more numbers. He pressed his lips together, the weight of the pub’s future leaning heavily on his shoulders. I need more time. Wiping his brow, he clocked a half-peeled West Ham football club sticker on the side of the broker’s hard hat. Tarquin’s wide eyes went unnoticed—the property guy/Hammers supporter was scratching something illegible in pencil across his papers. It’s worth a shot. If there ever was a bloke into footy and pints, surely he’s it!
The knot in Tarquin’s throat loosened along with his tight smile. “I’d love to restore this place, bring back football for the punters. Big screens, cheap pints, pies and sausages—none of that posh nosh or tasteless fast food other places serve up. Just proper British pub grub, you know?”
“Yep. You’ve got twenty minutes.” The West Ham fan kept writing, ignoring Tarquin’s idealism.
Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Tarquin frowned. Go full-on footy. “So, Hammers, eh? Me, too! Been to a match this season?”
“Not yet. I promised my grandkid, but…” He shrugged and flipped a page on his clipboard.
“Aw, that’s a shame. Your grandson would love it.”
“Granddaughter!” The broker snarled and tore away from his notes, his headlamp’s glare blazing across Tarquin’s face.
Jesus! He flinched, his eyelids scrunching shut. How was I to know? Tarquin cautiously blinked his sore eyes open and slipped into an earnest smile. Gimme a break, mate. I’m trying here. “Oh. Well, that’s great you have footy in common…it’s an important bond, that.”
Returning to his clipboard, the broker’s nostrils flared as he scrawled a jumble of messy letters across his papers.
Okay, last chance. Hit ’em in the feels. Tarquin scratched his temple. “You know, my mum’s dad was a huge football fan. He took me to my first match—the Hammers at Upton Park! I was five, maybe six, and completely gobsmacked by the match day buzz. He got me a program, a bag of chips drenched in vinegar, then he let me sing along to all the dirty footy chants. It was heaven.” The memory made Tarquin genuinely chuckle.
The broker sucked his teeth and frowned at his watch as if Tarquin wasn’t there.
“Grandpa was a builder, worked in the Docklands. He was always grafting, so I loved every chance to be with him, you know? Sitting in the stands watching West Ham, just me and him—it was everything.” Tarquin dipped his head, seeking a reaction beneath the brim of the other hard hat. Nothing? Come on, guy! Feel something. “I wanted to be just like him. That’s why I build things. Looking back, I thank my lucky stars he took me to that match. We lost him a year later.” If that doesn’t warm his cold, dead heart…
His story earned a flicker of stony side-eye.
That’s all I get? Tarquin straightened up and choked back a sneeze, his eyes scratchy from dust and ash overload. Gramps, please forgive me for what I’m about to say. His attention circled back to the broker, digging through the pages curled over the top of his clipboard. “Actually, you remind me of him.” The words had barely left Tarquin’s lips when he choked into a cough. I know! It’s an ugly lie, but I need to buy more time!
The cyclops tilted his head toward Tarquin once more.
Is that a smile? Tarquin grinned. “Making memories with your granddaughter…you can’t put a price on that.” He woke up his phone. “Look, I know some people. How ’bout I call them up, get you some great tickets—”
“Oh, mate!” The widening smile rippled through the broker’s graying stubble as he slapped his clipboard on the bar. A nasty cloud of ash and plaster swirled into the musty air. “You honestly think I’d fall for that gobshite? I wasn’t born yesterday.” He sneered at his watch.
Tarquin’s face fell. “It’s not gobshite—”
“Now you’ve got fifteen minutes.”
The Star Wars theme wailed from Tarquin’s palm. Fuck. When it rains… He glanced down, catching a full-screen image of himself with a little photo bubble in the top corner. Simon, FaceTiming. He threw a glare in the broker’s direction. “I’ve gotta take this—I’ll be back in five.”
Tarquin whipped off his hard hat and rushed outside, the unrelenting mid-January sunshine stabbing his sore eyes into a squint. Along the curb, a double-decker bus rumbled to a stop, so he hit accept and cranked the volume, but the sun’s cheery glow obliterated much of Simon and the shoulder of the person sat beside him. Who’s he with? “Hey, Si!” he shouted over the traffic. “How’s