Free Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) by Marita A. Hansen

another.
    “This way,” Beverly said.
    She guided me to the far corner, where a medley
of people were either sitting or standing around a cluster of tables. I
recognised a number of them from the staffroom, mostly teachers with a couple
of admin personnel thrown into the mix. Beverly pulled me over to a woman, who
looked either in her late sixties or early seventies. She had a thick layer of
makeup caked onto her face, her red lipstick bleeding into the cracks around
her mouth. It made me want to check my lipstick, the look definitely not
attractive.
    “Where’s Harry?” the woman asked, focusing
on Paul. He was hovering behind me, his close proximity starting to put me on
edge, the man not understanding personal space.
    “Sorry, Marcia, he’s not coming,” Paul
replied, talking about the other half of Britain. “His ma’s unwell.”
    Grimacing, the woman pushed up and left
without saying goodbye.
    “What was that about?” I asked, glancing
at Beverly.
    Paul answered instead, “She’s a cranky auld
cow, who only comes because she wants me friend to clean oot her cobwebbed
knickers.”
    “Paul!” Beverly gasped. “Don’t say that.”
    “Well, it’s true. And she’s dreaming if
she thinks Harry will ever be interested in her. He only talks to her because
he’s too much of a pussy to tell her to piss off.”
    Beverly shook her head. “More like it’s
because he’s a gentleman, unlike someone else I know.”
    Paul looked around. “Who?” he said,
sounding amused.
    “You know who, you horrid man.”
    He laughed. “Just being honest.” His gaze
moved to me. “What can I get ye, sweet Clara? A wine, a beer?” he asked, his green-eyed
stare almost intrusive.
    “You don’t offer me any free drinks,” Beverly
harrumphed. “And kindly keep your adjectives to yourself. It sounds creepy when
you add them.”
    He smirked. “Ye only say that when it’s
not you I’m complimenting, and I was just being a gentleman like
Harry.”
    “No, you were being sleazy.”
    He cocked an eyebrow. “For offering Clara
a drink?”
    She crossed her arms over her ample chest.
“You know what I mean by that.”
    He mirrored her. “No I don’t, please enlighten
me.”
    She glanced at me, seemingly embarrassed.
“You’re hitting on her.”
    “No, I’m being friendly, so don’t get yer
granny knickers in a twist.”
    She smacked his arm. “I don’t wear granny
knickers.”
    “Aye, ye do. Remember that time ye arsed
over?” He glanced at me with a smirk. “She had her legs up in the air for all the
world to see.”
    “Stop being an arsehole, Paul,” she
growled out, looking immensely embarrassed.
    He rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, ye women
cannae take a wee joke.”
    “Because it wasn’t funny.”
    “It was to me.”
    “Just go away if you’re not going to be
nice.”
    “Fine.” He turned and headed for a table
full of men.
    Beverly shook her head, her annoyed gaze
following him. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss him or hit him,” she
said, through gritted teeth.
    “Are you two an item?”
    “I wish.”
    I focused on the table Paul was now
sitting at. A couple of the men glanced our way, whispering between themselves,
making me wonder whether Paul had said something to them.
    Grimacing at the men, Beverly grabbed my
arm and pulled me over to the bar. She let go and climbed onto a barstool. “Don’t
broadcast it to everyone,” she said.
    “Broadcast what?”
    “That I fancy him.” She nervously smoothed
out her yellow skirt, the flutter of her fingers stopping on the hemline,
yanking it over her knees. “But I’m not a blonde bimbo or Harry, so I don’t
have a chance.” Her face dropped a second later. “I wasn’t referring to you as being
a bimbo; you’re definitely not one. He just has a thing for blondes.”
    “Why did you mention Harry, then?” I
asked, not taking offence.
    A smile pulled at her lips, wiping away
the worry from her face. “Just a fantasy I like to have of