Meet Me at the Lighthouse Page 2

  “Yeah, not bad, is it? Improvement on the glam rock covers they normally inflict on us on a Saturday night.”

  “So you do anything nice for our birthday then?” she asked.

  Bought a lighthouse.

  “Not really, just took Monty Dog out…”

  Bought a lighthouse.

  “…popped round Mum’s for a cuppa, picked up our presents from her…”

  Bought a lighthouse bought a lighthouse bought a lighthouse.

  I groaned. “Jessie, I need to tell you something.”

  “Oh God. What this time?”

  I let my head sink on to my folded arms. “Mmmf mmf mmfmmf,” I muffled through a mouthful of sleeve.

  “Sorry?”

  I lifted my head and fortified myself with another swallow of wine. “Bought a lighthouse.”

  “Oh. Right,” she said, looking puzzled. “Bit of tat for Mum’s mantelpiece?”

  “No, love, not an ornament. An actual lighthouse. Charlie Mason’s lighthouse. He was selling it for a quid.”

  Jess’s eyes widened. “For a quid? Not finally cracked, has he?”

  “Don’t think so. Ross told me he’d just got sick of the council badgering him about doing it up.”

  “Ross Mason? Not seen him since school. Is he visiting?”

  “No, he’s moved back. I bumped into him this morning.”

  She shook her head, a bewildered look spreading across her features as what I’d told her sank in. “Yeah. So my sister bought a lighthouse. Welcome to another day in my world.”

  “It was a quid, Jess. What else was I going to do?”

  “Well, not buy a lighthouse is the thought that springs immediately to mind.” She shook her head again. “You daft cow. You know, you could get three Freddos for that and still have change.”

  “I’m on a diet.” I tilted my head as another song started. It was a more upbeat number this time, a bit Kaiser Chiefs-influenced. “You’re right, this is good stuff. Who’s playing?”

  I glanced over at the singer, seated on a stool providing his own guitar accompaniment, then jerked my face away before he saw me.

  “Oh my God!” I hissed at Jess, reaching across the table to grip her arm. “It’s only him!”

  “Him? Who him? Him who?”

  “Ross. That’s him on guitar. Look.”

  She examined the singer whispering into his microphone, eyes tight closed as the music carried him away.

  “Bloody hell, it is as well.” She blinked. “Hey, he’s changed a bit.”

  “Yeah, looks good, doesn’t he?”

  Jess narrowed her eyes. “Oi. Did you buy his uncle’s lighthouse just because he fluttered his pretty-boy eyelashes at you?”

  “Oh right, because I’m that shallow. Yeah, the whole thing was an elaborate chat-up effort actually. I was like ‘Is that a lighthouse on your coastline or are you just pleased to see me?’ and he was like ‘Yeah, you can polish my lamp up any time, darling’ –”

  “All right, no need to take the piss. So what’re you planning on doing with this lighthouse then? Please say selling it on.”

  I shrugged. “Dunno yet. Thought I’d look into how much it’d cost to do up. I mean, yeah, if it’s going to be more than I can afford I’ll sell it on; can’t go wrong on something that cost a quid, can you? But it’d be nice to do something with it, sort of a fun little project. It’s a shame it’s been left to get into that state.”

  “Well, be careful, that’s all. Try not to bankrupt us with your ‘fun little project’.” Jess glanced over my shoulder and groaned. “Oh God. Did you put your pulling pants on tonight?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because we’re about to get chatted up.” She jerked her head behind me and I looked round to see two beefy, ruddy-faced blokes in rugby shirts making their way to our table.

  “Ugh, not again. Really hoped we could just have a nice, quiet night.”

  “Bagsy your turn to wingman,” Jess said quickly.

  “Oh, right. Forcing me to wingman on my own birthday.”

  “It’s my birthday too.”

  I sighed. “Go on then.”

  I plastered on a fixed smile as the two men reached our table.

  “Evening, ladies. Looking good tonight,” said the dark-haired talkie one. In any group of lads on the pull, there had to be a talkie one: the one designated charming enough by the others to open negotiations.

  Jess threw me a sideways look to let me know this one was mine. Excellent. Just what I wanted to do on my birthday, be lumbered with the bloody talkie one.

  “Hi,” said the other lad, the quieter, better-looking one with the light curls. “Er, just thought we’d say hello.”

  “That was very friendly of you,” Jess said with a flirty head-toss. She was good at all that stuff.

  “You know, you two girls could be sisters,” Talkie said, looking at me as he cracked out his smoothie routine. Obviously no one had pointed out to him that line only worked for mother/daughter chat-ups.

  “We are sisters.”

  “Oh,” he said, on the back foot for a moment. “Well, you know… you look like you could be.”

  “We’re twins actually,” Jess said to Shy Boy.

  “Are you?” He sent a puzzled frown from Jess’s blonde pixie cut to my long, highlighted brunette job. “Sure you’re not winding us up? You don’t look that alike to me.”

  “Yeah, we’re the other kind,” Jess said. “Although if they ever remade The Shining I reckon we could be a shoo-in. You two want to join us?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Shy Boy said with a grin, pulling up a seat next to her. I groaned internally as his chatty friend took the chair next to me and not very subtly shuffled it closer.

  “What do they call you guys then?” I asked.

  “Oliver,” Talkie said. “This is Gareth. We were out on a rugby team social but the other lads abandoned us to go to the sports bar up the road.”

  Christ, not rugby players…

  “What about you?” Gareth asked, not taking his eyes off Jess.

  “Jess.” She nodded to me. “And Bobbie. It’s our birthday, you know.”

  “Well it is now we’ve turned up,” Oliver said, grinning.

  I made an effort to smile at him. “That line ever work for you?”

  “I’ll let you know later.”

  Ah, a joke, sort of. Maybe this talkie one wasn’t so bad. Maybe my birthday wouldn’t be a total write-off after all…

  ***

  I was wrong. Long after Jess had dragged her pull to the dancefloor for a snog, I was leaning on the bar with another wine, forced to listen to Oliver’s limitless supply of yawnarific stories about his job as a mobile phone salesman. I’d noticed the nickname “ET” on the back of his rugby shirt earlier and assumed it was because his eyes were a bit googly. Turned out that like his alien namesake, the man was literally obsessed with phones.

  “…yeah, so if you come on down the shop I can sort you out an upgrade, mates’ rates. Latest Samsung, all the extras –”

  “You’re all right, mate. Got a phone.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dunno.” I yanked it out of my pocket and pushed it over the bar to him. “Phone.”

  He tried not to curl his lip too obviously. “Oh. The 4680. This is well out of date.”

  “Well it works, which is as much as I ever expect of it.”

  “Nah, you need the 4880 with the Go Anywhere tariff…”

  Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Was this it, the best Cragport could do for me? Was this my bloody life now: heading for 30 with no prospects for either shags or relationships but this tedious neckless wonder of a phone salesman?

  “Hiya, Bobbie. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Ross. Thank God.

  He’d finished his set and was standing at my elbow waiting to get served, his guitar case propped against the bar. I shot him a smile of gratitude for giving me an excuse to turn away from Oliver and
his interminable tariff talk for five minutes.

  “Hi Ross. Loved your stuff tonight. You write some of those?”

  “Yeah, plus threw a couple of covers in. They like a bit of cheese at the weekend.”

  “Do you do a lot of these pub gigs?”

  “Couple a month. The extra cash comes in handy.”

  Oliver glared at him. “Rude. Can’t you see you’re interrupting? Bloody musicians, think they can just waltz up to any girl in the place.”

  I shot Ross a sideways look, a wide-eyed look of please-save-me, hoping he’d get it.

  “Right you are, sorry mate. Didn’t mean to be bad-mannered, just wanted to say hi to an old schoolfriend,” Ross said to Oliver, smiling apologetically. He slapped me heartily on the back. “Anyway, nice to run into you, Bobbie. Oh, and really pleased to hear your chlamydia’s clearing up, by the way.”

  “Er… yeah, thanks, Ross. Doctor said the antibiotics should see it off in well under a month.”

  Oliver was looking from me to Ross nervously, trying to work out if we were taking the piss. I kept my face firmly fixed, Ross doing his best deadpan at my side.

  “Um… suppose it’s about time I went to find the rest of the team,” Oliver said eventually, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out if it was a joke. “See you, Bobbie. Don’t forget to come down the shop for that upgrade, yeah?” He pushed his stool back and hurried to the exit.

  I turned to smile at Ross. “Thanks.”

  “Glad I could help. Sorry I didn’t have a more dignified excuse for you, was on the spot a bit there.”

  “That’s ok. What worries me is how you found out I had chlamydia.” I grinned at the expression on his face. “Joke.”

  “Thank Christ for that. So can I get you a birthday drink?”

  “Yeah, go on. White wine please.” I patted the recently vacated barstool next to me. “And then you can come sit down, Ross Mason. I want to talk to you.”

  “Hey, Bobbie.” Jess was tapping me on the shoulder. She was hand in hand with Oliver’s mate Gareth, who was grinning all over his face. “I’m going to get off so I can change for my shift, Gareth’s walking me home. You coming?” She nodded to Ross. “Hiya, Ross. Nice to see you again.”

  “Hi Jess, been a while,” Ross said, leaning across to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday.”

  I glanced at Ross. “Actually, sis, I’ll stay for a bit. Me and Ross are overdue a catch-up.”

  I tried to ignore Jess’s suggestive grin. “Oh yeah? Well, enjoy the rest of our birthday then. I’ll see you later.” She gave a very slight wink. “Probably,” she added under her breath.

  Chapter 3

  “Another drink?” I asked, voice slurring under the influence of too many birthday Sauvignons.

  “Not sure I haven’t had enough really.” Ross blinked unfocused eyes into the dregs of his red wine. “But go on, twist my arm. Is it my round?”

  “Yeah. No. Dunno. Lost track a bit, to be honest.”

  “Ok, let’s say it is, since you’re the birthday girl.” He smiled at the barmaid and she came scurrying over with that simper good-looking guitar players seem to be able to summon at will. “Same again please, Gabbie.”

  “So. You always finish your set with Angels?” I asked when our glasses had been refilled.

  “Not always. If it’s a weekend I usually do something slow and cheesy though, bit of a crowd-pleaser.”

  “Brings back memories, yeah?”

  He frowned. “Er, yeah. I mean, does it?”

  I nudged him. “Ah, come on. You know what I’m on about.”

  “I don’t, you know. You’re not confusing me with Robbie Williams, are you?”

  “Look, d’you remember kissing me that time or what?” I blurted out.

  Ross snorted. “You what? When?”

  “Really? You don’t remember snogging to Angels at the Year 9 disco? And that was my first ever go at it as well.” I stifled a giggle that was at least half drunken hiccup and punched him on the arm. “Have to say, pretty rude. You’re s’posed to tell me I was unforgettably awesome and I triggered the sexual awakening that made you the smoking-hot studcrumpet you are today.”

  “Right. Might have to Google studcrumpet before I’ll commit to that.”

  He was looking sideways at me across the rim of his glass. I noticed his face change suddenly, losing the droopy drunken grin and going all keen and intense. His eyes flickered over my features and down my body.

  “Hey, Bobbie Hannigan from school,” he said softly. “You’re sexy, you know.” He put his wine down and twisted his stool to face me. “Fancy giving me a memory jog on this snog? Sure it’ll all come flooding back once we get going.”

  I let my gaze run over the square contour of his jaw, the dusting of stubble; full, sculpted lips a little stained by the wine. God, he was gorgeous. Who had I thought I was kidding when I’d told myself he wasn’t my type?

  Anyway, what the hell. Nothing we hadn’t done before.

  “Yeah, go on,” I said. “It is my birthday.”

  I let my eyes fall closed and tilted my face to his, waiting for the kiss. What would it be like? Different than last time, obviously; he was 28, he must have learnt how Frenching worked by now. Soft? Passionate? Bit of both?

  After a while I opened my eyes again. He was still scanning my face, his gaze lingering on my lips.

  “Look, d’you want this snog or what?” I asked, folding my arms.

  He grinned. “Yep. But I think you’re going to have to give it me another time. You’re pretty sloshed, aren’t you?”

  “So what? So are you.”

  “Not as much as you, you’ve been drinking longer.” He leaned one elbow on the bar and propped his chin on his fist to look at me. “Sorry, love, nice boys don’t do that sort of thing.”

  I scoffed. “Nice boy my arse.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “How very dare you, madam.”

  “Come on. Can you deny you once got me hyped up on sugary pop and Space Raiders then took advantage by copping a feel?”

  “Ha! Yeah, and I was having a grand old time till that bastard Madison grope-blocked me. That was always going to be the highlight of any 14-year-old lad’s night, to be fair.”

  “I knew it!” I jabbed an accusing finger in his direction. “You do remember.”

  “Well. Course I do. Never forget your first kiss and go on a girl’s boobs, do you?”

  “Ooooh. I knew you were having me on. So it was your first too, was it?”

  “Yeah.” He reached out to give my hand a tipsy squeeze. “Glad I got to have it with you, Bobbie. Not sure I said so at the time, but… you know, cheers and everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, shooting him a slightly wonky smile. “Not that I really had any boobs to speak of back then. Still, long as you enjoyed yourself.” I took another swallow of wine and blinked bleary eyes at him. “I’m glad you came home, Ross.”

  “Me too.”

  I smiled absently. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, he didn’t want to kiss me. My smile morphed into a glare.

  “Right. If you won’t snog me you have to do a tequila slammer.”

  He grimaced. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. My birthday, my rules.” I gestured to Gabbie and she came over to take the order. “Couple of tequilas with salt and lemon please, love.”

  “Coming right up,” she said with an amused grin, taking the tenner I fished out of my purse. The best thing about the Cragport pubs was that the phrase “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” had never really taken off.

  Ross shook his head when Gabbie placed a tequila each in front of us, a couple of lemon wedges and a salt cellar on a dish with my change. “And me such a clean-living lad, never afraid to show tender morning-after eyes to my mother. You know you’re a bad influence, Hannigan?”

  “Yep. S’why you like me.”

  He smiled. “One reason. So what do I do with this random assortmen
t of booze, fruit and seasoning then? Make a sorbet?”

  “Here. Watch me.” I sprinkled salt on the side of my hand, chucked some over my shoulder to compensate the gods of superstition for a bit of spillage, licked it, knocked back the shot and squeezed a lemon wedge into my mouth.

  “Ugh! Good stuff.” I nodded to Ross. “Your turn.”

  “Er, right. Fetch us that lemon then.”

  “Salt first, lemon after. Here.” I passed him the cellar and smiled as he sprinkled it on the heel of his hand with a puzzled, interested air, like David Attenborough watching a bunch of spider monkeys mating.

  “Ok, so you lick it then down the shot,” I told him.

  “Why am I doing this again?”

  “Because I say so. Anyway, it’s rock and roll. You’ll disappoint your fans if you don’t knock back a bit of hard liquor after a gig.”

  “Sounds like gateway rock and rolling to me. Slippery slope, that sort of thing,” he said, shaking his head. “Not going to make me go the full Keith Richards, are you? Chuck a telly out the window, snort lines of coke off your boobs?”

  “Sounds like the flashbacks I get to mine and Jess’s 18th. Go on, get it down your neck.”

  He sucked back the salt and downed the tequila, grimacing at the taste. “Oof! Bloody hell, lass. When you’re out drinking you don’t mess about, do you?”

  “Lemon, quick!” I handed him the wedge and he crushed it between his teeth.

  “So how was popping your slammer cherry?” I asked when he’d removed the lemon husk.

  “Bleurghh.” He stuck his tongue out and gagged comically. “Dunno, bit rough? You might want to ask me again in the morning.”

  “Is that a proposition?”

  He clicked his tongue. “You want it to be?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you’re only human.” He winced as the slammer made a second assault on his brain cells. “But that had better wait till we’re sober. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Ok. Hey, let’s go back the beach way. Love walking by the sea at nighttime.”

  “Me too.”