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‘Would the two of you just give your tongues a rest.’ I straighten my spine, my forearms retracting from the copper coloured pole lying the length of the bar. ‘What is this? An episode of Scot’s in The City? For cryin’ out loud.’ Picking up my glass, I take a mouthful of the cool liquid.
‘Must be shark week,’ grumbles Keir.
‘The pair of you do sound like you’re on your periods,’ I reply, putting my glass down again, and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
‘He meant you, miserable fucker.’
‘Aye, so I say again. What the fuck is wrong with your face? You know, apart from nature dealin’ you a poor hand.’
‘It is woman trouble,’ I say with a sigh. ‘But not how you think.’
‘That’s what we all say in the beginning.’ Mac takes several swallows from his own pint glass, putting it back down considerably emptier. ‘Doesn’t matter what you tell yourself.’ He signals to Tracey, the fifty-something blonde behind the bar. ‘You’ll get there in the end.’
‘Wherever the fuckthereis,’ mutters Keir in an undertone.
Out of the three of us, there’s only one man among us lucky in love, so to speak, and that’s Mac. Keir’s wife left him for another man, taking half of his money and leaving his young daughter behind. Since then, he’s been dead below the waist as far as I can tell.
‘What can I get you boys?’ Tracey asks. ‘And what’s with misery guts ’ere?’ she asks in her nasally north London accent, hooking a thumb in my direction.
‘Tracey. You wound me,’ I say, clutching my heart theatrically. ‘I thought we had something special!’
Oursomething specialis that she has a soft spot for me, according to Mac and Keir, manifested in a better level of service and the extra chips I receive heaped on my plate when we order burgers. Not that we visit much these days.
‘That there is the face of a man coming to terms with cashing in his single status,’ Mac tells her happily.
I shoot the smug bastard a look of disgust but save myget fuckedretort for when Tracey goes to the other end of the bar. I know from experience Traceydon’t stand for no bad languagewhere there are ladies around. Which is a bit of a paradox as I’ve heard her swear like a sailor herself.
‘Aw, Will, babe,’ she says, leaning over the bar to pinch my cheek like I’m five years old. ‘Gone and found yourself a nice girl, ’av you?’
‘All the girls I know are nice,’ I protest.
‘Willie,’ she chastises good naturedly. ‘Free with their favours and nice ain’t the same thing. Now, what can I get you boys?’
Mac orders us each a shot of Macallan, while reminding us he has to leave in half an hour, the consummate family man he now is.
‘It’s your bloody fault I’m in this mess anyway,’ I grumble, taking my glass from his hand.
‘Me? What the fuck did I do?’ His aggrieved look lasts only a minute before he’s on the attack. ‘Did I insinuate I was screwing the love of your life at rugby?’
‘What?’ I reply quickly. ‘When did I do that? Is that why you had my nut sack in your hand?’ With each spoken word, my accent thickens as I recall the excruciating pain that brought me to my knees on the field Sunday. ‘I nearly passed out, y’ shite bag!’
‘Fuckin’ tickle parties,’ he growls.
‘I have’nae been anywhere near the lassie!’ Not since she made it clear she wasn’t interested in anyone but him. And even then, I only took her out for a drink once. And I was rebuffed soundly.
‘Simmer down,’ interjects Keir. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Thank you, Keir,’ I reply.
‘She’s far too sensible to get mixed up wi’ the likes of him.’
‘And fuck you, too, Keir.’ I raise my glass, throwing the fiery liquid down my throat, relishing the peaty burn.
‘That’s the last time I’m buying you the good stuff,’ Mac grumbles, his temper easier now. ‘You’re supposed to savour it.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ I fold my arms, leaning forward and against the bar as a dark cloud settles around my head.
‘And why is this all my fault again?’ he asks.
