Free This Charming Man by Marian Keyes Page B

items for sale, to wit: cans of marrowfat peas, boxes of matches, packets of instant custard. Like when playing shop when small. (All same, might be handy to know. Some night, might be halfway through glass of red wine and get sudden unbearable craving for custard, which needed immediate gratification.) (Sarcastic.)
    The old woman was Mrs Butterly herself. Nice to be in proprietor-run establishment. Ex treme ly chatty. Said the bar was her parlour and she only opened it when she felt like company and closed it again when she didn’t.
    Though my hopes weren’t high, I asked, ‘Do you do food?’
    She pointed at strange collection behind bar.
    ‘I meant… something… could eat now.’
    Had horrible fear she would offer to heat up can of marrowfat peas. Even look of marrowfat peas makes me want to take my own life.
    ‘Could make you little sandwich. Will see what’s in fridge.’
    She disappeared into other room, presume it was kitchen. Returned with processed ham piece between two slices of woolly white bread. In strange, retro way, quite satisfying. When I finished, she made us both a cup of tea and produced a packet of Hobnobs.
    I tried purchase a glass of red wine but she said, ‘Don’t carry wine. How about Tia Maria? Or what’s this here? Cointreau?’
    Closest thing to a normal drink was Southern Comfort. No ice available so had it with a dash of the flattest Sprite have ever had. From a 2-litre bottle that had been on shelf for oh, about sixty years. Not a bubble left in entire bottle.
    Cajoled Mrs Butterly to join me in a drink. Invitation accepted.
    Revised original impression. Mrs Butterly had woven web of charm around me. Liked it. Liked it all. Best bit of entire bar was neon green poster, saying, ‘No Stag Parties!’
    Stag party wouldn’t fit ! They would have to be refused in instalments. Would have to send delegation of two or three in to be barred, then leave and let next tranche in to be turned down.
    When I was leaving, Mrs Butterly refused to take money for the food. She said, ‘Only couple of Hobnobs, for the love of God.’
    ‘But Mrs Butterly, the sandwich…’
    ‘Only couple of slices of bread, for the love of God.’
    Kindly. Very kindly.
    But no way to run a business.
21.59
    DVD shop
Wanted to ask about Kelly and the bread knife, but shop thronged. Many people visiting. Tourists for weekend, their baskets filled with frozen pizzas and six-packs of lager. I resented their presence, as if I live here.
    Brandon distracted but recommended Goodfellas .
0.57
    Enjoyed Goodfellas, not saying I didn’t. Don’t mean to be picky. Much violence, but no actual revenge as such.
1.01
    Realization. Why I felt so comforted in Mrs Butterly’s. It was the flat Sprite. Flat Sprite is a convalescent’s drink. Mum used to give it to me when I was sick. She used to heat it up to cleanse it of all bubbles, so it wouldn’t hurt my sore throat. Flat Sprite makes me feel loved. As no one is handy to administer it to me, will do it myself.
Saturday, 6 September 8.01
    Woken by slam of next-door-neighbour’s front door. I hopped from bed, into other bedroom to look out front window, hoping to see Wedding Dress girl in her civvies. But no girl, just her boyfriend -fiancé, I suppose – alone. Studied him. Interested to see what kind of man had bagged the Vera Wanged beauty. At quick glance, not exactly kempt. He would need haircut before wedding. Out-doorsy-loving-style clothing: jeans and big, thick navy fleece suitable for North Pole. Footwear, however, cause for interest: trainers in anthracite colour – in fashionista circles anthracite known as ‘Black for risk-takers’. He got into car – couldn’t be sure what kind it was -banged door shut, drove away.
    I returned to bed.
13.10
    Town busy. Day-trippers. Blue skies, sunshine, heat, weather very nice for September, apart from never-ceasing, hair-destroying wind.
    My attention caught by woman on beach, walking alone. Had half-noticed her over