“Owen?” Harriet said dubiously, and Ava raised her eyebrows.
“What? Owen Jones is a looker, even if he’s not your type, and he’s lovely, as well.” Ava turned back to Emily. “Don’t you think he’s handsome, admittedly in a rough-and-ready sort of way?”
“Er…” Emily felt herself blush, and of course everyone noticed.
“Look at her!”
“Ooh, you do like him, don’t you, Emily? He can be quite lovely…”
“Owen Jones,” Harriet repeated in the same dubious tone as before.
“I think you’re the one who fancies him, Harriet,” Ellie teased.
“Well, Emily certainly does,” Ava said with a kindly smile. “I used to work here a lifetime ago. I’ll put a word in.”
“Oh, don’t, don’t,” Emily said in an impassioned voice, before she could help herself or think better of it. “Please don’t,” she added, as if she needed more emphasis. Everyone was staring in a horrible mixture of pity and shock.
“Of course I won’t,” Ava said after a moment, her tone horribly gentle. “I was just teasing.”
They’d all been just teasing, of course they had, and Emily hadn’t been able to take it. She should have laughed and played along, and instead she felt near tears. She was so stupid.
Emily blinked rapidly, trying to recover her composure. Foolishly, she found herself looking at Owen again; he was leaning on the bar, elbows firmly planted, a kindly smile curving his mouth as he chatted to an old geezer in a flat cap and waxed jacket.
“We really are just teasing,” Harriet assured her in a kindlier tone. “But Ava’s right. Owen is lovely. Salt of the earth, although if I’m honest…” She frowned as her speculative gaze scanned Emily from top to toe. “I don’t know if he’s your type.”
“Whose type is he, then?” someone else returned with a laugh, and Harriet shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just think he might be a bit rough around the edges for our Emily. She’s quite the fashion plate.” This was said in a friendly tone, but Emily wasn’t sure how to take it, or the our Emily.
Somehow she’d been subsumed into this tribe, and she had no idea how it had happened. She certainly hadn’t put forth any effort, and in any case she wasn’t sure she wanted to be included in this group of raucous, well-meaning women. They were far too overwhelming and invasive, and the evening had barely started. Already she had a headache, and she’d embarrassed herself, and the champagne she drunk was swirling sourly in her stomach.
“I think I’ll just nip to the loo,” she said, managing a smile directed at everyone and no one in particular, and she slipped off her stool and hurried to the back of the bar.
She didn’t actually need to go to the loo, but the moment of quiet in the tiny cupboard of a toilet was a blessed relief. Emily ran cool water over her wrists and then pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She was blushing. How soon could she go home? Why did she feel as if she could cry?
Everything about this evening—everything—had been outside of her comfort zone of routine and solitude. The women’s loud chatter, their knowing looks, their ease and familiarity…and Olivia hadn’t even put her glass of wine on the beer mat! Emily had watched a ring of condensation form on the table and struggled not to lean over and put the glass where it belonged.
And then of course there was Owen Jones, sending her an entire bottle of champagne, and everyone wondering what it meant, and just the sheer presence of him, even from across the bar, and the way her gaze kept straying to him even when she didn’t want it to.
She was so, so out of her depth, in so many ways.
Taking a deep breath, Emily gazed at her reflection in the tiny square of mirror, grimacing at the glazed look of panic in her eyes. It was already nearing nine o’clock. Surely she’d put in her time and could make her excuses now?
Deciding on exactly that plan, Emily headed back out to the pub. As she shouldered her way through the crowded room, trying not to actually touch anybody, she saw that her newfound friends all had their heads together. As she approached the group, she heard Harriet’s carrying voice.
“Well, she is a bit standoffish, isn’t she? I suppose it’s coming from London.”
“Oh, Harriet, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder about snobs, since you used to be one yourself.”
“I didn’t actually say she was a snob.”
“You implied it—”
“She does dress well, doesn’t she?”
“I think she’s just shy…”
“Shy! With that look of hers that could freeze boiling water?”
“Let’s give her a chance—”
“I am giving her a chance. I just think she’s a bit of a cold fish, that’s all.”
Emily couldn’t bear to hear any more. She whirled around, plunging through the crowd she’d just manoeuvred through, heedless this time of whom she jostled or bumped.
The door to the toilet wouldn’t open, and she jiggled the handle uselessly for a fraught second until a gruff voice called out, “Oi! It’s occupied, all right?”
“Oh…” Emily took a step backward, horrified at herself, feeling like some desperate creature in flight, without thought or care. She glanced back and saw that the women at the table were looking around for her; had someone realised she’d overheard them? The thought of a painfully awkward apology of a conversation made her feel even more desperate, and so when she saw a narrow corridor leading towards the back, she raced down it without a thought.
It led to a small, dank square of courtyard where the wheelie bins were kept, hardly the escape she was looking for, but at least it was a place to hide. At some point she’d need to go back into the pub, but she couldn’t think about that just yet.
She couldn’t think about any of it—all the things they’d said, the way they’d picked apart her personality, or seeming lack of it. Tears stung her
