One Glass Is Never Enough Read online

  One Glass Is Never Enough

  Jane Wenham-Jones

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Jane Wenham-Jones lives by the sea in Broadstairs, Kent. Her short stories and articles have appeared in a wide range of women’s magazines and national newspapers and she has contributed to the Sexy Shorts charity anthologies. She writes a monthly advice column for Writing Magazine and a humorous weekly column for the Isle of Thanet Gazette , her local paper. Jane has appeared on radio and television and is regularly booked as an after-dinner speaker. One Glass is Never Enough is her third novel.

  www.janewenham-jones.com

  Also by Jane Wenham-Jones

  Wannabe a Writer?

  978190620814

  Wannabe a Writer We’ve Heard Of?

  9781906373979

  Perfect Alibis

  Accent Press

  ISBN 1905170858

  £6.99

  First published by Bantam Books

  ISBN 0553813730

  Raising The Roof

  Published by Bantam Books

  ISBN 0553813722

  Praise for Raising The Roof and Perfect Alibis.

  “Thoroughly enjoyable and full of deft, sparky humour” Jill Mansell

  “Laugh out loud funny” Lynne Barrett-Lee

  “Frothy and fun!” Woman’s Own

  “… the story you’ve always wanted to read about infidelity – and how to get away it” Cosmopolitan

  “Original and lots of fun!” B magazine

  ‘This comic novel is a perfect read for bored gossips” OK! Hot Stars

  “Does risk-free mean guilt-free?...Convincingly drawn” Daily Mail

  “It’s great fun” Heat

  “A great read!” Best

  ISBN 9781908917522

  Published by Accent Press Ltd - 2005

  ISBN 9781908006233

  Copyright © Jane Wenham-Jones 2005

  The right of Jane Wenham-Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High Street, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan CF46 6RY.

  For Wendy Carr and Jacqui Cook

  With love and gratitude xxx

  Acknowledgements

  I raise a glass to:

  Dr Mike Cardwell, Lawrence Shaw and Alex Ochs, who answered my queries on medical matters – human and canine; Chris Carr and Fred Davies for lending me their wine lists and Hamish Marett-Crosby and Phillip Silverstone for their expertise on same. Lorraine Dilnot and PC Ken Pickett from Kent Police who were so helpful and the lovely Rikki Arundel, who generously shared her insights. John and Catherine Leech from the Balmoral Wine Bar for letting me prop it up and Patrika Salmon for her encouragement.

  Lynne Hackles, Maureen Devlin, Trish Maw and Lynne Barrett-Lee for being the sort of friends every writer needs. Everyone on the ME List – ditto. Katie May for sisterly support. Mike Pearce for his weather eye, Karen Hodgson for being a pal and Nige Derrick, because I forgot him last time (sorry Nige!). Thanks as always to my family – especially my son Tom for his inspiration – and all who made The Harpers Experience what it was…

  Finally, and for just about everything else, I am hugely grateful to Teresa Chris, Rachel Loosmore and Hazel Cushion. Thank you so much. The drinks are on me!

  1. Bollinger Special Cuvee

  A fine Champagne. Fresh and vigorous, bursting with potential.

  Welcome to Greens. Kiss. Welcome to Greens.

  How lovely to see you. Kiss. Welcome to Greens.

  Welcome to Greens. Kiss. Now under sparkling new management. Kiss. (Whoops – don’t know her.)

  Please help yourself to a complimentary glass of Fleur de Lys – our specially-selected house wine in red or white. Kiss, Kiss. (Mmmn. Ooh yes…) Welcome to Greens. (Oh. That must be his wife glaring.)

  Do come in. Kiss. A warm welcome to Greens. Kent’s Premier wine bar and…

  “A bottomless money-pit run by three mad women who don’t know what they’re doing.” Victor pushed his way to Gaynor’s side, holding a glass of champagne high in front of him. He hadn’t brought her one. She grimaced. A supportive husband was such a boon in business.

  “Good evening!” Gaynor fixed a blonde just coming through the door with her biggest smile. “Welcome to Greens.” She gave Victor a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Could you take over for a moment, darling? Just got to pop to the loo…”

  Let him chat her up. Gaynor needed more alcohol. So far, she’d ushered in what felt like five hundred people – all on a quick snort of Bolly and the tiny glass of Chablis she’d managed to grab when Sarah, one of her two new business partners, wasn’t looking.

  “You’re not allowed to get pissed till later,” Sarah had said. (For someone about to open a wine bar, she could be very boring about drinking.) “You’re meeting and greeting! Your job’s to look lovely and make them feel wanted.”

  Hmm. Gaynor could have done with a bit of that herself. She stepped sideways to let more people through, looking at the back of Victor’s glossy brown head as he moved forward to shake hands with a tall man in a suit. She sighed. She’d been so looking forward to this and she should have been feeling marvellous. Instead, this odd feeling kept welling up inside her, making her want to rush away and hide somewhere.

  They’d worked so hard for tonight, she and Sarah and Claire. Six weeks ago, when they’d bought it, the place had been run-down and filthy with only three old drunks propping up the bar.

  It had been hard to imagine, then, that it could look like this, but Claire was a woman with a vision. With military precision, an army of builders and a frighteningly long list of Jobs-to-be-Done, she’d led them firmly through the battle of creating it.

  Now Greens had reopened in all its freshly-stripped floor boards and newly-painted glory. The bold Mediterranean oils – sun-drenched squares of bright yellows and blues against the white walls – set off the huge terracotta pots, the dark beams, the delicate fronds of the deep-green palms.

  Beneath the varnished oak canopy above the bar, rows of sparkly wine glasses twinkled in the spotlights. Gaynor listened to the chink of many more amongst the buzz of voices and laughter from the clusters of beautiful people jostling for every square foot of space. Faint strains of the high, sweet voice of Norah Jones came through the speakers, almost drowned out by the hum of chatter below. They’d known they’d be busy – but nobody had expected this.

  They were six deep at the bar. Gaynor could see Sarah and Jack’s heads bobbing about as they moved rapidly to and fro serving. She started to wriggle through the hot crush

  of bodies so she could get to the fridge.

  Every few seconds someone stopped her.

  “What a transformation!”

  “Gosh, I didn’t recognise the place.”

  “Fabulous wine list, darling – did it take ages to choose?”

  It had taken several near-terminal hangovers. Claire had been in touch with every wine supplier in the country, it seemed, and the cases of samples had reached the ceiling. One night they’d tasted so many mid-range Cabernet Sauvignons Gaynor couldn’t say it, let alone pick one.

  “Lovely place you’ve got here!” Someone grabbed her arm
. “And what we want to know is …” It was a dark-haired woman with mad eyes and an alarming amount of eyeliner. “Are you going to do Sushi?”

  “Not sure about that.” Gaynor slid her wrist from the woman’s grasp and edged away. God knows who she was. Sushi?

  Claire and Sarah had spent hours poring over recipe books discussing the menu, but she didn’t remember raw fish appearing on it. Claire was for free-range, organic, ‘kindly-killed’ meat. Gaynor had snorted at the incongruity but Claire, a fierce vegetarian, had been serious. “People will expect steaks,” she’d said regretfully, “but we can at least choose where we get them from.” Sarah talked of beautifully simple pasta dishes, colourful salads and delicious soups – everything made from scratch. Gaynor looked up at the blackboard where she’d earlier written up a list of sample dishes, in coloured chalks. She’d felt so excited. Wow, she’d thought, hugging herself inside, as she carefully drew the outline of a long-stemmed wine glass in green, I own part of this…she looked back at Victor on the door. If only she felt she could share it.

  As she pushed her way through to the bar, she felt two hands close over her buttocks. She squealed and swung round. Local stud, Danny, was grinning. “Hello, gorgeous – phroor – you look horny in that dress.” Someone shoved past behind her and she was pushed up against him. He pulled her closer.

  Gaynor’s heart sank. Danny was tall and good-looking with curly blond-brown hair, shiny hazelnut eyes and very white teeth. Much fancied and with more notches on his bedpost than Greens had wineglasses. He was the last person she wanted to see. She glared at his sun-tanned features and dazzling orange and green designer shirt. “For God’s sake!” She glanced anxiously towards the front door. “Victor’s over there.”

  “It’s OK – he’s not looking. He can’t see my hands anyway.” He raised his voice to be heard over the noise and Gaynor squirmed away from him, frowning. She could only move a few inches without squashing the people behind her. She began to slide sideways. He caught hold of her again and put his mouth against her ear. “I want you.”

  “Charmed I’m sure,” she said, twisting her head, trying to see if Victor was still occupied.

  Danny was still pressed close. “When am I going to see you? It’s been weeks since…”

  “I’ve been busy with this place – took ages to get ready. Painting, cleaning. We had to…”

  “It’s done now. Thought the other two were going to run it.”

  “They are, but I have to help too. I’m going to be hands-on sometimes.”

  “I want to be hands on all the time.” His fingers were sliding up the hem of her dress.

  “Danny! The place is full of people I know.”

  “But they aren’t looking. Remember when we…”

  “Get off!”

  She dived between two waiting customers and through the gap in the bar, nearly colliding with Claire, who was coming through with a tray. She stepped back again.

  “I’m bringing up more meatballs,” Claire cried, as Danny pushed his crotch against Gaynor’s thigh. “This is fantastic. If all these people just come in once a week each…”

  “Yeah, great.” Gaynor wanted her wine. She scowled at Danny and slid round behind Jack, their young and enthusiastic barman. He eased out a champagne cork with an expert flourish, turned and grinned at her.

  “Hello, sweet-pea.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “You’re the boss.” He put the heavy bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket and reached up for two flutes from the shelf above. “What shall I get you?”

  Sarah swung round. Her pale skin, against her shock of red hair, looked whiter than ever.

  “We’re rushed off our feet here,” she hissed. “Can’t you do something useful instead? I need to go and check on the children. Mum’s supposed to be in charge – better make sure they haven’t trussed her up or anything. There’s been some very funny noises coming through the ceiling.”

  She shovelled ice into two tumblers as Gaynor laughed affectionately. “Come off it! You can’t hear a thing down here with this lot.”

  Jack draped an arm around Sarah’s shoulders on his way to the till. “Everyone’s entitled to a little paranoia.” He gave her a squeeze. “But I’m OK here if you want to go up.”

  Sarah made a face. “In a minute. There’s people waiting to be served.” She turned a corkscrew deep into a bottle of burgundy. “Gaynor, can you go and collect some glasses?”

  “Yep, sure.” Gaynor opened the fridge and grabbed at the Chablis bottle she’d opened earlier. There was about an inch left in it. Damn. Sarah would notice if she stood around opening another one. She hesitated, then emptied it into the largest glass she could find and topped up with house dry before Sarah turned round.

  “You OK?” she asked her old friend and now fellow wine-bar-owner.

  Sarah gave a sudden smile. “I think so. Just about.”

  It had been a mad few weeks for all of them, with painters and electricians and plumbers and tilers and floor-sanders and God-knows-who crawling about the place. Not to mention Claire having them on twenty-four hour squad duty on the cleaning front, during which Gaynor had actually been forced to don Marigolds herself. But for Sarah, a newly-single mother with three kids to look after, a house move to the flat upstairs and all the ex-marital stuff to deal with… No wonder she looked permanently exhausted.

  But she’d scrubbed up well tonight. You wouldn’t know she’d scurried upstairs to get ready just before the doors opened. She’d lost weight in the last couple of months and the red silk shift suited her. She’d slapped on enough concealer beneath her huge green eyes to cover up the dark circles unless you got very close.

  “You look great.” Gaynor smoothed her hands over the hips of her own little glittery black dress. There’d been a point when she’d thought they’d be opening up in filthy jeans and paint in their hair. It was five o’clock before the electrician solved the mystery of why the cellar was plunged into darkness every time someone opened the upstairs fridge, and the plumber finally departed.

  The ice machine was still balanced precariously on a beer crate and the glass-washer refused to work for anyone. But they were open. Gaynor had finished arranging the flowers mere minutes before seven and Sarah, Claire and Benjamin – a young trainee chef hastily recruited from the local catering college – had finished the food seconds later. There’d been little time to savour the moment – a quick mouthful of champagne and they’d flung open the doors.

  Sarah turned to serve someone. “We got there in the end, eh?” she said, over her shoulder.

  “Do you have any English wine?” The speaker was fifty-five and bore a striking resemblance to Ann Widdecombe. She was looking straight at Gaynor.

  “We tried a rather nice one in a little vineyard near Canterbury,” her tweedy husband interjected helpfully.

  Gaynor shuddered. “I’m not actually serving,” she said, squeezing back into the mêlée. “Our lovely bar-hand Jack will be with you shortly…”

  Victor seemed happy enough on the door. Gaynor found space for a moment by the open brick fireplace, balancing her glass on the thick beam of mantelpiece. She saw a neighbour waving at her and waved back. She should be circulating. She was supposed to sparkle. That’s what she was good at. “It’ll be right up your street,” Sarah had laughed. “Kissing all and sundry.”

  But it was hot and noisy and her heart wasn’t in it.

  She could feel the wine zinging its way around her bloodstream – there’d been no time to eat since breakfast – and she longed to curl up in a corner.

  A group of twenty-somethings laughed loudly next to her. She pressed her fingers against her ears and then released them. In and out, in and out, as she’d done as a child, hearing the roar of voices swell and recede in dizzying waves.

  Her step-daughter Chloe appeared, in a cropped white T-shirt and low-slung raspberry silk combat pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  Chloe was beautif
ul. She had an almost oriental look with her almond eyes, pale face and dark lips. Gaynor had been mesmerised by her creamy teenage skin when she’d first met her, not believing that anyone could have cheeks so pore-less, so smooth they looked airbrushed. At twenty-seven her complexion was still perfect. She was tall, like her father, with Victor’s strong chin and confident movements. She commanded attention like he did. People turned their heads to watch Chloe.

  “Nothing. You look lovely,” Gaynor said, gazing into Chloe’s glass at a deep pink liquid that matched her pants. “Cranberry? Bet you’ve got a large vodka sneaked in there.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, you should have.”

  Chloe put her arm through Gaynor’s. “It’s so fab.

  Shame Ollie had a bloody client.”

  Gaynor smiled. Not to her it wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with Oliver but since he and Chloe had moved in together things weren’t quite the same. Gaynor loved Chloe. But on her own. She liked staying up late with her after Victor had gone to bed. To drink wine, talk about clothes and shoes and hair and – sometimes – why Victor could be such a funny bastard.

  Chloe would tell of the parties she’d been to and who was bedding who in the TV company where she worked. They’d paint each other’s nails, do each other’s hair, meet for lunch or cocktails when Gaynor went to town.

  In Harvey Nichols – the two of them scooping up lipsticks – the decade between them disappeared. Gaynor smiled inside when she thought of Chloe holding up the latest eye-lift wonder-gel. “Dad’s credit card?” she’d asked mischievously. The saleswoman had thought they were sisters!

  “Why’s Dad grumpy?” Chloe nodded towards the door.

  “Probably because I’ve left him there and he’s got to be nice to people.”

  Chloe frowned. Gaynor knew what she was thinking. Why should that be a problem? Victor had made a whole career out of being nice. He was Mr Smooth, Mr Charisma. Flattering a few over-dressed middle-aged blondes was right up his street.