I exhale. A stressful day at the office behind me, I get off the tube and walk down the street towards home. I pass our local pub and pause "Maybe a quick drink to unwind a little" I think to myself before retracing my steps, heels clicking on the flagstones, and push open the door to the dim interior.
My eyes quickly take in the familiar surroundings. This place is a haunt for my husband and myself at weekends, but I rarely venture in during the week. I nod to the bartender, Simon, who responds with his usual surly grunt. He only shows animation when talking to customers about football and tends to ignore female clientele.
"White wine" I say, followed a second later with "...please" as I remember my manners despite my irritation. As Simon pours my drink, I glance along the bar at the sparsely populated room. My brow knits into a frown as I spot David at the end of the counter in his usual position. A large boorish man whose political correctness comes out of an early 1970s playbook. He is a permanent fixture in these premises, and currently engaged in animated laddish chat with another man who has a familiar face but whose name I have forgotten. As they are the only other customers, I quickly hover my card over the machine to pay for my drink and escort it to the corner table furthest from the bar.
I slip my hand under my short black work skirt as I shimmy into the red leather booth seat, the movement reminding me that I usually patronise the bar in far more casual clothing. I swiftly remove my matching black blazer as the warmth of the bar penetrates my body. I straighten my white blouse -- still crisp from its starch even at the tail-end of the day -- and stretch out my stockinged legs beneath the table as I relax.
After a few sips of the cool wine, I begin to feel human again. My eyes flicker to the TV screens dotted around the room all showing some foreign football match but with the sound, blissfully, turned off. Continuing my tour of the space, I smile slightly at the empty pool table at the far end. A common point of focus during busy Saturday nights I enjoy winning often. My modestly competent technique combines with the arrogant male assumption that 'women can't play pool' to send the confident men back, chastened, to the bar after I show them just how wrong they are. The fact that my winning irritates the hell out of chauvinistic David makes each victory doubly sweet.
Lost in my enjoyable reverie, I had barely registered the new entrant to the bar and was calmly replaying past triumphant games in my mind when a half-familiar voice disturbs my quiet.
"Sarah?"
I blink, frowning quizzically as I look up at the man who has approached my table. He obviously knows me, or my name at least, and I am sure I have heard his voice before but despite the sound teasing at my mind, no recollection arrives.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I say primly, looking up from my seated position to the tall man looming over the table as I admit my ignorance. My failure to recognise the new arrival does not seem to perturb him though, in fact a small grin grows across his face.
"It's me, Jon, from school."
I am acutely aware of his intense scrutiny as realisation dawns. I keep a calm poker face though I tighten my grip on the wine glass. 'Jon' -- the very name is irritating to me, generating a Pavlovian response of stress and anger. At school he was a perennial pest, almost a bully, and particularly enjoyed playing 'jokes' on me. I pout but then force myself to relax -- we are not at school now and much has changed.
"Oh yes, of course. Long-time no see." I respond flippantly with my tone of voice carefully kept neutral signalling neither annoyance nor encouragement.
"Good to see you again!" He grins, "Mind if I...?" he continues, gesturing to the seat opposite me. My instinct is to refuse the request as I have no desire to rake over the past but still in my professional clothes, my professional mode kicks in automatically and I consent, nodding once, unenthusiastically. My body unconsciously shows its discomfort as I fidget, arching my back, my 34C breasts pressing against the thin white blouse that holds them.
"How's it going, titch?"
Jon continues as he casually drops into the place opposite me, his strong arms resting on the table after setting his pint down carefully in front of himself. I try to read his expression as I wonder if he knows how much that old school name annoys me or whether it was just casual habit on his part. I am sensitive about my height; five-foot-tall (or should that be small?) has meant a life of looking up to people -- especially men.
"Fine"
I reply simply, discouraging further talk as the taunting name sets my teeth on edge and I try to blot out old memories.
There is a pause in the conversation as Jon gauges the situation, watching me evenly as he takes a drink from his beer. After a moment, he chuckles softly,
"Remember that time when..."
He begins before I rapidly cut him off, responding sharply,
"That was a long time ago..."
I eye him suspiciously as he grins, aware that he is savouring the incident -- I know which one -- when he pulled my skirt up in front of the class. Even the long-ago memory of the situation sends a shiver of frustration and embarrassment through my body, heightening my senses and making me aware of my current underwear pressing against my naked body beneath.
"...and I think you'll find I've come a long way since then."
I continue with a haughty sniff, raising my glass to my lips as I look away, waiting for my pulse to return to normal as Jon enjoys my reaction.
"Oh? Not such a loser anymore?" he laughs, setting my teeth on edge. I stare round the room, eyes alighting on the deserted pool table once more which gives me a sudden idea.
