Free Fast Friends by Jill Mansell Page B

his involvement with
Loulou was forged almost instantly, but he gamely managed to hold out for
almost two whole days before being inveigled into her narrow bed in the tiny
room above the pub.
    It had been hopeless, pretending to himself that it wouldn’t
happen. Loulou was so adoringly besotted with him, and so determined that he
should in turn be besotted with her, that he simply
had no choice in the matter. When she had called downstairs as he was preparing to leave after the lunchtime opening, asking him to please come up and kill a
monstrous spider which was taking up
most of the bath, he had semi- suspected that her intentions weren’t
entirely honourable.
    When she opened the door, wearing only high heels and an
utterly bewitching smile, he knew for certain. Only later did he learn that Loulou had never possessed an
honourable intention in her life.
    At first, however, the relationship
worked perfectly. Mac’s heart wasn’t
in his job, it was merely a means of saving money. He was a photographer, and
one day he intended to be a known photographer, right up there along
with Lichfield and Bailey. Every penny he
earnt went towards either a better camera, a newer lens, or more film.
Being a bar manager was only work, whereas photography was life itself.
    Loulou, on the other hand, after a series of mistakes so
awful they rapidly turned into mini-legends,
took to her new-found career like a hippo to mud. The dour,
working-class Glaswegian men who frequented
the pub in order to escape their shrill, endlessly complaining wives gave the new barmaid a particu larly hard time at first. She wasna even a Scot, for
heaven’s sake. But they found themselves reluctantly enchanted by her merciless barrage of repartee, her ability to
out-swear even dirty Murdo McLean, and the way she habitually
undercharged them for their drinks. Before long, the sons of these
uncompromising, not easily impressed, men got to hear about the bonnie wee lassie from down South who had tipped the
contents of an ice bucket down Jimmy McKendrick’s trousers in order to
cool off his ‘nasty wee willy, the very, very smallest one I’ve ever had the misfortune to see.’
    Full of admiration for the slip of a girl who had publicly
humiliated Glasgow’s most persistent flasher and had finally persuaded him to keep his parts private, the sons
took to popping in for a quick drink
with their fathers, then staying on to feast their eyes and ears upon
Loulou Marks. She was unique in their experience,
and so obviously enjoyed herself that her passion for life became infectious. The Ramsay Arms,
previously a grimy, old men’s pub of few words and no laughter, was
totally rejuvenated within the space of two months, with Loulou buying the
teller of the best joke each night an enormous drink, leading the singing which became a new nightly ritual, and
organizing a never to be forgotten drag evening when even the most
determinedly dour old Scotsman turned up in an ill-fitting dress and high
heels.
    ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have
believed that this was possible,’ said Mac, finishing his third roll of film.
Loulou was planning a rogues’ gallery of incrimina ting photographs above the bar. ‘I never even knew that old Joey
Blair could laugh.’
    ‘ ‘I’ve just managed to
bring the old devils out of themselves a
little,’ Loulou said modestly, trailing her fingers along the smooth curve of his hip in a deliberately
provocative manner. She was so in love with this man, he really could
have no idea. He was the only reason she had worked so hard to make
the pub into a success. Happy punters
were more likely to say ‘and have one for yourself,’ and every time they
said it the jar beside the till gained
another 80p. In two months the happy punters, unbeknown to themselves,
had bought Mac a superb Nikon.
    ‘ You’re a miracle,’ he said now, reloading the
camera and dropping a kiss on the very tip
of Loulou’s perfect nose.