Page 8 of The Last Kiss

But she’s going to want me to say things I don’t want to say.

It’s a conversation I can wait for.

I turn back to the looming shape of the hospital, a morbid backdrop to the twist my life has taken.

Right. Where is that wine bar? If ever a woman hit the day when she needed wine, I’d just straddled the gap.

There it is. I eye it across the road, slipping my gaze from the hospital of unfinished dreams to the place where wine is kept. I know which one I prefer, and it serves chilled perfection and peanuts in bowls. I reckon it’s twenty-five steps. That’s not that far. I can do that. Taking a deep breath, I step off the kerb, one eye focused on any free-wheeling double deckers that might be coming my way.

One, two, three. I count the steps, keeping myself on track.

It’s twenty-eight. I lost that game.

My phone rings again as I push open the door, blasted from inside by steamy-hot air and the bubble of chatter, the clatter of cutlery. What is it about a pub, even a posh one like this, high end with fancy seating and modern edges, that makes you just breathe out a long gust of air? You know what you’re getting, it’s that familiarity, the known facts of what you face. You smile, order, pay. A drink is put into your hand. You sit, absorb the ambience: the lights, the sounds, the taste of your poison of choice on your tongue. It’s always the same sounds. Women laughing, men talking sport. You could be anywhere in the world and the same thing would be happening around you.

I think I’ll miss pubs.

Stopping at the door, I analyse the distance to the bar is fifteen steps, I bet.

I can get that far too. Same as I could keep breathing after Dr Francis gave me my prognosis, same as I didn’t turn into an ice cube down by the river, same as I crossed the road without getting hit by the Number 14 bus.

Ah! Thirteen steps.

The black leather squidgy seat of the stool is cool as I slide onto it and peel off my limp bedraggled coat. It drops to the floor like a dead animal, all twisted and deformed like it should be by the side of the road, guts splattered.

The man behind the bar, tight-fitted white shirt, slim hips in black trousers, abs to lick visible through the stretch of cotton across his chest, throws a dish cloth over his shoulder. “It’s a chilly one.” He flashes me the ‘bar man’ smile, everyone knows that smile, as he breaks the ice.

I nod. Up and down. Up and down. Silent. Is this how it’s going to be until the end? I’m going to become a robot of destruction. I will terminate. I will terminate.

“A Pinot Grigio isn’t it?”

My cheeks warm up, mouth parting. “I only come in here every six months. How on earth do you remember what I drink? Or do I just look like the kind of woman who drowns in Pinot for survival?”

I probably do, and I have no plans to deny it.

He winks, all Irish charm, as I peel some flat snakes of wet hair away from my forehead, feeling the steady spring of frizz set in. “I always remember the pretty ones,” he says.

“Oh please.” I laugh, shifting back on my stool, gaze lifting. You’ve got to love a barman’s wile. I’ll miss that too. “You say that to every woman who walks in. I’m guessing you have a fifty/fifty hit rate with that line.”

He breaks out a laugh with a sly grin, shaking his head, his muscles flexing. “It’s true. You come in every six months. Always on a Friday. Normally it’s earlier than this though.” He eyeballs my drenched hair. “You look like you’ve been duck diving in the river.”

Ah, now that would have been a better way to spend the afternoon. Anything other than having that conversation, inside that place, otherwise known as the prison of dreams.

“Here you go, although you look like you need a brandy to go with it.”

Ugh. Cringe. “No thanks. Brandy is the devil’s drink. He offers it as a test to see who should be let into hell.” I take a restrained sip of wine and then put it carefully on the bar. My fingers are tingling with the cold, my face stinging as the warmth of the bar melts my frozen mask.

The shape next to me pivots slightly. I didn’t notice it was an actual person before, because honestly, it’s a bit like sitting in the shade at the foot of a mountain.

Navy suit, crisp white shirt.

Beautiful.

Okay, random thought about the stranger, and I’ve only had one sip of wine.

With a flick of his wrist, he motions for the bartender, while I catch a glimpse of long, beautiful hands. His face is only in profile, shadowed from the overhead lights, so while the overall first impression is one of startling beauty, I can’t actually confirm this as fact until he turns. He doesn’t. Instead, he beckons again to the barman. “Excuse me.” The barman shoots me a sheepish glance before hot footing it over there.

They whisper, lots of gesticulating and stabbing of pointy fingers at the spirits lined at the back of the bar. The man with the fingers still doesn’t turn fully. Disappointing. I sip my Pinot, maybe a little fast, as I wait to find out if my guess is true. Eventually, the barman shoots me another glance before sloping off to the bottles he clinks around.