Marmalade Martini Audio Extract

Jamie finds herself caught in a heavy rainstorm and seeks shelter in a bar called Alchemy. She meets the bartender, who makes her a Marmalade Martini and offers it to her for free. Jamie is intrigued by the bartender's charm but realizes that not every attractive woman is necessarily gay. Marmalade Martini by Julie Forrester Chapter One Jamie was standing halfway across Shaftesbury Avenue, on a pedestrian island, gasping for breath, her heart thumping. Still drunk, she doubled over, willing the nausea to pass. Her wrist, now painful, had started to swell. The past few hours had certainly been bizarre. How could an innocent meeting have become so complicated? A low rumble of thunder rumbled overhead. Seconds later, the heavens opened in a torrential downpour. Jamie had only her new denim jacket to shield her from the deluge, a useless gesture, but she flipped forward the collar. Stupid bloody jacket. She hadn't particularly liked it in the shop the day before, and she liked it even less now, but she knew perfectly well why she'd brought it, and it had been nothing to do with augmenting her wardrobe. Jamie shivered to her core, her jeans clung to her legs, wet to the skin, and water was starting to seep through the canvas of her converse pumps. She stumbled across the road, the rain was getting heavier, she needed to get home. Wincing as her bruised wrist flexed, she searched through everything she had, with a pocket or a zip. Where the hell were her keys? Jamie scanned the length of the street, searching for a shop doorway in which to shelter. She crossed the narrow one-way side road. Flashing neon sign caught her eye, so she made a dash for it. Getting nearer, she was relieved to see a luminous, open sign above the door of a bar called Alchemy. Why had she never noticed this place before? Still tight, Jamie stopped briefly in the dark entryway. She didn't generally wander into bars alone, much less ones she'd never been in before. A splash of running footsteps and high-pitched squeals came from up behind her. Jamie wasn't the only one caught out by the rain. She gave his last shout, said the taller of the two women. They manoeuvred past her down a few steps and called open the door, wobbling on silly inch heels. Jamie stepped to one side. The sticky heat of the bar wafted out from inside. She leaned across the small stairwell and spontaneously grabbed for the door handle before it closed, a decision made. Following in the wake of the two women, she was immediately hit by the heady smell of candles and burnt orange peel. She entered a dim, vault-like archway, converted Victorian cellar, walls, bare brick and floor of paving slabs and cobblestones. Antique dark wood tables were occupied by chattering groups of people, huddled around flea-throwing candles in bottles so they'd left rivulets of white lava on the tables. Wall-mounted church candles continued the theme. They had dripped down the black cast-iron brackets, creating fragile stalactites of wax. Various bottles were lined up along glass shelves, spanning the length of the wall behind the bar. They were cleverly backlit, to illuminate the range of coloured liquids like an apocryphal hoard. Behind the shelves were mirrors, creating the illusion of opulence and spaciousness. The bar curved towards the back of the maze-like building and disappeared into the depths of three other dimly lit arches. It was at least fifteen minutes since Jamie had escaped. Surely by now Alex must have noticed that she had left the pub and would be wondering where she'd got to. Jamie took out her phone. Useless. The battery was flat. Three more people crashed their way through the door, wet through but laughing and immensely pleased to have found shelter. This wasn't just a short summer shower, it seemed. Resigned to the possibility that she was going to be stuck here longer than she'd expected, Jamie decided to make the most of it. Besides, after the night she had just had, she needed another drink. Seizing the opportunity, she headed for a newly vacant bar stall and reached into her jeans pocket. She pulled out a scrunched-up ten-pound note and some loose coins. If this was all the cash she had, she wouldn't be able to afford the cab for her home as well as a nightcap. What the hell? Home would have to wait. It would be easier to solve the problem of the lost keys later in the day when she was thinking more clearly. Jamie leant across the bar to pick up a cocktail menu. Pushing her sodden fringe from her eyes, she skimmed down the page in search of the cheapest drinks. Drops of rain fell from her hair and smudged the ink. Wiping the menu with her sleeve only made it worse. Now the print was only partially legible, hopeless without her reading glasses. The bartender came to the rescue. Here, use this to dry yourself off. She offered Jamie the linen cloth over her shoulder. It's only been used to polish the glasses, it's clean. Oh, thanks. She quickly rubbed her head and handed the back of the cloth, seeing a reflection in the glass behind the bottles. It wasn't a pretty sight. To preserve the illusion of composure, Jamie casually peeled off her wet jacket. For the first time, she took a proper look at her recent purchase. Bleach splashed, augmented with chains, zips and safety pins, patched with badges and odd squares of tartan. It really was dreadful. Jamie gave it a shake and draped it over the seat of her barstool. She sat down on the makeshift cushion. Her comfort, however, was short-lived. Damp started seeping into the seat of her jeans. She shifted her weight uneasily, trying to look as though she was concentrating on a replacement cocktail menu. Typical English weather, the bartender smirked. She slid a bowl of peanuts in front of Jamie. What can I get you? She made eye contact. Jamie held her gaze. Surprise me, she said, realising she hadn't yet selected a cocktail. It'll have to be under a tenner, though. She apologetically smoothed out the ten-pound note onto the counter. I'm guessing this is hair of the dog time. You wouldn't be wrong there, Jamie said. Well now, let me see. The waitress turned to scan the bottles on the shelves, giving her concoction careful consideration. She took what appeared to be a jar of marmalade from the chiller cabinet. Then the theatre of her art began. Jamie watched her pour the contents of a bright orange bottle into a shaker full of crushed ice. She lost track after that. A skilfully trained mixologist, this woman provided the full works, and Jamie appreciated the spectacle of her juggling acts. Eventually, hasting from the end of a dipped-in straw and approving of her creation with a nod, the bartender finally offered a lighter flame for a sliver of orange, twisted it, and dropped it in the drink. Routine complete, she stood back, waiting for Jamie's reaction. I feel like I should be holding up scorecards after that performance. She took a long sip. Still drinking, she gave a thumbs-up. Oh, wow, now that's good. Excellent. What is it? The woman tapped a cocktail menu in front of Jamie. Call it breakfast. Jamie read. Marmalade Martini. She liked this woman's sense of humour. Any toast and a mug of breakfast tea to go with that? The bartender burned to serve the next customer. Oh, what do I owe you? Jamie picked up the ten-pound note and waved it in her direction. The bartender glanced back. On the house, she replied, with a smile. A free drink? Why? Jamie watched the bartender fill the customer's order, then take a wine glass from the rack before returning to Jamie's section of the counter. It's okay, the woman added. I'm the owner of this place. She slowly polished the wine glass. Anyhow, you look as if you could do with a nightcap, he said with a wink. Heavy night, was it? A free drink? Well, I really must look rough if you thought I needed alcohol that badly. Jamie noticed the smile lines around the woman's eyes and her mouth, deep and expressive. Jamie was an eyes-woman, and this woman used hers to communicate. Trying not to stare, Jamie took note of her simple, almost symmetrical, pear-shaped face. She had a strong, strikingly chiselled chin, and a slight Romanesque bump on the bridge of her nose. Her highlighted auburn hair was centre-parted and pulled back over her ears into a short ponytail, barely reaching the base of her neck. Was she wearing make-up? If so, it was expertly applied. For a fleeting moment, Jamie toyed at the possibility of there being a shad chemistry worth pursuing here. But the woman's attention had already turned, so the new person's custom proved more appealing. Jamie watched, mesmerised, as the bartender held the gaze of the next guy at the bar, striking up a similarly attentive conversation with him. There was something about her, he too, appeared taken in by her charm. Jamie knew it was irrational, but she had already entertained the notion that the bartender had singled her out for special attention. It seemed not. He was, after all, in the hospitality industry, and without a doubt was good at her job. Jamie made a mental note that not every woman that she found attractive was necessarily gay.