Final Demand by Deborah Moggach Page A

Camp who had fancied himself as a singer. That young man had long since disappeared, to be replaced by this familiar stranger, his inappropriately clownish face lined with disappointment.
    Lennox, his barman, had arrived. Lennox was a virile young Australian who sported a full head of hair. He treated the customers with relaxed, almost insolent familiarity. ‘No worries,’ he said, with irritating regularity. He
had
no worries. Soon he would be off elsewhere – Montreal, Cape Town. The world was his for the asking; no doors had been closed to him, one by one. Lennox’s tanned arms flexed as he pulled the pumps; their blond hairs shone in the light.
    It was one thirty, and the decibel level was rising. David could set his watch by the volume of noise – it peaked at one thirty, and at ten thirty in the evening, just before closing time. Having consumed his usual pint and packet of pork scratchings, Archie rose to leave. The dot com whizzkids shouted over his head, moving aside to let him pass. David gazed at Archie’s dog. Its back legs were bowed, to accommodate its enormous balls. Their size was unseemly.
Look at me and all I’m capable of.
They rubbed against each other as it walked, stiffly, to the door. David lifted the mixers nozzle. Squirting some tonic into a glass he tried to remember the last time that he and Sheila had made love. Two weeks ago? Three?
    He gazed at his wife as she rubbed
Lasagne
off the blackboard. From the back she had spread, but in a shapely,feminine way. She was still an attractive woman. The knot of her apron had come undone; one tape hung down. This touched David. When had he last caught her in his arms and kissed her properly – a deep, passionate kiss, just like that – on the landing or in the bathroom?
    He was resolving to do it later when he heard a shout. ‘Chloe!’
    A girl was worming her way through the drinkers. She wore an air stewardess’s uniform and dragged a small black suitcase on wheels. Chloe was standing behind the cold food display, slowly assembling a tuna baguette.
    The girl pirouetted round in front of the sliced meats. ‘Guess where I was this morning?’
    Chloe gaped at her old schoolfriend, Rowena. ‘Where?’
    â€˜Lisbon,’ replied Rowena. ‘Lisbon, Portugal.’ She had just completed her training, she said. ‘The crew was divine! There’s this guy called Tim – last night, my dear, we were staying at the Marriott, and guess what—’
    â€˜Pull a finger out with that sandwich, pet,’ said a customer.
    Rowena moved away to the bar. When the rush had eased, Chloe went over and sat down with her. Lennox had treated Rowena to a vodka and tonic and was chatting her up, a situation with which Chloe, who fruitlessly loved him, was only too familiar.
    â€˜I’m fast-track, they say,’ breathed Rowena, shooting a glance at Lennox. ‘Next year I’ll be on long-hauls – just think, Chloe Miami! LA! Four-star hotels, you can work on your tan. Go on, I’ll give you the number, you’d be great at it – like, knowing about serving and everything.’
    â€˜I couldn’t,’ replied Chloe. ‘I’m scared of flying.’
    Rowena caught Lennox’s eye. ‘Don’t be a wuss.’
    Chloe shook her head. ‘Anyway, I get airsick.’
    Behind the bar, David gazed at his daughter.
    That night, when he had closed up, David paused outside the bathroom door. Chloe was in there, singing. She sang when she thought nobody was around.
    â€˜
Once I had a sweetheart and now I have none
 . . .’
    When she was fourteen he had bought her a guitar, and for a few months she had learnt folk songs.
    â€˜
Last night in sweet slumber I dreamed I did see, my own precious true love sat smiling by me . . .
’
    She had a beautiful voice, pure and true.
    â€˜
But when I awakened I found it not so . . . my eyes