In this scene, Fayth is working in the family pub when her ex-husband Patrick appears. She desperately tries to avoid him, but it doesn’t quite go according to plan…
‘What?’ Fayth slammed the baking tray she’d been holding on to the island. A couple of rogue Yorkshire puddings jumped out and fell to the floor. Did it not bother him that she was at work?
‘What does he want?’ asked Fayth.
Brooke shrugged, leaning against the wall by the door. She tossed her long, dark hair away from her face. ‘A pint, I’m guessing.’
That was the problem with living in a village: all the other pubs had closed—including Patrick’s former haunt, The Swann Inn—leaving only the Campbell family’s Cock and Bull left.
‘Did he mention me?’
‘Nope. Just Stella,’ said Brooke.
Stella? Who was Stella? Was that the name of the woman he’d cheated on her with? But that had been in Magaluf. What would she be doing in the pub?
He drank Stella Artois. Idiot.
‘Want me to get rid of him?’
Fayth sighed. She did want Brooke to kick Patrick out, but that wouldn’t do the pub any favours. Isolating him would also isolate his friends and family, and their friends and family, and who knows how much custom they’d lose just from kicking out her prick of an ex-husband? Getting customers into a village pub was difficult enough as it was.
‘No, it’s OK. I’ll just stay in here.’ Fayth picked up a knife from the counter behind her and twirled it between her fingers. The movements relaxed her somewhat.
‘I don’t see why you don’t just get rid of him,’ said Brooke, studying her cuticles.
‘Because we can’t afford to isolate half the village because Patrick can’t keep his wee cock in his pants,’ said Fayth.
Brooke rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever you say, sis. It’s your call. I need to head back to college. Dad’s still out there if you change your mind.’ She pushed the door open with her arse and slid through it, leaving Fayth along in the pub kitchen. Fayth slammed the knife on to the island. Stupid fucking ex-husband. Avoiding people was so much easier in big cities.
The lunch shift nearing its end, Fayth was running out of excuses to avoid Patrick. Hopefully he’d leave long before the pub closed, that way she wouldn’t have to face him. In the meantime, she could continue to hide in the kitchen with the sharp objects. Not that she’d considered hurting Patrick. Much.
Except for taking her kitchen knife to his wee, cheating cock once or twice. It wasn’t like he knew how to use it anyway.
Standing at the sink, she scrubbed a chopping board and imagined it was Patrick’s face. She scrubbed away his freckles. His god awful ginger beard. His dishwater brown eyes. His smug face. His cheating cock. His—
The chugging noise of a small engine came from outside. Fayth peered through the kitchen window. Hollie drove past, gigantic sunglasses covering half her face. It wasn’t that sunny outside. Typical Hollie.
The sound of Hollie’s car engine to made Fayth realise just how much she’d missed and needed her best friend over the last few months. Running from the safety of the kitchen, she ran into the bar area…and straight into Patrick. She hit him with a thud, bouncing off him and stumbling to regain her balance. He reached out to help her, but she swatted him away.
‘Fayth! How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Along,’ she replied, staring at his battered brogues. She was pretty sure he’d worn the same shoes at their wedding. They were heavily scuffed and in need of a serious polish.
‘You’re so funny, Fayth. You’ve always been funny,’ he said, a smile on his bearded face. It was bigger than the last time she’d seen him. And still ugly.
Fayth frowned. ‘What do you want, Patrick?’
‘Why don’t you call me Paddy anymore? I miss it. I always hated that name, but not when you said it. You’re the only one that’s allowed to call me Paddy.’
She rolled her eyes. She really wasn’t in the mood for a trip down Memory Lane, let alone one that was headed straight for Take Me Back, I Need You Street.
The door flung open before Fayth had chance to respond. Hollie burst in, her Jackie O-style sunglasses juxtaposed with a grey Billabong ski jacket, jeans, and her signature ankle boots.
Fayth ran to Hollie and embraced her, taking in her usual smell of vanilla and blackcurrant, with a side of hair dye. Her hair had been dyed various shades of red since Hollie was a teenager. She refused to acknowledge what her natural hair colour was, and she’d been a redhead for so long most people had forgotten what it was anyway—Fayth included. Her latest hair colour choice was a blood red, somewhere between a natural red and obnoxious, in-your-face red. It suited her.
‘Hollie,’ said Patrick, his voice dripping with disdain. He’d never liked her. He blamed her for Fayth wanting a divorce. Him cheating on her wasn’t a valid reason, apparently.
What Happens in New York is out now in ebook and print!