The Sinking Admiral. Simon Brett

one would know. Unless you think the old boy is likely to descend?’

      Amy shook her head. ‘I think he’s retired for the night. I haven’t seen anyone go up to the Bridge for some time.’

      ‘So?’

      She ran hot water into the bar sink and started washing glasses.

      ‘Sweet, pretty Amy, please?’ He put his elbows on the bar and gazed into her face.

      She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You could sell snow to an Eskimo.’

      ‘Tut, tut,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget your political correctness. We call them Inuits today.’

      ‘So we do. I had this lovely book as a child; all about a little girl helping to build an igloo and fishing through a hole in the ice, so the name Eskimo stuck with me. I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska.’ She wiped her hands and turned to the bottles lined up behind her. ‘OK, what’ll it be? As you’re a resident, it’s legal and can go on your tab.’

      He grinned. ‘My work tab.’ He scanned the shelves. ‘I had a Chilean Merlot earlier. That wasn’t bad.’

      Most of the time Amy made it a rule not to drink at work. She had seen too many in the hotel and catering trade end up full-blown alcoholics. Once in a while, though, couldn’t harm. And she knew the Chilean Merlot was good.

      She gave one of the filled glasses to Ben and raised hers. ‘What shall we drink to?’

      ‘“The Last Hurrah”, surely!’ He drank, then said, ‘Just what did he mean by that?’

      ‘I have no idea.’

      ‘Come on, you must have some clue.’

      Was he trying to get her drunk so she’d let her tongue run away with her?

      ‘After all, it couldn’t be a big surprise if he wanted to sell this place, surely?’ Ben gave an expansive gesture that took in the shabby nature of their surroundings. ‘And you, your title might be bar manager, but you seem to be in charge of everything. You must know exactly how things stand with the Admiral Byng, financially speaking.’

      Amy drank some more of her wine and considered the TV presenter over the edge of her glass. What sort of person was he, really? Pushy, cynical, and quite, quite ruthless. And could be unutterably charming. When he wanted.

      One of the few maxims Amy followed in her life was to beware of charming men. In her experience they brought nothing but trouble.

       CHAPTER THREE

      By the time Amy had finally managed to persuade Ben to quit the bar, and convinced him she was not going to accompany him up to his bedroom, it was well past midnight.

      She took another look at the dirty kitchen and hoped that Meriel would be in early. There was no way she herself was going to deal with it at that hour. Then she shrugged her way into her Barbour and fished a pair of woollen gloves out of the pocket. Roll on spring, she thought.

      She checked that the key to Ianthe Berkeley’s room wasn’t hanging on its hook behind the reception desk. The fact it wasn’t there was no guarantee, of course, that the woman was in her room. Or even in the pub. But the room keys opened the side door, a fact that was always explained to guests on arrival, so Amy locked both that and the front door, then let herself out of the back.

      In the act of using her key to secure that door as well, she stood for a moment fighting an unexpected urge to return and go upstairs to Ben’s room.

      He’d put his empty glass down on the bar, and, just as she was preparing to tell him that had definitely been his last one, he’d run a finger along her right eyebrow. ‘I love the way you raise this whenever you think I’ve gone too far,’ he said. ‘And your nose is enchanting.’ He’d leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on its tip.

      Amy had felt something melt within her. If he’d been silent then, she would probably have been in his bed before you could say ‘reality show’. Instead, ‘Up the stairs with you,’ he had said, and had given her behind a quick smack.

      So that had been that. It was the nearest thing she’d experienced to: ‘Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’. Hadn’t the man a smidgen of romance in his soul?

      She had pulled down the grille that secured the bar and its contents, snapping the padlock shut. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

      ‘Amy!’ He had reached for her, but she wasn’t going to let him get that near to her again.

      ‘Mind the stairs, they’re tricky for anyone under the influence,’ she called on her way out to her coat. She had not looked back.

      For a few moments there had been deep satisfaction at the strangled cry of frustration that had reached her as she left.

      Now, though, she remembered that moment of tenderness and felt something approaching regret.

      The air was chilly outside after the warmth of the bar. Amy drew the ancient but serviceable Barbour around herself as she set off along the shore to her little cottage. The moon was full, flooding the beach with silver light.

      Phrases from the captivating duet from The Pearl Fishers sang in her mind as she crunched her way over the pebbly beach. Was true romance confined to fiction? She had thought her decision never to fall in love again was as sensible as her shoes. Love, true love, had done for her. Amy shivered. The door she had shut on that relationship, one that had brought such delight and such despair, must remain closed. Closed, barred, locked, secured.

      How could she have let a pair of brown eyes switch on a set of electric currents, making her tingle in ways that brought back so many memories? It wasn’t as if she even liked the man! Or could respect him!

      Amy forced herself to put any thought of Ben out of her mind. Instead she considered the unusual behaviour of her boss, the Admiral. Buying drinks for everyone like that, telling them all it was a ‘Last Hurrah’; what had the man been thinking of?

      And what did that constant procession of people up to the Bridge mean? One by one they had climbed the stairs, and one by one they had returned. There had been the occasional order for a pint or some other tipple. None of them had seemed talkative; some had left in a hurried, almost furtive way. What had been their business with the Admiral?

      Once again Amy wondered what it was he wanted to talk to her about. It must be something to do with the pub. She almost managed to convince herself that he had decided it must be sold. Yet he had seemed so uncharacte‌ristically cheerful. And there had been that look he’d given her; surely, though, she was reading too much into it? Thinking that it said something had made him change his mind about her?

      Ever since she had started work at the Admiral Byng, its landlord had been a constant support. She’d arrived in Crabwell on a wickedly rainy winter’s night, her woollen coat soaked right through. She had sat in it on the long bus ride, shivering, not knowing where she was going. All she knew was that she was leaving the past behind her. The bus had dropped her in front of a bank. Both that and the shops arranged around a small attempt at a village square were closed tight. Since it was nearly eight o’clock in the evening, that was hardly surprising. ‘Crabwell, end of the line,’ the driver had said. She had picked up her suitcase, and asked, ‘Is there a hotel?’

      ‘There’s the Admiral Byng,’ the only other passenger left had said as he got off. ‘It has rooms,’ he had added doubtfully. Then he had cheered up slightly. ‘The landlord’s a bit eccentric, but a good sort.’ He had pointed at the road ahead. ‘Five minutes’ walk that way.’

      Amy had thanked him. She had looked around the square again, but it offered nothing useful, so she had set off in the direction indicated. One of the little wheels on her case had come to grief over a large stone as she tramped down the dark road, trees on either side. She had cursed. The case had