Part 91 (1/2)

Apart from me.

The slush on the roads splashes along the edge of the car and I relax a little as the snow stops. The clouds don't s.h.i.+ft; this weather isn't leaving anytime soon. I pull up the forecast on my phone and the weather warnings are for the South this evening. I check the time. Two p.m. I b.l.o.o.d.y hope Nate's lunch is quick. What irks me is we've pa.s.sed a number of pubs on our journey through small towns.

The pub we arrive at sits on a hill outside of a village with sweeping views across the snow-covered moors beneath grey clouds. Nate jumps out of the car without a word and pauses, arms crossed. He watches as I climb out and waits for me to approach him.

I glance up at the stone building, two storeys high with several windows at the front. A half-covered sign informs us the variety of beer sold, and that lunches and accommodation are available.

The snow fills my low-heeled work shoes as I follow Nate into the pub, where the blasting heat of the log fire blows away the coldness on my face.

I expected a cosy pub lounge area, but the room is large and brightly lit with rows of tables lined against the windows. Original features compete with the modern, dark wood beams. I drip melted snow onto the red and black carpet. Or maybe it's red and very dirty.

A middle-aged man with receding brown hair looks up from where he sits at a table with a girl and a guy, both around my age. He places the pint gla.s.s half-full of beer on the table, next to the two other drinks.

”Afternoon,” he says.

”Hey. You serving food?” asks Nate and shakes snowflakes from his hair.

The younger girl with long, blonde hair stares, her plump cheeks turning pink. There's no flicker of recognition on the men's faces, but I've seen her stupefied look on a number of occasions. The girl knows who Nate is. She flicks a curious look at me and offers Nate a broad smile. ”I'm Becca. What do you want to drink?”

Becca walks behind the long wooden bar and stands with her hand on one of the beer taps, although her height doesn't take her much over that of the bar.

”Pint of Taylor's,” replies Nate as we approach.

”Nate!” The indignant word is out before I can stop it and he scowls.

”What's your problem?”

”You're driving, remember.”

”For f.u.c.k's sake, one beer, Smiley.”

Becca's mouth twitches into a smile as she fills a gla.s.s for Nate.

I give Nate a sour look but he isn't looking at me. ”Orange juice,” I point at Nate. ”He's buying the drinks.” Grabbing a menu from the edge of the bar, I retreat to the far corner.

The uncomfortable high-backed seat is beneath the window and the cold seeping through the gla.s.s doesn't help my mood. Nor does the fact it's snowing again. Apart from Nate's car, there're two others outside. A beaten up Land Rover and a small hatchback, both covered with snow.

Nate places the orange juice in front of me. ”Becca tells me their pies are famous around here.”

”Right.” I look out the window again. ”Nate, can we make this quick?”

Nate drinks and stretches his legs out. ”Relax. Aren't you happy I brought you out somewhere? A date with Nate Campbell. I reckon Becca would like one.”

”No. I'd rather you drove me home.”

”Suit yourself.” He glances at Becca who smiles at him.

”Fan of yours?” I ask.

”She knows who I am, if that's what you mean.”

I sip my juice and study the menu. ”I'm not very hungry.”

”I am.”

Nate settles back in his seat and holds the plastic-coated menu in front of his face. I'm willing to bet there's a smug smile behind there.

I walk back to the table from the Ladies, increasingly panicked by the growing thickness of the snow outside. Nate picks at chips on his plate, as he concentrates on his phone. He looks odd. Nate's more at home under posters of rock bands on walls than bra.s.s etchings interspersed with photos of the surrounding area.

”Are you done?” I ask him.

Nate looks up from his phone. ”Finis.h.i.+ng my lunch. Fetch me another drink.”

”Please.”

He c.o.c.ks a brow and I raise one back. Nate's eyes s.h.i.+ne, the first sign of real engagement with me since we left the hotel in Newcastle. ”c.o.ke.” He pauses. ”Please.”

When I approach the bar, Becca walks over from her seat with the others at the table again.

”I never expected a rock star in here,” she says. ”We had Cas Baker in once, he was filming near here. Some historical drama.” She indicates Nate with her head. ”Maybe famous people like it here.”

”Maybe.” A picture on the wall above the display of peanuts catches my eye. ”Is that a photo of this pub?”

She turns to the large image of a snow-covered building, with cars outside buried beneath drifts. I can't tell because all that's visible is the top of the building.

”It is! Crazy, hey?”

”Does that happen often?”

”George!” she calls to the man drinking at the table by the fire. ”When did that happen?”

George looks at where she points at the framed image. ”That winter? Ten years ago. Bad one that time, we were stuck for six days.”

”Six days?” I squeak.

”Yeah. Happens sometimes, normally a day, maybe two.” He taps his nose. ”Reckon some of them didn't want to leave and lied it was six days.”

The young guy with him laughs. ”Yeah, ultimate lock-in.”

”The snow looks high,” I say. In the picture, the first floor windows are barely visible.

”Best get going soon.” A woman appears from a door to the left of the bar, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She's a similar age to George, greying hair pulled into a loose bun. ”Happen it'll get worse today.” The woman sits next to George and curls a hand around his on the table.

That does it.

”Nate.” He looks over. ”Apparently the weather is getting worse.”

He cranes his neck to look out the window. ”Yeah. I'm almost done.”