No Easy Deeds by Pearson Keith A

Author:Pearson, Keith A
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inchgate
Published: 2024-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

As Gavin predicted, the young couple were only too pleased to view the flat again. When I arrived, they were joined by both sets of parents, and I loitered in the lounge while they wandered around. In a way, it was a bittersweet experience. It wasn’t that long ago that Zoe and I toured an empty flat, excitedly discussing how we’d turn it into the perfect home. For their sake, I hope the prospective owners of flat 19 fare better on the relationship front than we did.

Fortuitously, the couple and their parents left after fifteen minutes, giving me enough time to nip back to my flat, bolt down a sandwich, and grab a quick shower. All that remains is a decision about what to wear.

What do you wear to a country music event? I don’t even own a plaid shirt, never mind a Stetson.

I settle on a pair of stonewashed jeans, a black polo shirt, and my go-to leather jacket. A few squirts of Kouros cologne complete my preparations. There is no time to waste worrying about what kind of style might appeal to Kim Dolan.

The Malthouse Arts Centre is only just over a mile from the flat so, knowing I’ll likely require a few glasses of Dutch courage, I decide to walk. Besides, after a hectic and frankly awful day at work, the walk is a welcome opportunity to decompress.

I arrive at The Malthouse and make my way to the bar, where I’ve arranged to meet Gavin at seven. It’s pretty busy, and, to my relief, everyone is dressed for an evening at the pub rather than a hoedown. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m glad I can blend into the crowd.

As I wait to be served, I scan the room for Kim and her friend. However, as the doors to the main hall are already open and the first of two acts is due to start any minute, there’s a chance she’s already taken her place near the stage.

With the crowd quickly dispersing, it’s my turn at the bar. I order a pint, and a surly barmaid duly pours my drink.

“£2.10, please,” she says, placing the glass on the bar and slopping ten per cent of it on the mat.

“£2.10?” I question. “Bit pricey.”

“Take it up with the management committee.”

I slap the right change on the bar and take a gulp from the glass, purely to occupy my mouth in case I say something I might regret.

“Your round, is it?” a familiar voice asks.

I turn around and almost spit a mouthful of lager in Gavin’s face.

“What the …”

“You like the outfit?” he asks, flashing a wide smile.

“It’s … bloody hell, Gav,” I splutter. “Have you got a horse parked up outside?”

Gavin clearly does own a plaid shirt — a striking red and yellow plaid shirt with decorative metal collar tips. If only the crimes against fashion stopped there.

“They’re a bit big,” he says, noticing my saucer-like eyes trained on his fancy cowboy boots. “I had to wear two pairs of socks.

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