Patrick Cash
The Wolves
Coco turned up late and was ushered into the restaurant bar. Her usual bartender would have begun mixing her cocktail when she passed the doors but there was a new recruit there, staring at her ballgown.
‘A Sidecar,’ she repeated.
Through the serving hatch behind him, she had a view of the dining room. At that time of night everybody had turned loose at the edges. Mouths were roaring, laughter more unhinged. In the centre, stood a pickled shark in a tank.
‘Excuse me?’
The bartender was gazing at her.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s in a Sidecar?’
Coco lowered her sunglasses. ‘Aren’t you the bartender?’
‘It’s my first week.’
She realised he was attractive. His skin shone in the light, his hair shaved short, eyes with a twinkle. Coco came behind the bar.
‘You can’t be behind here,’ he whispered.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nathan.’
‘Nathan, I’m meeting my Dad.’ She grabbed a cognac bottle, just reachable in her heels. ‘So I need a drink. Two shots.’
He poured into a Boston as she found the Cointreau.
‘One shot.’
‘Why do you need a drink to meet your Dad?’
‘Lemon juice – half a shot. Have you got parents?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you’ll understand. Sugar syrup – just a dash.’
‘I don’t have a drink to see my Mum.’
‘Aren’t you lucky. Now you shake.’
Nathan slammed the shaker together, his shirt tightening around a bicep. She returned to her bar stool and he poured the mix into a frosted glass.
‘Moment of truth.’
Oh, he’d charmed people with that grin before. She raised the glass to her lips and drank.
‘A touch too sweet,’ she said. ‘But not bad for a first try.’
The concierge entered the bar and Nathan busied himself with tickets spitting from a machine.
‘Your father has arrived,’ the concierge murmured. ’We’ve seated him in the brasserie whilst we checked.’
‘Checked?’
‘He’s brought a guest.’
‘Who?’
‘A journalist.’
She considered for less than a moment. ‘Can you tell him I’m no longer available?’
‘Of course.’
She took out her phone and scrolled down Instagram. Recently the record company had asked for greater control over her social media. Apparently she was unpredictable when drunk and they now paid somebody to write her life story. Coco followed it with a bemused interest. Everything was very carefully worded.
‘Jane!’
The restaurant fell silent. Through the serving window, she glimpsed her father’s green shirt by the shark. A waiter was trying to escort him out. She turned to Nathan. ‘Is there somewhere I can’t be seen?’
He nodded to a leather curtain. ‘The wine fridges.’
Behind the curtain, three fridges hummed in a narrow alcove. She could see Nathan’s face through the crack.
‘Nathan…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can you bring me my drink?’
He walked away. She began a rummage in her handbag, using her phone as a flashlight. The curtain opened and Nathan brought in her Sidecar. She took it thankfully and finished the glass.
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re getting him out.’
‘Do you want some coke?’
He looked amused. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘Don’t leave me hanging.’
She unscrewed the ampoule and snorted a bump. Refilling the tiny spatula, she held the powder out to him. He hesitated then pressed the side of his nose and snorted. They shared a grin before returning to the bar. She enjoyed that aspect of drugs: not just the high, but the commitment to a shared journey together. The concierge returned as she ordered a second cocktail.
‘Your father has left the building.’
‘Thank you, Henri.’
All her feelings were now wings encased in a bell-jar. She’d always had a problem with the MY DRINK AND DRUG NIGHTMARE headlines, because the drink and drugs part was highly enjoyable.
‘Can I assume you no longer want the table?’
She’d left the flat as it was after last night: empty bottles, pizza boxes, coke smeared across a family photograph.
‘No. I’d still like the table.’
‘Very good. Will your manager be joining us?’
‘God, I’d rather shut myself in a brass bull.’ She locked eyes with her new friend. ‘What time does Nathan finish?’
*
She had to wait until they sourced cover. They seated her in front of the shark and she ordered a bottle of champagne until Nathan appeared. He looked like a more comfortable man: he’d lost the waistcoat, opened the shirt two buttons down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He smiled at her.
‘Well, this has got to be the best shift ever.’
The Head Waiter arrived to take their order. If he felt any surprise at his colleague dining with Coco, he betrayed nothing. Nathan opened the menu and scanned the dishes, all of which were written in French.
He raised his eyebrows at Coco. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘Have you not tried the menu?’.
‘Are you kidding? They’ve got vending machines in the staff room that serve mashed potato ready meals.’
She felt a strong, coke-spurred outrage.
‘Gregoire,’ she said. ‘Can you bring us a little of everything?’
Gregoire’s pencil hovered over the pad. ‘Everything?’
‘Yes. Everything.’
‘Madame, I really think that will be too much food.’
‘I’ll take the leftovers in doggy bags.’
Gregoire admitted defeat and left. Coco smiled at Nathan in triumph. He swung back on his chair and whistled.
‘You know how to live.’
‘Rest assured: it’s on me.’
Nathan sipped the champagne. ‘Trouble is: my Mum brought me up to finish everything on my plate. So this is gonna be a challenge.’
‘We’ll give the leftovers to the homeless.’
He nodded. ‘Sure, sure.’
‘I come here a lot,’ she said. ‘And I know the management, so you know, if they’re not treating you right – tell me honestly.’
‘It’s long shifts. You can start at 11am and work through till 11pm. If you’re doing the breakfast shift, you can start at 5. But the tips make up for it. It’s a proper salary here. Better than the place I worked before.’
‘So moral of the story is: tip generously?’
‘That and destroying the capitalist hierarchy.’
‘I don’t have the time.’
‘You and me both: somebody’s gotta make cocktails.’ They drank together. ‘But it’s all just a stepping stone. I’ve got a plan.’
‘What’s that?’
He tapped a finger against his nose. ‘Now, that’d be telling.’
‘Well, I’m sure it’s impressive.’
‘It’ll bring in the dollar. I’ll tell you that.’
She felt the first stab of wariness. If he wanted to make it in the industry he’d have surely dropped it into the conversation by now.
‘Do I get to quiz you now?’ he asked.
‘Ask away.’
‘Why do you come here so much?’
‘Oh, it saves a fortune on dishwasher tablets.’
‘And you need the pennies, yeah?’
‘Every little counts.’
His face had taken on a technicolor beauty in the evening lights. Perhaps it was that intimacy that led her to confide. Everybody felt that need, didn’t they, that 4am confessional period at a party. If she didn’t answer that call, she might as well be the shark pickled in its tank. She leant toward him.
‘The wolves aren’t here.’
‘The wolves?’
‘I come here for the no photographs. Out there I’m a photo. In here, I’m…’
‘You’re Jane.’
She stared at him. Did she really exhume Jane? Jane the angelic choir girl who sang the solo at Michaelmas carols. Jane who was a Daddy’s girl until she took back control, but that evening at the drop of his text, ran from her Fashion Week event and travelled through the traffic to have dinner together.
‘Something like that.’
‘But the wolves aren’t all bad, are they?’
He thought he knew her, of course. He knew the myth, the good time girl whose face had launched a thousand apps.
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s better to have the wolves want you than not care.’
‘I don’t think you understand.’
‘But I do.’ He took out his phone. ‘Look at that. I get it.’
He showed her a X account. She scrolled down the videos: Nathan solo, Nathan in action, Nathan with a mosaic of nude, muscular bodies. His photogenic dimples and that come to bed grin. The clips linked to an Only Fans profile.
‘The wolves love me,’ he grinned.
She clicked the phone to blank. ’Why didn’t you tell me this?’
‘It’s not how I introduce myself.’
‘You know I’m a family friendly act.’
He shrugged. ‘Lucky there’s no photos then, isn’t it?’
Her rational mind wanted to ring management and get the PRs to kill all memory of their dinner. Just another faux pas to be notched on the bedpost. But her pesky human side was focussed on Nathan.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked.
He gazed back at her. ‘Money. Fans.’
‘Look at you,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re good-looking, you’re young. You could do anything.’
He scowled.
‘Like what, making you cocktails until my back’s packed in? Working the bar, I’m a nobody. Doing that –’ He pressed his finger down on the phone. ‘– I matter to people. I make people happy. People across the world message me. So sorry if you’ve having a hard time, but some of us are fucking enjoying the ride.’
Six waiters interrupted them bearing platters. Trestles were extended and the food was laid out: lobster bisque, Hungarian goulash, steak tartare, monkfish and chorizo, French oysters, Beluga caviare, moules marinière, the list went on.
She stared at the food, sweating beneath the pickled shark, and realised the coke had worn off. She had a choice to pay the bill and leave her newfound friend, or top up now and keep the night alive.
‘Bon appétit,’ said Nathan.
Coco excused herself.
*
She returned through a near empty restaurant. The great vases of flowers were beginning to tire. Nathan was alone, picking his way through haute cuisine and drinking the last of the champagne.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to shame you.’
He heaped caviare on a blini. ‘Ah, don’t you mind. I’ll just finish what I can eat.’
‘Do you want some more coke?’
‘Nah, thanks.’
‘Come out with me then,’ she said. ‘There’s an afterparty at the Firehouse.’
He checked his watch. ‘I turn into a pumpkin soon.’
‘Is it money? I’ve got money.’
Coco drew out her purse, stuffed full for her father. She rained £20 notes on the table and pushed the pile toward him.
You can have it,’ she said. ‘No strings.’
Nathan stared at the cash. ‘You know, technically I’m still on duty. And we get fired if we’re found pocketing cash. So if it really doesn’t matter to you, you can leave it as a tip.’ He weighted down the cash with a pepper cellar. ‘You know when I was on the party circuit, I used to sometimes be at some random house, 6am or whatever. I’d see the sun rising and I’d just wish I had a reason to go home.’
A heartbreaker grin, that was what they called it.
‘Now I’ve got her,’ he said.
‘She’s lucky.’
‘Yeah, I hope so. You know she is going to be so pumped that I met you tonight. She’s like your biggest fan.’
‘Are you not a fan?’
‘Ah, I’m not a fan. I’m a mate.’
She smiled, and it felt like the first time she’d smiled in a while.
‘Walk me out?’
‘Sure thing.’
They walked gently to the great front doors, past the waiters clearing tables. There was a second as they looked at each other. She knew that pause as the crackle before the kiss; maybe they’d both fallen into embraces like that before. She touched her lips to his cheek, leaving a small shade of rouge.
‘It was nice to meet you, Nathan.’
‘Likewise, Jane.’
She left into the summer rain. As the doorman held an umbrella over her head and guided her to the waiting car, a woman on the street called out Coco! She turned in the lights, and was snapped on a phone.
Patrick Cash
Patrick Cash is a British-Irish writer living in London. He’s published two plays with Bloomsbury and founded the night Spoken Word London. He holds a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford, and once lived for three months as a writer-in-residence at Shakespeare & Company Bookshop in Paris. He’s recently finished The London Library Emerging Writers Programme 22/23, working on a collection of short stories named Nightlife. He was mentored by Alan Hollinghurst for this and received awards from Arts Council England and The Society of Authors / K Blundell Trust to further its completion