gin or something,’ he said. ‘I was going to warn you, this isn’t much of a wine town. Don’t know what you sophisticated London ladies drink.’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.