“I dropped her off at her mum and dad’s house so she could freshen up first.”
My ears pricked up. Of course, if Toby was back it meant Tess was, too. I wanted to dance on the balls of my feet with excitement. I hadn’t seen Toby’s girlfriend for years, but we often emailed each other. It was hard to believe that once upon a time I used to be horrible to Tess. She’d been a waitress here – I was fifteen and she was a few years older and helping out my dad for the summer. I cringed at the memories of how I’d behaved. She was the sweetest, kindest person I knew; there was good reason why everyone loved her. When she finished Year Twelve, Toby and Tess moved to Western Australia where he got a great job as a diesel mechanic and Tess went to university. Tess had talked about how they wanted to drive across the Nullarbor and back home one summer, but they never got the chance because they were always working. Well, I guess this summer it finally happened and I was thrilled about it.
“Is Tess coming by later?” I asked hopefully.
“For sure. Actually we kind of hoped we could have dinner here?” Toby looked for a bar menu.
“Oh.” I cringed. “We don’t have meals on at the moment, sorry.”
Toby smiled. “No worries; just means I can flog these blokes on the pool table instead.”
Sean and Ringer cat-called in outrage. “Challenge accepted,” Sean said.
I shook my head, laughing at the familiarity.
“Toby, did you want a drink? On the house.”
“No thanks, Amy, I better get back and see what Tess is up to.”
“Come back around seven, give yourself a chance to warm up before you disgrace yourself on the pool table,” said Sean.
Toby grinned before putting his sunnies back on and heading for the door. “Yep! Nothing changes in Onslow.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was hard to believe that in the last twenty-four hours, I had been to the city and back, fired my sole staff member, and now was looking at opening and operating the bar all on my own.
It was a little overwhelming.
Ringer and Sean left not long after Toby, each having some things to catch up on and no doubt needing to freshen up before they met up with Toby tonight. I wanted to pull Sean aside and talk to him about the whole locksmith bill, but he didn’t give me a chance.
I scrawled ‘Open at six p.m.’ on a piece of paper and stuck it to the door. Figured I’d give myself a chance to freshen up, have a shower, and get ready for the full-on night that was to come. Much to my astonishment, Matt had started restocking the cooler room that morning, so that was one less thing I had to worry about.
My mobile rang when I was in the shower, but a herd of wild horses could not have driven me away from the delicious cascade of water that re-energised me. Covering myself in a towel and my hair up in a turbanesque wrap, I picked up my phone and found one missed call, one voice message. Mum.
“Hi, honey, it’s just me,” she said. “Hope you got back safely. They’re releasing Dad in the morning, so don’t stress. He’s well and will be home soon. Love you and talk to you soon.”
Aside from our rather heated discussion this morning, it was classic Claire Henderson to just forget about what had happened, as if the conversation had never taken place, and we would just go on our merry little way. Until she had some real estate agent goose-stepping through the property with a clipboard, no doubt. I wondered what would happen if Dad demanded she give up her swish town house in the city because it wasn’t ‘financially viable’. What then? I knew she would have a pink fit, that’s what. I couldn’t wait to get Dad on his own – it was my hope that Mum hadn’t managed to brainwash him into believing that selling the Onslow was a good idea. The Dad of old would not have agreed in a million years to sell the pub, but the Dad of new? The hip, gel-in-hair, clean-shaven, metrosexual, post-heart-attack version of Dad? Well, I didn’t entirely know. If there was one thing I agreed with Mum on, though, I wasn’t going to stress him out with my vehement disapproval of selling. Instead, I would let my actions speak louder than words: I would bring the Onslow back to life, prove that it can be financially viable and show them exactly why they shouldn’t sell.
It was four-fifty p.m. and I suddenly felt ill. In a bit over an hour, I was going to open the pub for the first time, and run the bar on my own. On a Saturday night. I couldn’t bear to think about it.
I blow-dried my long, brown hair into sleek, straight strips where it fell midway down my back. Lately I had been sleeves up, scrubbing floors, cleaning windows and drains, scrubbing fridges, and doing little else, but no doubt generally looking like a sweaty feral. But tonight was different. I was going to be the face of the Onslow, the acting manager, so to speak. I wanted to make an effort, to look nice. Decent. Dare I say … sexy? Cringe. I thought of all the reasoning behind my sudden effort in my appearance. But against my better judgment, every now and then Sean’s voice kept popping into my head, or a memory of his wicked smile. As I put my mascara on, my mum’s words echoed in my head.