Page 69 of Rafferty's Rules
‘And what do you mean asking if I’m a corned beef? Are you saying I look like a cheap cut of meat?’
His expression is a picture—Mr Vegan doesn’t seem to know whether to laugh or be repulsed. ‘I said you looked like J-Lo,’ he protests. ‘And I asked you if you were deaf; corned beef... you know, deef?’
‘That must be an English thing.’
‘That it is, my little colonial cousin. How’s the bike?’
‘Oh my goodness, it was so much fun.’ Sore lady bits aside.
‘Was it?’ I can’t help but smile at his expression, which is sort of excited on my behalf. ‘But I didn’t ride it here.’
‘Of course, you didn’t. You’d get arrested for drink-cycling.’
‘But I haven’t had a drink,’ I protest.
‘Yet,’ he corrects, taking my hand and pulling me in the direction of the building. ‘The night is but young, and I’ll be here for the next eight hours.’
‘Wait!’ I cry, a touch aggrieved. ‘You’ll bewherefor the next eight hours?’
‘At work. Here.’ He gestures to the Opera House behind him, brilliantly lit by the sun.
‘You work here and the coffee shop?’
‘Yes.’ He drags the word out over multiple syllables, rolling his eyes for good measure. ‘I don’t know anyone living in Sydney who has less than two jobs. And my second job is in the Opera Bar, underneath this place. And I hate it. It’s full of boss wanker types.’ He pouts theatrically. Meanwhile, I’m giggling.
‘Boss wankers?’
‘Office drones, the happy hour brigade. Full of their own importance just because they wear a suit to work. Nice to look at,’ he says with a sigh, ‘but the joy ends there. So come sit at the bar and keep me company. I’ll let you use my staff discount,’ he sort of trills.
‘I can’t, not even for discounted drinks. I’m officially poor until my bank cards arrive from the States.’
‘Oh, please, don’t make me go there by myself! I’ve had a really shitty day, and I could do with the company.’ That really makes no sense. Who’s ever alone in a bar? But, oh, well.
‘Just one drink,’ I concede, using my best no-nonsense voice.
‘Great! But let’s make it a big one. Go big or go home, right?’
‘Are we still talking about liquor?’
‘I take the J-Lo comment back,’ he says, changing the subject as he tucks me under his arm and leads me away. ‘You look more like a younger Sophia Loren in that gypsy dress.’
‘Yeah, like the middle school Sophia, maybe.’
‘You don’t look like a kid,’ he retorts, playfully slapping my ass.
‘Hey! And I meant figuratively speaking. Or maybe more figure-ly speaking,’ I respond, indicating my less than buxom self.
‘You’re selling yourself short. I know, for a fact, you won’t need to use my staff discount card.’
‘I’ve no idea what the correlation is between those two things, but I’ll take the compliment.’
Charlie leads me down some steps to an area sort of under the Opera House. The initial space setup as outdoor seating with wooden benches, high and low tables, with accompanying chairs and stools. There’s an area to step up to the railings with seating overlooking the harbour, and the sun sparkles off the water, further gilding the city structures and the Harbour Bridge beyond.
It looks like a scene from a postcard, I think as I trot behind Charlie into an covered area where a very long bar is housed. Beyond the mostly open glass wall, a DJ plays mellow tunes, and a smaller outdoor bar serves frozen cocktails.
‘I wouldn’t have even known this place was here if I hadn’t bumped into you,’ I tell Charlie as he gestures for me to sit on a stool. It’s darker inside, cooler, too. I feel a quick flash of guilt as I realise I’d rather be sitting outside in the sun.
‘What’ll it be?’ Charlie asks as, on the other side of the bar now, he slips his head into the loop of his apron.
