Oh!’
The fat man, shaking his head and laughing gummily, had grabbed hold of the frilly skirt and tugged her towards him. Dropping the tray with a clatter, April found herself anchored firmly on to his lap.
‘Couldn’t put that in a jar, eh, darling?’
Struggling to escape, April almost gagged with disgust. The fat man clung on, digging podgy fingers through the crisscross gaps in her fishnet tights.
‘I like a babe with a bit of spirit.’
‘If it’s spirit you want,’ April muttered, ‘try this.’ And balling her fist, she punched him neatly on the nose. ‘Bugger me!’
The fat hands stopped gripping her thighs and rushed to his face. The football anthems faltered to a halt. The wedding anniversary wife clapped rather half-heartedly. April stood up, straightened her cap, and staggered shakily away from the table – straight into the T-shirted chest of Sebastian Gillespie.
‘You just punched a customer!’
Oh God. ‘Yes, I know. He mauled me.’
‘He’s supposed to maul you. That’s why you’re dressed like a tart.’
‘He’s not and I’m not!’
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Get back to the bar. I’ll deal with this. We’ll talk later.’
‘But he – ’
‘April – leave it!’
Remembering that Sebastian almost definitely knew about Beatrice-Eugenie and Cair Paravel, April left it. Slinking back towards the bar, burning with outraged indignation, she wondered where she’d get another job. God, no tips from the Pasta Place and no wage from here – she’d be fighting Cair Paravel for a share in his paper-round.
Martina, just closing the till, cocked her shorn sparkly head towards the window seats. ‘Bit of a disturbance, was there?’
‘Something like that,’ April muttered, still squirming inside from the intimacy with the fat mauler. ‘Sebby’s sorting it.’
‘Sebastian to you,’ Martina corrected with a disapproving sniff. ‘Sebby is what he’s called at home – oh, and by his girlfriend, of course . . .’ She waggled bony claws along the bar.
April whimpered. Brittany Frobisher, in tiny crushed-velvet shorts and a beaded bikini top, was perched on a stool at the counter, stirring something opaque with a twizzle stick and looking pretty cheesed off.
Martina edged her way out from behind the bar. ‘Sebastian said it looked as though they were getting a bit rowdy. Not our usual class of punter at all, but you can’t turn ’em away on the grounds of being common, that’s what I say. Did they give you a tip?’
April shook her head. Should she tell Martina she’d punched a customer or leave that little gem of information for Seb? ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Oh, it looks as though Sebby – um – Sebastian has got it all organised.’
Martina frowned as Sebastian, gripping the fat man by his bri-nylon neck, parted the Copacabana faithful like a floppy-haired Moses. She blinked blue Eylure lashes as her son and fifteen stones of perspiring flab disappeared through the gold-plated doors.
‘Gets it from his gramp,’ she said admiringly. ‘He could still chuck out an entire pub on the Old Kent Road when he was well into his eighties.’
Sebastian returned within minutes, running his fingers through his hair. The layers immediately fell into place, April noticed, indicating that the cut had probably cost more than she earned in a month.
‘Barred for life,’ he informed his mother. ‘None of his party seemed at all sorry to see him go.’ He raised his eyebrows towards April. ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No. Furious and insulted, that’s all. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Sebastian smiled along the bar at Brittany. ‘Pour us a couple of Godfathers then, and we’ll say no more about it.’
April’s hands shook as she heaped ice into two squat crystal-cut glasses. Martina, having had a quick whispered conversation in Brittany’s perfect peachy ear, had tottered off to spread more sunshine and happiness throughout her empire. Pouring two
The fat man, shaking his head and laughing gummily, had grabbed hold of the frilly skirt and tugged her towards him. Dropping the tray with a clatter, April found herself anchored firmly on to his lap.
‘Couldn’t put that in a jar, eh, darling?’
Struggling to escape, April almost gagged with disgust. The fat man clung on, digging podgy fingers through the crisscross gaps in her fishnet tights.
‘I like a babe with a bit of spirit.’
‘If it’s spirit you want,’ April muttered, ‘try this.’ And balling her fist, she punched him neatly on the nose. ‘Bugger me!’
The fat hands stopped gripping her thighs and rushed to his face. The football anthems faltered to a halt. The wedding anniversary wife clapped rather half-heartedly. April stood up, straightened her cap, and staggered shakily away from the table – straight into the T-shirted chest of Sebastian Gillespie.
‘You just punched a customer!’
Oh God. ‘Yes, I know. He mauled me.’
‘He’s supposed to maul you. That’s why you’re dressed like a tart.’
‘He’s not and I’m not!’
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Get back to the bar. I’ll deal with this. We’ll talk later.’
‘But he – ’
‘April – leave it!’
Remembering that Sebastian almost definitely knew about Beatrice-Eugenie and Cair Paravel, April left it. Slinking back towards the bar, burning with outraged indignation, she wondered where she’d get another job. God, no tips from the Pasta Place and no wage from here – she’d be fighting Cair Paravel for a share in his paper-round.
Martina, just closing the till, cocked her shorn sparkly head towards the window seats. ‘Bit of a disturbance, was there?’
‘Something like that,’ April muttered, still squirming inside from the intimacy with the fat mauler. ‘Sebby’s sorting it.’
‘Sebastian to you,’ Martina corrected with a disapproving sniff. ‘Sebby is what he’s called at home – oh, and by his girlfriend, of course . . .’ She waggled bony claws along the bar.
April whimpered. Brittany Frobisher, in tiny crushed-velvet shorts and a beaded bikini top, was perched on a stool at the counter, stirring something opaque with a twizzle stick and looking pretty cheesed off.
Martina edged her way out from behind the bar. ‘Sebastian said it looked as though they were getting a bit rowdy. Not our usual class of punter at all, but you can’t turn ’em away on the grounds of being common, that’s what I say. Did they give you a tip?’
April shook her head. Should she tell Martina she’d punched a customer or leave that little gem of information for Seb? ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Oh, it looks as though Sebby – um – Sebastian has got it all organised.’
Martina frowned as Sebastian, gripping the fat man by his bri-nylon neck, parted the Copacabana faithful like a floppy-haired Moses. She blinked blue Eylure lashes as her son and fifteen stones of perspiring flab disappeared through the gold-plated doors.
‘Gets it from his gramp,’ she said admiringly. ‘He could still chuck out an entire pub on the Old Kent Road when he was well into his eighties.’
Sebastian returned within minutes, running his fingers through his hair. The layers immediately fell into place, April noticed, indicating that the cut had probably cost more than she earned in a month.
‘Barred for life,’ he informed his mother. ‘None of his party seemed at all sorry to see him go.’ He raised his eyebrows towards April. ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘No. Furious and insulted, that’s all. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Sebastian smiled along the bar at Brittany. ‘Pour us a couple of Godfathers then, and we’ll say no more about it.’
April’s hands shook as she heaped ice into two squat crystal-cut glasses. Martina, having had a quick whispered conversation in Brittany’s perfect peachy ear, had tottered off to spread more sunshine and happiness throughout her empire. Pouring two
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