Cock & Bull - Laura Barnard Page 0,30

me back into the pub. He reaches across and pulls the lock on the door again. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, his brows snapped together.

It’s only now I realise I’m shaking. It’s pathetic how one aggressive man can turn me into a quivering wreck. Then, I suppose I was brought up around peace loving hippies. The only aggression I ever saw was aimed at the animal testers or the government. Whoever we were trying to protest against, not each other.

‘Come here.’ He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into his chest, squeezing his arms tight around me. I give myself a moment to revel in his warmth and scent. I can make out chamomile and orange today, but I have a feeling I’d have to sniff him from head to toe to work out his full signature scent. It’s everything I need and everything I shouldn’t want.

I push him away gently, reminding myself that he’s the one that caused this bloody situation by his prank last night. But then I suppose he was only trying to help us, bring in some more business. Still, I need to ask him what he did to get such scathing verbal abuse from his own father.

‘What was he talking about?’ I ask carefully, pulling away slightly to look up at him.

He avoids my eye-line, his arms dropping to his side. ‘What do you mean?’

I steel my shoulders. ‘You know exactly what I mean. What did you do to him?’

He sighs and starts to walk away. I follow. I hate when people try and be dismissive. I stop him and raise my eyebrows in question.

He sighs, his shoulders deflating. ‘I didn’t do anything to him. I hurt myself far more than I hurt him.’ He turns to walk away.

What the hell does that mean? Hurt himself?

As if knowing I’m not going to drop it, he turns back to me, his eyes clearly tortured by something.

‘Look, Phoebe, I really don’t want to talk about it, and I’d appreciate some privacy in this place.’

I sigh, realising quickly I’m not going to get anywhere. Not until he trusts me more. Something tells me that the Clooney everyone sees and fawns over isn’t the real Clooney at all. He has demons beyond that chirpy persona and for some reason I want to gain his trust. I want to find out what those demons are and attempt to heal him. An unrealistic hope, probably. Which means I’m in big trouble. I just hope that I don’t hurt myself while I attempt to find out.

Chapter Sixteen

Tuesday 6th October

We started the morning being served with court papers. Apparently the lady that fell from the broken chair is taking us to small claims court for compensation. Wants five thousand euros. Good luck, love. You can’t get blood from a stone and all that.

Even with Sky TV, we’re not going to survive carrying on like this. With our small lunch time trade now ruined thanks to those bad prawns, and another visit from environmental health, insisting we must keep Suki strictly in the accommodation, it’s beyond dire.

If it wasn’t for all of the money I’d invested, I’d be long gone. My life bloody savings have gone into this place. I can’t just close up and write it off. I have to know I’ve done everything in my power to make it work before walking away.

So I’ve decided that I’m going to get a day job. I can surely earn more money with a full-time job than I can standing around here hoping people come in. Plus, it’ll be easier to avoid Clooney, who makes me feel things I shouldn’t. Added bonus.

I’ve gone to the local library and printed off my updated CV and trawled the high street. I’ve gone into the temp agency and asked in every shop, but apparently no-ones hiring. The only place left to check is the one place I really don’t want to work. The funeral directors.

I push open the door, the bell above the door jingling. A bit too cheery for a place that discusses death, but whatever. The smell of moth balls hits me. I wonder if that’s because death smells like moth balls? Must google before I get home.

I walk to the man behind the desk in a black suit. I smile brightly, attempting to appear friendly.

‘Hi, my name’s Phoebe Bellerose. I’m just dropping in my CV in case you have any work going.’

Recognition dawns on his face. ‘Ah, you’re the English girl, Breda’s great niece, right?’

Jesus,