The Sinking Admiral. Simon Brett

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      ‘Just as well Stan has gone,’ he said ruefully. ‘He’d give a day’s wages – and they’re no mean sum – to capture me doing this.’

      ‘You know,’ said Amy, clearing tables behind him, ‘that’s what your programme needs, a touch of realism.’

      Ben worked in silence for a couple of minutes. Then, ‘What’s he really like, your boss? He doesn’t seem your usual sort of landlord.’

      ‘And what does that mean? How much experience of pub landlords do you have?’

      ‘Well…’ he made a vague gesture with a pint tankard. ‘They’re either sharp-eyed management types, keen to build up the business so they can sell on at a massive profit, or chaps with dreams in their eyes who’ve always yearned to run a pub, but without a clue what it entails. Your Admiral I’d put in the second category… except he’s had the nous to get someone like you to keep the ship from sinking.’

      Despite her doubts about Ben Milne’s sincerity, Amy couldn’t help warming towards him ever so slightly.

      ‘How long have you been here?’

      She had to think for a moment. ‘Just over three years.’

      ‘So you must have got to know the Admiral pretty well.’

      ‘He’s a very nice old boy.’

      ‘Is that all?’

      She put the full tray on the bar, picked up a cloth and started wiping down tables.

      ‘What about family?’

      ‘His? There isn’t any.’

      ‘None at all? Did he fall out with them?’

      ‘We don’t all come provided with a full set of parents, brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts.’

      Ben had given up collecting empties, instead he’d taken up position on one of the bar stools and was fiddling with a smartphone. Amy was certain, though, that his attention was on the answers to his seemingly idle questions.

      He looked up. ‘Which are you missing from that cast list?’

      She continued wiping down tables.

      ‘Parents still alive?’

      ‘Ben, shouldn’t you be renewing your relationship with Ianthe?’

      ‘Ianthe who?’

      ‘The over-the-top blonde who draped herself all over you earlier this evening.’

      ‘Oh, her! I was hoping you could tell me who she was.’

      ‘You mean, you weren’t at uni with her?’

      ‘Amy, Amy, how could you! Do I look her age?’ Ben suddenly paused and his expression changed. ‘She could, I suppose, have been a mature student? There is something familiar about her…’ He rubbed his chin in the manner of one who has had to change his mind about something, and Amy thought he looked guilty enough to have remembered being in bed with her. Surely not! Still, she paused for a moment in her task of putting chairs upside down on the tables so she could sweep the floor. No edge-to-edge carpeting at the Admiral Byng. Her head on one side, she considered Mr Ben Milne. ‘In a way you look, well, sort of ageless.’

      ‘Thank you very much.’ He obviously did not consider this a compliment. ‘Have I got bags under the eyes, frown lines, lips that have disappeared?’

      ‘Mr Milne, you can’t be as self-obsessed as that comment makes you sound!’

      ‘If we were in a novel, at this point I’d give a rueful laugh. Consider it laughed. You’re right, of course. I am your average simple male who hates the fact that the years are slipping by and he can’t kick a football as far as he used to.’

      She gave him a closer look. If you reckoned that Ianthe had aged beyond her years, and that he had managed to off-load his excesses on a portrait in the attic, maybe, just maybe, they had been at uni together.

      ‘You, on the other hand, have been on the go all the evening, and look as though you are good for a marathon.’

      ‘So what is it you want? Bar’s closed.’

      ‘Come on, have a heart.’ He looked quickly around the saloon. ‘The place is empty. We could have a quick snifter together and no one would know. Unless you think the old boy is likely to descend?’

      Amy shook her head. ‘I think he’s retired for the night. I haven’t seen anyone go up to the Bridge for some time.’

      ‘So?’

      She ran hot water into the bar sink and started washing glasses.

      ‘Sweet, pretty Amy, please?’ He put his elbows on the bar and gazed into her face.

      She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You could sell snow to an Eskimo.’

      ‘Tut, tut,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget your political correctness. We call them Inuits today.’

      ‘So we do. I had this lovely book as a child; all about a little girl helping to build an igloo and fishing through a hole in the ice, so the name Eskimo stuck with me. I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska.’ She wiped her hands and turned to the bottles lined up behind her. ‘OK, what’ll it be? As you’re a resident, it’s legal and can go on your tab.’

      He grinned. ‘My work tab.’ He scanned the shelves. ‘I had a Chilean Merlot earlier. That wasn’t bad.’

      Most of the time Amy made it a rule not to drink at work. She had seen too many in the hotel and catering trade end up full-blown alcoholics. Once in a while, though, couldn’t harm. And she knew the Chilean Merlot was good.

      She gave one of the filled glasses to Ben and raised hers. ‘What shall we drink to?’

      ‘“The Last Hurrah”, surely!’ He drank, then said, ‘Just what did he mean by that?’

      ‘I have no idea.’

      ‘Come on, you must have some clue.’

      Was he trying to get her drunk so she’d let her tongue run away with her?

      ‘After all, it couldn’t be a big surprise if he wanted to sell this place, surely?’ Ben gave an expansive gesture that took in the shabby nature of their surroundings. ‘And you, your title might be bar manager, but you seem to be in charge of everything. You must know exactly how things stand with the Admiral Byng, financially speaking.’

      Amy drank some more of her wine and considered the TV presenter over the edge of her glass. What sort of person was he, really? Pushy, cynical, and quite, quite ruthless. And could be unutterably charming. When he wanted.

      One of the few maxims Amy followed in her life was to beware of charming men. In her experience they brought nothing but trouble.

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