The Sinking Admiral. Simon Brett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ could have told him? Nobody here knew. And all that was in the past, left behind when she moved here. And she would do anything to make sure that was where it would remain.

      But there had been something in the Admiral’s eyes as he looked at her. A subtle redrawing of their relationship.

      There was a bustle at the door that led up to the bedrooms, and in came a whirl of woman in a mock leopard-skin coat, dirty blonde hair all over the place, and thigh-length leather boots. Amy recognised her immediately and remembered her melodramatic arrival earlier that evening.

      ‘I rang yesterday and booked a room,’ she had barked out in supremely confident tones. ‘Ianthe Berkeley.’

      Who could forget that name?

      ‘Of course,’ Amy had said smoothly. ‘I think we’ve had the pleasure of your company before, Miss Berkeley, or is it Mrs?’ She looked innocently into the woman’s bleary eyes and forced herself not to recoil from the unsettling, easily recognisable odour that clashed with Dior’s Poison. Amy remembered vividly the previous occasion. Claimed to be newly married, though there was nothing uxorious about either of the couple. Spent the time fighting with each other, and with the pub. Complaints about a damp bed, a mattress that should be condemned to the tip, noises in the night, and who knew what else. Nothing was right for them, though as they both spent most of the time drinking, with him watching football on the TV, and her flirting with any half-decent looking man who crossed the threshold, Amy hadn’t taken their complaints too seriously.

      She did, however, on their second meeting recognise a difficult customer when she saw one, and waited behind the bar for the obnoxious woman’s drink order. That turned out to be a pint of the local cider, but of course it wasn’t just alcohol she wanted. She also demanded food. She was a resident, she said, and she had been assured that she’d be able to get something to eat whatever time she arrived.

      Amy didn’t know who had made these assertions – she certainly hadn’t – but the woman was getting embarrassingly loud. Once again the bar manager mentally cursed Meriel for stopping the food service early. But, taking the line of least resistance, she sent Ted into the kitchen to knock up an omelette to appease Ms Berkeley’s demands.

      Glowing from her small triumph over the catering system, Ianthe had then caught sight of the TV presenter. ‘Ben, darling!’ she cried, and flung herself – there was no other way to describe it – at him; arms an octopus would have envied snaking around his neck, her sagging body pressed against his admirably taut figure. Amy had trouble stopping herself from smiling at his horrified reaction. For a moment Amy wondered what had brought the woman down to the Admiral Byng. Some connection with Ben Milne…? Or maybe with Fitz…? Yet another secret in his past…?

      ‘Have we met?’ Ben managed to get out, extricating himself from the octopus embrace.

      ‘Darling, it’s Ianthe! You remember our days at uni?’

      Amy had difficulty in imagining this woman was anywhere near Ben Milne in age. Perhaps she had been a mature student? Calls for more drinks from other customers claimed her attention elsewhere.

      Finally Amy was able to sing out ‘Last orders’. She looked towards where she had last seen the Admiral, hoping he wasn’t going to ask for another round for everyone, but he seemed to have disappeared. No doubt he was back on his Bridge upstairs. He must be tired. All those chats with people during the day, and then the conviviality he had enjoyed in the bar. At least, she thought, pulling a couple of final pints of bitter, he had had something of a triumph this evening. Fancy bringing out that old Treasure Island story again!

      The closing time message seemed to have been received; only a few hard drinkers were left, and they all had charged glasses. She wiped down the bar with well-practised efficiency, and picked up a tray.

      ‘How about we film you clearing up?’ Ben appeared at her side. ‘After all, it’s a vital part of pub life.’

      Amy could just imagine what the editing room would make of the shots of her clearing tables, her hair lank with sweat, her top sticking to her body, the ribald remarks that would follow her progress around the room. ‘I’ll get Meriel, and you can film her,’ she said. Meriel should have cleaned her kitchen by now, and their usual practice was for the cook to help clear the bar. And, boy, would she enjoy being filmed!

      Only Meriel wasn’t in the kitchen, nor were any of the long streaks of pimply-faced teenagers who helped her at the busiest times and were supposed to clean the cooking utensils and keep the washing-up machine charged.

      ‘We’ll settle for you,’ Ben said, looking at the fat-stained stove, encrusted stainless-steel bowls for prepped ingredients, and the sink piled with dirty saucepans.

      Amy forced him back to the bar. ‘You’ve got quite enough material to feed your nasty sub-text. Now tell your cameraman to get back to his B & B. I’m sure his union won’t allow him to film any more today.’ But when she looked around for Stan there was no sign of him; he seemed to have given up for the evening.

      ‘“Nasty sub-text”, what are you talking about, Miss Walpole?’ said Ben, seemingly untroubled by his colleague’s departure. ‘All we are doing is shining a light on the problems that pub-owners face in these troubled times.’

      ‘Don’t give me that injured puppy-dog look.’ Amy announced loudly that the bar was closing, that it was time customers left, and started to load more dirty glasses on her tray. ‘I know exactly what you are up to, and it’s disgraceful.’

      ‘Disgraceful? What talk is that? We’re shooting actuality here, making a documentary. There’s nothing disgraceful about our activities.’ She seemed to have shaken him out of his usual complacency.

      ‘The way your programme makers lull your victims into thinking they will get a fair hearing in front of the nation! Instead they are made to look like fools. Your programme won’t save the Admiral Byng. By the time you’ve finished with us, it’s more likely to close our doors for good.’ This last was hissed in an undertone; Amy had no intention of spreading the word before the TV programme did it for her.

      She wouldn’t have been surprised if Ben had turned his back on her and gone up to his room. Instead he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans (they had ‘Gucci’ stamped all over them), leaned back against the bar, and fixed her with an injured look.

      ‘The camera cannot lie.’

      ‘Don’t try and get sanctimonious with me.’ Amy was now so angry she could hardly speak. But she seemed to have punctured his smug carapace, and something approaching a human being who had genuine emotions was emerging. ‘You know perfectly well that the camera lies and lies and lies. You seem to think it’s the duty of TV to pander to all the worst impulses of your audience. That they need to feed on the weaknesses of their fellow men and women to feel comfortable with themselves.’

      ‘You seem to have a higher opinion of your “fellow men and women”…’ he repeated her words with a sarcastic twist, ‘… than I do. But perhaps you lack my experience of the common man.’ His eyes narrowed, his self-importance was back. ‘Though how you can keep pulling pints for the sort of customer you get in here without wanting to hit them over the head for the petty-mindedness, bigotry, and basic ignorance they display every time they open their mouths, I find it hard to understand. I seem to have been giving you credit for more intelligence than you obviously have.’

      ‘I’ll hit you over the head if you aren’t careful.’ Amy picked up an empty tray and shoved it at him. ‘Now pick up the СКАЧАТЬ