Eunice Yeates - Setting The Bar

Without looking, the barman stops pouring when he reaches the brim of his stainless steel measure. He tips 175 millilitres of Chardonnay into a stem glass and pushes it across the counter. Justine stares. He knows that stare. Would you prefer a large? How much larger would that be? She glances at Neil, who makes no eye contact but his face is registering London prices. 250ml, the barman tells her. The number means nothing to Justine. She passes the glass back to him. Go on, so. Neil settles up, grabs his pint by the neck, and makes for a high-top in the corner. Justine follows. The barstools are backless and she doesn’t like them. Position readjusted, she raises her glass, but Neil has already downed a long draught and is burping softly into the palm of his hand. Lovely, says Justine, as if she were talking about the pub. When the first swallow disappoints her, she quickly takes another. Better. Then another, just to be sure. Her fingers relax, her jaw softens. This wine, she thinks, is worth every ha’penny of its nine quid pour; 13% alcohol earning its keep. She sips again.

A man passing their table misses his footing and stumbles into Neil whose pint sloshes but does not spill. Mate, sorry. He raises his hands in apology. Before her fiancé can react, Justine chimes in. No worries, you’re grand. With a flourish, the man turns his two hands to thumbs-up, then heads to the bar. The fuck’d you do that for? Justine shrugs. Say nothing. Don’t set him off. After all, it’s the first time they’ve been away together. The wine’s gorgeous, Neil. Fucking want to be. She stalls a moment. Only words, she tells herself. Not his fault, knowing what she knows. Will I get you another beer? He pretends to adjust the strap of his wristwatch, taking longer than he needs to refasten it. After a while he sighs and looks away. I’ll go up in a minute.

The bar is busy. Near the door, a pianist plays notes that rise above the hum of conversation and the staccato of sudden laughter. Justine sees three pals sharing a bottle of fizz. She likes how they lean in to listen to each other. Easy friends. In the candlelight, she reaches across and touches Neil’s arm. He stands so abruptly that his stool scrapes the floor. Same again, he grunts. It isn’t a question. She turns to watch him walk away. Observing his gait, anyone else might perceive a hostile man—something about the set of his shoulders—but she knows this for a vulnerability. No one likes Neil. Her friends can’t stand him. Don’t marry him, her mother pleads. Thinking about it, she feels suddenly sad. A tap on the shoulder startles her. Excuse me, a middle-aged woman is saying. Yes? I’m sitting there—the woman indicates a table close by—look, it’s none of my business, but I can see that he’s not very nice to you. Justine tenses. Absolutely none of your business. I know. Sorry. It’s just, I’ve been where I think you are. You don’t have to stay, you know? I had to tell you that. You know nothing. Justine raises her voice. About me. About him. No. Okay. Sure. I’ll go. But please be careful. There are tears in Justine’s eyes when Neil returns from the bar. He doesn’t notice because he doesn’t look at her. Nine fucking quid, he says, slamming her drink down. Then he necks half of his pint in one go. Cheers, she replies.

Lady. Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas

©Eunice Yeates