Sea Glass (WAYHAUGHT)

Sea Glass

"The committee is coming here later," Ward advised. "To talk about this quiz lark."

Waverly handed a frothy pint of Proper Job to the young guy she'd insulted. "What time?"

"Depends," her father replied. "Reckon five-ish."

She smiled at the young guy as she relieved him of his twenty pound note. Ward's idea of time was different to hers. Five o'clock could mean 5.15, or 5.30. It could even mean gone 6, if his fishermen friends decided to stop off at one of the other drinking holes before turning up at theirs.

"I'm working tonight, remember."

"A few minutes late won't do any harm."

She handed the guy his change. "I'm on my own at Sally's."

"Gonna need you here poppet. You know how Nedley takes over."

"You'll have to tell Nedley it's for everyone to decide."

"Half an hour tops."

"Fine. But, I need to be out of here by ten to six."

His boyish smile in response had her rolling her eyes.

Nedley and Ward went back a long way. Both fishermen before Nedley swapped the deck of his trawler for a desk in the harbour office, Ward turning the family's store rooms on the quayside into the pub. Like her dad, Randy had a talent for overlooking the obvious, such as his daughter's inability to tell the truth. To him, Chrissy could do no wrong, and like his daughter, Randy had a habit of taking over, particularly when it came to organising events in the village. He would come up with weird and wonderful ideas, those tasked with organisation unable to convince him otherwise, only for Randy to change his mind if it meant having to take responsibility. That was Randy Nedley for you, manager by name, duck shover by nature.

The Committee for the BBC Quiz Team Selection and Naming, as it would be known henceforth, convened its inaugural meeting shortly after 5.30pm on the third Saturday of June. Nedley was the first to speak, reeling off his suggestions, everyone around the table supping ale quietly, Waverly nervously watching the minutes roll by on her phone. At 5.57, with no sign of Randy Nedley finishing any time soon, she made an apologetic face at her father, grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair.

Three minutes to get to Sally's, the restaurant near enough for her to make it. A left out of the pub took her onto the cobbles of Jetty Street, its name too grand for what was essentially little more than a gap between buildings. Weaving her way through tourists with no sense of urgency, she passed the village social club on her right, and Hurley Books on her left, which doubled as the village information centre, taking a sharp right then a left into Tregoney Hill.

She caught Nicole singing along to Tom Jones as she entered the kitchen. Unseen, Waverly hovered by the door listening to a half-decent rendition of Sex Bomb, watching Nicole's tight ass wiggle to the rhythm.

"Someone's happy," she said, as the song ended.

"Fuck!" Nicole cried out, holding up her hand, blood dripping from her thumb.

"Oh fuck. Sorry, sorry." Waverly grabbed the First Aid box from the wall. "Let me."

"Hazard of the job," Nicole replied, a cloth catching most of the drips.

"Let me see."

Nicole held out her hand.

"You might not be able to play the piano again," Waverly said, inspecting the cut.

"Damn," Nicole replied. "Just as well I never learnt."

The distinctive scent of orchid fabric conditioner drifted from Nicole's tunic.