Page 7 of The Loneliest Number (The Thirst Trap #3)

Chapter six

Pixie

D espite seeing plenty of vans parked up outside and hearing building-type noises from inside each time I make an excuse to walk past The Juniper, I am yet to catch even the smallest glimpse of the inside.

It’s making me antsy and becoming an obsession.

I need to know. I’ve never been this crazy about a building before—not even my tiny bedsit, which is my den to hide away from the world when I need to.

I love that place. It may just be a rental, but I’ve carefully curated my second-hand and upcycled furniture to make it mine.

Tom, Cass, and Jack have just purchased their own place further out of town, and I’m excited to visit and get the tour, and make friends with the dog they’re talking about getting.

But this old, crumbling building that has nothing to do with me, other than being just down the road from where I work, and that I walk past most days, has lured me.

I even did an internet search last night, trying to find out the history of the place.

I couldn’t find much, but no doubt there’s more digging to be done.

Deep in my search, I found mention of it being used as some kind of club for rich folks in the roaring twenties all the way through to the forties.

I had visions of flapper dresses and people smoking cigarettes on long sticks a la Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s .

I could picture the sparkling chandeliers and the Art Deco style.

It seemed to be empty during the Second World War.

More recently, it had been a pub and at one point also offered hotel rooms on the upper floors.

Today, I’m heading towards work a little earlier.

I’m going to visit the bakery across the road from The Juniper and hope there’s space at one of their tiny outdoor tables to grab a coffee and a cake before my shift.

Perhaps there’ll be a little more activity at the building as I sit and watch.

I was so tempted to borrow some binoculars, but realised that would border on levels of crazy obsession that I’m not willing to tell my friends about.

I can’t even decide which of my friends would be more likely to own binoculars.

Perhaps I should buy some. You can get anything delivered these days, including spy equipment.

My mind takes one of its tangents, and I imagine planting a listening bug in the building to hear what they’re doing. And I might even hear the plans for the place that could help Tom and The Thirst Trap.

I rub at my chest, at the conflict of wanting this beautiful building to be made good and brought back to life, but the fear that it could lead to my home and family of choice at The Thirst Trap being under threat.

Maybe it will be a stuffy old man’s pub, attracting completely different customers to our place.

‘Our’ place. It’s not really. It’s Tom’s.

But after so many years, it feels like mine too.

I’m there most days. I’ve cleaned every inch of it.

Made friends with the regulars and got to know their names and their drink orders.

The Thirst Trap has become my safe place, and my boss and his partners are the closest thing to family I know.

My steps speed up as I head towards the corner.

A van pulls up, and a guy in what can only be described as workman’s clothes steps out.

He’s tall and chunky and his gait sparks a memory of chatting with Saffy as we headed towards that cute little Italian restaurant.

Cam had trailed behind us while we talked but overtook us to hold the door open.

I shake my head. Over five million Scots, Abby. It won’t be him.

He opens the back doors of the van and lifts out a toolbox that he sets down at his feet. He leans back in to reach for something else, and I can’t help but admire the way his black multi-pocketed trousers stretch across his arse.

My steps slow this time, for two reasons: to take the time to admire this guy as he pulls more tools from his van, setting them at his feet before reaching in again.

He even straps a tool belt to his waist. I also hope that by the time he’s got everything he needs, I’m positioned appropriately to offer help to take them inside and get a proper look.

I might even be able to talk to him about the plans for the building.

I stop to admire some brightly coloured pansies in a planter outside a shop, keeping one eye on him.

He can’t plan to carry all of this in one go, surely?

He finally closes the doors of the van and locks it with a click of his key fob. This is my chance. I move forward, ready to offer my assistance, when he turns towards me.

No.

It can’t be.

This has to be all in my mind.

I’ve conjured him from all that late night staring at his phone number.

I reach up to rub my eyes, suddenly understanding why it’s the go-to reaction for cartoon characters who can’t quite believe what they’re seeing. It doesn’t change anything. I don’t know what to do.

But my mouth, the body organ that gets me into the most trouble, does. And I shout, “Cam,” to get his attention.