ignored the others with empty glasses in their hands and said, “Pay no attention to her; she's just takin' the piss.”
“The what?”
“You know, havin' you on a bit. What'll it be, me 'an'sum?”
“A pint of Doom, please.”
“On me, Flora,” the woman on the stool said, and the barmaid lifted an eyebrow as she pulled down the long-handled vacuum pump to draw the fresh ale up from the cellar casks.
“Best order two,” Flora said to Andrew with a wink. “You're on a roll here.”
“One will do, I think.”
“How's that sheep, then?” the woman in the cutoffs teased, bouncing her crossed leg rhythmically. Andrew watched the pink flip-flop dance.
“No idea.” He took a long slug of his pint. He loved British ales: amber, creamy, almost no fizz. “Thanks for the drink.”
“I was a little worried, frankly, about whether you'd get yourself up from that ledge.”
“But not worried enough to stick around to help.”
“Oh, no. I know too well how fragile is the male ego.” She tilted her head to one side and gave him a crooked, amused smile.
“So this,” he said, lifting his glass, “is guilt?”
“I don't think so; I believe you ordered Doom Bar. Good choice, by the way.”
Suddenly, Andrew remembered the sermon. “I could have fallen,” he said.
“That would have been Darwin at work again. But you didn't, did you?”
“Actually, I did. Fell nearly a hundred feet toward the knife-edged rocks and boiling surf, but arrested the fall by grabbing the branch of a bushy shrub growing from the cliff face. Unfortunately, it was gorse, so my hand was impaled by the thorns. Still, it held long enough for me to find a route back to the top, no thanks to you.”
He was about to reach for his pint again, but she grabbed his hand, flipped it over to see his palm, which was unscarred, wiped her own palm over his, then let it go.
“Liar.”
Andrew was trying to recover from the galvanic jolt of her touch. He'd never experienced anything like it in his life; his blood sizzled.
“I used the other hand,” he said.
“Liar twice,” she said. “You're right-handed; that's the hand you use to lift your glass.”
“How's your dog?” Andrew asked, trying to buy time, trying to recover.
“Randi!” the woman shouted—which seemed to Andrew a somewhat unseemly answer to an innocent question. But then a big, furry dog that looked for all the world like a wolf appeared from the crowd, trailing several small children, including Lee.
“So there you are!” Lee called out amid the din of voices in the pub, as if Andrew were a wayward puppy wandering, lost, amid the forest of legs and ankles.
“Guess what, Drew? This is Randi, and he's the bestest dog in the world.” The dog sat on his haunches beside the woman on the stool and regarded her with helpless adoration, tongue lolling.
“And Nicki!” Lee cried, noticing the woman on the stool. “Drew! Drew!” She was hopping with delight. “This is my best friend, Nicki!”
Andrew looked at the woman across from him, then back to Lee.
“Wait … I thought Nicki was one of your girlfriends.”
“She is, silly!”
“No, I mean a girl like you … not a … a grown-up!”
“Not an old crone, you mean,” the woman said, with something less than her former feistiness. Andrew glanced at her and wondered how old she actually was. Midthirties; forty, tops. Pretty young as crones go. Pretty, period. Something lush, slightly exotic about her. He was still buzzing inside from her touch.
Lee bailed him out.
“Nicki's not like other grown-ups. She's like me. A ‘free spirit.’ That's what Mum says, anyway.”
Nicola slid off her stool and swept the girl into a bear hug, thinking just how wrong Lee was, but loving her for believing it. Lee giggled, squirmed away, and disappeared into the crowd, her introductions apparently now completed.
The woman stood facing Andrew, squinting, thoughtful.
“So you're Drew … I should have guessed.”
Andrew smiled. “Why? Is my fame so widespread?”
“It is when Lee's your publicity agent, and yes, thank you, I'd love another drink.”
Andrew laughed and signaled Flora.
“My treat this time,” he said to the barmaid when she arrived.
Flora fairly leered at him. “Aren't we becomin' chummy! Same again, Nicki?”
“Sure, but as long as he's buying, make it a double.”
“So what do you do when you're not cadging free drinks at the Cobweb?” Andrew asked.
“Oh, that's so American: What do you do? As if that defined you! You're in Europe, my friend. Here we inquire about your family, about life, about truth, about beauty …”