Page 40 of Little Miss Fortune

More eyes are on me. Ugh, this is awful. Toby hands me a knife and an empty Estrella glass. I plead with him with my eyes, but he is unrelenting, pointing at the dormant bell on the charm in my hand, making me regret telling him about it. I clink the glass with the knife. I am more shame than woman at this point. The pub is now unilaterally glaring in my direction.

‘Hi, everyone.’ I put on a cheerful voice and a sincere smile. ‘Me and my colleague are here on a strange mission.’

I still have their attention. This is a miracle.

‘We are in desperate need of a venue for about a hundred, a hundred and fifty people that has an alcohol license, in London, and is available for next Saturday.’

A couple of heads turn back to football; some tables resume their conversations.

Think, Fuko. What do British people respond to?

‘If we book a venue in the next twenty-five minutes, this man will buy all of the participants a pint.’

The pub explodes with gleeful wheeeeys. Toby stares at me with an astonished look but caves under the pressure of a chant that the patrons begin.

‘Twickenham Stadium!’ A man shouts and points at TV.

‘Hugh, that’s ridiculous, that. You don’t know anyone that could set that up.’

‘I have a cousin in the Richmond Council.’

‘Yeah, he’s a waste officer. What’s he got to do with Twickenham Stadium?’

‘Great energy, gentlemen, keep it coming,’ I say to the table of four.

Toby hangs his shirt over the Today’s Special’s board and uses the acrylic marker to write any contacts that people are giving us.

A woman in the corner pulled out her phone about ten minutes ago and hasn’t said anything since. She has short grey hair, fuchsia painted lips and nails (both fingers and toes), and very strong perfume. She keeps giving me a wink and a smile when I walk past.

‘Called a mate from Croydon. They have a hall for about a hundred people,’ Precious, a school librarian, shouts at Toby.

After a short conversation over the phone, he shakes his head and crosses out the number on his shirt. ‘He doesn’t have a PPL.’

Ah, the damn music licences have caught out three other patrons. The pub groans at another failed opportunity to get a free pint.

‘What about Tooting Common?’ shouts the bar staff. ‘They have some festivals and all that.’

‘Can’t be outdoors. Might get a noise complaint.’ Toby shakes his head.

‘Gentlemen, I believe the search is over.’ The woman with lipstick stands up. ‘I’m Jo. My son-in-law is the owner of a mildly reputable establishment. All the licences, five hundred people capacity, and security available on the day.’

‘What’s the venue called?’ I ask.

‘It’s a nightclub called Judgement.’

No fricking way.

She tells Toby the phone number. He writes it down on the shirt, calls the number, talks to the man, and when he hangs up, he circles the final number he’d written down. ‘We have a winner.’

You would think England had just won the Euros by the volume and happiness of the guttural screams. ‘Get in!’

The men at the table of four link arms with me and sway from side to side. Precious and Jo are clapping us along. Toby heads to the bar and counts everyone involved.

This was completely ridiculous—and the most fun I’ve had in a while.

A faint jingle carries through the celebrations.

CHAPTER 14