Chapter 23
Saturday 5th October, 2024
The Pear Tree, Crockenhill, London
"Kit! I don't know what to say! It's beautiful!"
Harriet stands motionless, with the light twinkling of tiny tears in her eyes. Greta clutches her tiny hands in enjoyment, beaming with a toothy smile that could light the night sky, and stamps her Gucci GG's excitedly.
Stassi: Jesus, look at the size of that thing.
Zola: Is it real?
Josie spits 'of course not' but draws nearer to inspect, nonetheless.
Harriet: Who cares! It looks real!
Kit has a smug smile plastered across his face – it took him seven gruelling hours yesterday to strategically hang sixty-four mixed-size pears within the foliage of the faux pear tree, and there were only 6 casualties – three dropped and shattered, but the others were tossed into the bin because he was sick of the sight of fruit. A small golden disco balls dangles in the center of the ceiling, hanging down like a beehive, and the reflections sprinkle tiny floating discs of light around the room that look like baby honeybee's amongst the twisty vines.
Faye: Yeah, Michelangelo's shaking in his boots. But can someone else get behind this bar and help me serve?
There's silence around the table as the O'Hare ladies exchange innocent 'not me' glances amongst themselves.
Angel: Someone else is you, Kit.
Kit bolts upright and neatens his black Palm Angel's polo shirt – the latest favourite hand-me-down from Angel – and then nods obediently whilst picking up the few empty glasses in front of him.
Maura leans against the tulip table with her gin and tonic still half-full, and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at Angel. She cups her left ear as Angel rolls his eyes.
Angel: Please.
Kit: Urgh.
Kit isn't sure what alternative universe he's been living in for the last few weeks, but he wants off the ride. He wants to pinch himself and wake up, back in a world where Maura wants to stab Angel, and Angel just wants to stab everyone; a world where Josie is a walking, talking grenade and Stassi eats blood oranges. But here he is, standing amongst the chaos, where Maura wants to touch Angel, Angel's swapped out fighting talk for pillow talk, Josie continuously cries into the bald, wrinkled head of Floss, the World's most purple cat, and blood oranges are a thing of the past – now, it's all about the pears.
Stassi purses her semi-smiling lips and flashes Maura an 'I'm impressed' pout. The invisible leash wrapped around Angel's neck looks great in Maura's hands, and, despite the fact that Stassi usually deplores the women Angel passes his time with, she finds the Martucci's rather endearing; they seem to be teaching her precious son lessons that she never could.
Thanks to Josie's expertise at social media, word of The Pear Tree's grand opening spread quicker than the Great Fire of London and the bar is busying up with inquisitive Gen-Z's from out of town who want to take an insta-worthy selfie in Crockenhill's sexy new Italian-themed cocktail lounge – unlike the actual residents of Crockenhill, and anyone living three miles afar, who wouldn't choose to spend their Saturday nights mingling with Angel even if you paid them to. None of them, that is, except Otis Ratt - much to Faye's delight.
He approaches the tall table where Angel and his family are gathered. Even in a room full of people, they stand out like a sore thumb – like a band of bodyguards protecting something precious.
Otis: I like what you've done with the place.
Stassi: What Kit has done with the place, ye' mean. Angel's been...
She looks Maura up and down with a cocky smirk and raises a single eyebrow.
Stassi: Busy.
Maura rolls her eyes, sipping her gin and tonic, but cannot deny that she's been his biggest distraction. It's actually a badge that she's quite proud to wear.
Angel: If I'd have known you were coming Otis, I'd have baked a cake.
Otis: If I knew you baked it, Angel, I wouldn't fucking eat it.
Angel throws his head back and laughs, but he isn't really fooled - he knows deep down that Otis is on the look out - he doesn't care much for people or pears, but people popping pinks under a plastic pear tree would definitely spark his interest.
Maura: What can we get you to drink, Inspector?
Angel holds a palm out in objection, ready to explain that Otis doesn't care for a drink, ever. But Otis smiles politely and opens his mouth first.
Otis: Malibu and milk please.
Angel looks at him, baffled, as Maura leaves to join the queue. He has never known Otis to accept anything wet other than bottled water, so seeing Otis debut on team Malibu-And-Milk at five-thirty in the afternoon comes as quite the revelation. Angel always had him down as an aged-barrel whisky man – old, austere, and just a little bit salty. But definitely not exotic or sickly-sweet.
Angel: Malibu and milk? Really, Ratt?
Otis: Rum's not just for pirates, Angel.
Angel: No? Oh, I think we both know that it is.
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Trestle
Mystery / Thriller**SMUT warning** Following the death of his racketeer father, Angel is left to manage the O'Hare family's rugged affairs. He vows to worship his girls and protect them from the threat of poverty, sin, and dangerous men like himself. But when debts c...
