floral cotton shirt that fitted around her bust then flared out. She’d worn blue jeans and a pair of cute heels, simple and comfy, but, for her, dressy.
She smoothed a peach lip-gloss over her lips and put on a smile, telling herself she was wide awake. “Steve, you got any coffee back there?”
“Forget coffee, Steve. Energy drink and vodka, please.” Betty pulled out a ten-pound note from her purse and slammed it on the counter. “Hey, we made four hundred quid, last I heard. They do the official tally up at the end of karaoke.”
“It was quite an experience, and the community spirit was boundless.” Zoe yawned. “I’m glad you roped me in.”
“Wake up.” Betty tapped Zoe’s still half-full beer bottle. “Surely you can put more energy into the night than this, or are you an old woman? Finish your drink so you can get another.”
Zoe cradled the one bottle of beer she’d been nursing all night. “I’m the designated driver. You want to get back tonight, right?”
“We’ll get a taxi.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Betty Mostyn?”
“ Moi ?” Betty fluttered her eyelashes and plastered on a coy smile.
Another woman Zoe recognized from yoga spilled herself over the bar. Flo. Her boobs hung out of her low top, and she wore leopard-print leggings with her hair pulled back into a high updo so big and bouncy it was like something she’d see on a Sunday morning in church back home, not in a back-of-nowhere village pub in Wales.
Flo garbled her words. “Hey, I’m not driving. I’ll take hers. How about a Babycham?”
Steve, the rather short barman with thinning ginger hair and a belly flopping over his baggy jeans, reached into a mini fridge and pulled out a small green bottle. He uncapped the drink and passed it over. “It’s on me, Flo.”
The woman grinned and slurred, “Bottoms up.”
“ Lechyd da .” Steve saluted. “But the drink comes with a promise.”
“You know it.” Flo licked her lips. “I’ll sing later, love. A bit of Lulu. I know she’s your favorite.”
Flo took her bottle, slid off the barstool, and staggered to one of the round tables surrounded by plastic chairs. She joined a few other women Zoe also knew from yoga.
Customers chattered and went through the song list, their bustle and smiles suggesting they were eager to take to the stage.
“So, this karaoke. It’s something you do every year after the fete?” Zoe asked.
“ Ia .” Betty pulled out a cosmetic mirror. She got busy fixing herself up with lipstick and concealer, and a dash of highlighter on her high cheekbones. “Is he looking?”
Zoe scanned the room for Reverend Thomas. He sat several feet back, in deep conversation with a group of men. “He’s not looking.”
“Good.” Betty rubbed her lips together then smacked out a kiss. “There, much more human-looking now.”
“You don’t really need backup singers. Something tells me most everyone here tonight is dying to get their sing on.”
“Backup singers? Oh, yeah, I may have twisted the truth somewhat.”
“So, if I’m not here as a backup singer—”
“You’re here to host.”
Zoe pushed her drink to the side and tapped her forehead on the bar. “Host?”
“ Ia , with Dylan. David will be singing a lot, too.”
She side-eyed Betty. “Talking of Dylan. Where is he?”
“Dunno.” Still rubbing her lips together to spread out the lipstick, the woman scanned the room. Her eyes lit, and a smile spread so wide it puffed her cheeks up. “Oh, look who’s here.”
Zoe turned to see what had pleasured her so.
David slinked toward them, his usual thick, raven locks greased back, and he wore tight-ass black jeans that left nothing to the imagination. He’d be singing soprano tonight was Zoe’s guess.
Her gaze wandered to his package, and she gestured with a nod in the right direction for Betty to see. “Impressive.”
Betty crossed her arms and nodded, a glint sparkling in her blue eyes. “Interested
She smoothed a peach lip-gloss over her lips and put on a smile, telling herself she was wide awake. “Steve, you got any coffee back there?”
“Forget coffee, Steve. Energy drink and vodka, please.” Betty pulled out a ten-pound note from her purse and slammed it on the counter. “Hey, we made four hundred quid, last I heard. They do the official tally up at the end of karaoke.”
“It was quite an experience, and the community spirit was boundless.” Zoe yawned. “I’m glad you roped me in.”
“Wake up.” Betty tapped Zoe’s still half-full beer bottle. “Surely you can put more energy into the night than this, or are you an old woman? Finish your drink so you can get another.”
Zoe cradled the one bottle of beer she’d been nursing all night. “I’m the designated driver. You want to get back tonight, right?”
“We’ll get a taxi.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Betty Mostyn?”
“ Moi ?” Betty fluttered her eyelashes and plastered on a coy smile.
Another woman Zoe recognized from yoga spilled herself over the bar. Flo. Her boobs hung out of her low top, and she wore leopard-print leggings with her hair pulled back into a high updo so big and bouncy it was like something she’d see on a Sunday morning in church back home, not in a back-of-nowhere village pub in Wales.
Flo garbled her words. “Hey, I’m not driving. I’ll take hers. How about a Babycham?”
Steve, the rather short barman with thinning ginger hair and a belly flopping over his baggy jeans, reached into a mini fridge and pulled out a small green bottle. He uncapped the drink and passed it over. “It’s on me, Flo.”
The woman grinned and slurred, “Bottoms up.”
“ Lechyd da .” Steve saluted. “But the drink comes with a promise.”
“You know it.” Flo licked her lips. “I’ll sing later, love. A bit of Lulu. I know she’s your favorite.”
Flo took her bottle, slid off the barstool, and staggered to one of the round tables surrounded by plastic chairs. She joined a few other women Zoe also knew from yoga.
Customers chattered and went through the song list, their bustle and smiles suggesting they were eager to take to the stage.
“So, this karaoke. It’s something you do every year after the fete?” Zoe asked.
“ Ia .” Betty pulled out a cosmetic mirror. She got busy fixing herself up with lipstick and concealer, and a dash of highlighter on her high cheekbones. “Is he looking?”
Zoe scanned the room for Reverend Thomas. He sat several feet back, in deep conversation with a group of men. “He’s not looking.”
“Good.” Betty rubbed her lips together then smacked out a kiss. “There, much more human-looking now.”
“You don’t really need backup singers. Something tells me most everyone here tonight is dying to get their sing on.”
“Backup singers? Oh, yeah, I may have twisted the truth somewhat.”
“So, if I’m not here as a backup singer—”
“You’re here to host.”
Zoe pushed her drink to the side and tapped her forehead on the bar. “Host?”
“ Ia , with Dylan. David will be singing a lot, too.”
She side-eyed Betty. “Talking of Dylan. Where is he?”
“Dunno.” Still rubbing her lips together to spread out the lipstick, the woman scanned the room. Her eyes lit, and a smile spread so wide it puffed her cheeks up. “Oh, look who’s here.”
Zoe turned to see what had pleasured her so.
David slinked toward them, his usual thick, raven locks greased back, and he wore tight-ass black jeans that left nothing to the imagination. He’d be singing soprano tonight was Zoe’s guess.
Her gaze wandered to his package, and she gestured with a nod in the right direction for Betty to see. “Impressive.”
Betty crossed her arms and nodded, a glint sparkling in her blue eyes. “Interested
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