forWales. I purse my lips and beep my horn again, then again, and again. God, I love my horn. This is the second horn I’ve had on this car. I wore the first one out. I’m very proud of that.
My local pub is the best pub in the area. It’s called The Festering Carbuncle and is thankfully more pleasant than its name suggests. The Festering Carbuncle is a gastro pub, I’ll have you know, and it’s run by probably the nicest man alive. In fact, if there were to be a Nicest Man in the Universe competition, I would enter Anton and put all my money on him. I don’t know how old he is, but he must be getting on for about fifty because he has a son my age and he’s done a host of exciting things in his life. He was a roadie for U2 for years, then, when he left that job, he had a photographic exhibition showing all the photos he’d taken of the band over the years. It was a big success and afterwards other bands asked him to photograph them, so he spent a few years touring with The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Blur. When he found himself rocked out, he bought The Festering Carbuncle, which in those days really was a festering carbuncle. Anton did it up, put lots of his photos on the walls, employed lovely staff and set about his other passion, which is cooking.
The Festering Carbuncle was one of the deciding factors in me buying my flat. That and the fact that it was the only flat I could afford. I walked into the pub with Friendly Wendy, having just viewed my future home, and Anton was sat on one of the wooden tables with three staff eating bangers and mash. Proper looking juicy sausages, creamy mash and gravy. Wendy and I stood in the doorway, our mouths watering, transfixed.The pub wasn’t even officially open then, but Anton sat us down with them and gave us sausage, mash and mugs of tea, and told us all about the area. As soon as I’d wiped the last bit of gravy off my plate with a slice of homemade crusty bread, I called and put an offer in.
‘All right, love, calm down,’ a man says as he passes my car while I beep the horn.
‘I am a wronged estate agent and it’s my birthday. I can’t calm down,’ I shout back at him.
‘Gracie Flowers,’ says Anton, walking out of the pub towards me.
The sight of Anton always makes me smile. He’s tall. Mind you, everyone’s tall to me. I think Friendly Wendy is tall and she’s only five foot three and a half. Anton’s got a lot of hair. It’s got grey in it, but you wouldn’t say he’s grey. He’s still brown. His is a Hugh Grant circa
Four Weddings and a Funeral
style. He’s not buff but he’s quite fit looking. He takes his dog, Keith Moon, on a long walk everyday and I suppose he must lift barrels and things while he’s working to keep in shape. He always wears loose cotton shirts and jeans. He’s very comfortable in his own skin, is Anton. He’s just simply lovely.
‘For you, my darling,’ he says and hands me a plate with a bacon sandwich on it. See what I mean! He’s lovely.
‘Oh, Anton, really? It’s my only birthday present!’
‘Oh Gracie, I didn’t know. Will you be in tomorrow for the karaoke? The first of many, I hope.’
‘Oh.’ I pause. I loathe karaoke. ‘Probably not.’
‘Oh well, try to make it. I’ll sing you a special birthday song.’
I wince inwardly and change the subject.
‘How’s Freddie doing?’ Freddie is Anton’s son, a handsome young lawyer who Friendly Wendy is in love with.
‘Ah, he wanted to talk to you about getting on the property ladder. Something like your flat …’
‘Maisonette.’
‘I do apologise, maisonette, would be perfect.’
‘Has he got my number? Here take my card. Or …’ Brainwave. ‘He could call Wendy, he’s got her number, she could talk him through the properties we’ve got—’
‘I think he wanted to be looked after by the super estate agent that is Gracie Flowers.’
Damn.
‘Cheers, mate.’ Danny slaps Anton on the back as he bounds
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