Where Have All the Boys Gone?

‘Sssh!’ said Katie as the barman straightened up, beaming and holding up a sticky, dusty bottle of something so old its label had peeled off. It was less white wine than a kind of rusty yellow, and half empty, with a screw top. There was a crust around the top.

‘That looks lovely,’ said Katie politely.

‘Is that Feather’s sample bottle?’ came a masculine voice behind them. ‘Bloody been looking for that for months.’

The tiny publican’s eyes widened. ‘It is too, you know.’

A huge beefy hand reached over their heads and hit Louise on the ear.

‘Oww,’ said Louise. ‘Sorry, I forgot I had an invisible head.’

‘I’ve just stopped you drinking horse piss,’ said the voice. ‘I’d have thought you would have shown a bit more gratitude.’

The girls turned around on their stools. A tall, chunky man with a pink, florid face stood in front of them, in a ratty old tweed jacket.

‘Really?’ said Louise. ‘Or is that the worst chat-up line ever invented?’

The man blinked twice, then smiled. ‘It belongs to Fitz’s mare. ’Course, you’re more than welcome to find out through empirical testing. Lachlan, get us a couple of glasses.’

‘Right away,’ said Lachlan, and busied himself at the back of the bar.

‘I don’t want to come on like a health and safety inspector,’ said Katie. ‘But why are we being served horse piss in a bar? Is it like, a hazing ritual?’

‘I’m sure Lachlan just forgot,’ said the man. ‘Or I forgot to pick it up.’ He took the bottle and put it down by his briefcase, then held out his hand. Both the girls declined to shake it.

‘Craig MacPhee. I’m the vet around here.’

‘Yeah? Or are you just taking the piss?’ said Louise. ‘Ha aha aha.’

He smiled. ‘Can I buy you a real drink?’

‘Yes,’ said Louise promptly.

‘Thank you,’ said Katie. The normal hubbub had restored itself to the pub, as the two women ordered vodka tonics (Lachlan had a little step behind the bar, so it wasn’t difficult at all).

It was a quarter past eight, and still no sign of Iain. Katie sipped her drink as Louise pestered Craig as to whether there was more to vetting than horse piss and sticking your hands up a cow’s bottom.

Finally, the little door pinged to announce another customer’s arrival, and it was Iain, his collar turned up against the chill, his lovely green eyes roaming the room as he hung up his coat, to general murmurings of welcome.

‘Lovely girls! You both came!’ he said as he approached the bar, looking as if they were the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen.

‘Hey,’ Katie said.

‘I hope that’s vodka or gin or something,’ he said. ‘I was going to warn you, this isn’t much of a wine town. Don’t know what you sophisticated London ladies drink.’