Page 1 of In the Frame

Chapter One

The fact is I’m kind of a shit bartender in a not-so-shit London bar. A popular bar full of discerning hipsters with deep pockets and others who want to be seen. It’s my first Saturday night working here at my new job. Which is exactly what I need to be doing to bring in some cash and not spend money I can’t afford on supplies from the local art shop around the corner in Soho.

Forget that my new boss has all the makings of a tyrannical dictator—one who already has me nestled comfortably in his crosshairs. It’s not all smooth sailing despite the luxurious queer glamour of Ivan’s. Dramatic high-coffered ceilings soar overhead with gleaming chandeliers, and chic paintings from highly successful contemporary artists hang on dark walls. The last part’s like artisanal sea salt in a career-shaped wound.

I have no idea why they hired me. Aside from me technically being qualified for the job. And also technically having the right references.

I mean, they obviously needed another bartender after one of their old ones left. Which is a reasonable thing for a bar to want to keep running smoothly and keep their customers in suggestively named cocktails, like Get Your Freak On or Banger Baby or classics like Sex on the Beach. But just because I gave them my resumé doesn’t automatically mean I’m the best man for the job.

Never mind. I’m here now, and I need to get on with it. The paycheck will make up for my current suffering and, at best, low-key competence.

Around me, the upscale bar glows with burnished wood counters, gleaming glassware, and a stylishly imposing pink neon display (saying you have arrived, and it reminds me a little of Tracey Emin’s works in neon), accompanied by a thousand bottles of premium, backlit spirits on the brick wall behind me that the finest of London’s equally premium queers will enjoy. Backlighting optional.

Clenching my jaw, I wring the bar cloth into the sink, rinse it, and give the counter in front of me a quick wipe, because I inadvertently slopped some ale when I should have slid the glass over with a certain panache expected of a bartender in a place like this. With every last drop of said ale staying within the confines of its glassware.

Except I panicked, because nerves.

Because Saturday night. Because there are hot men everywhere, where the hotness per capita rating is off the charts—to the point there should be a public health warning and an exclusion zone for the susceptible to distraction, like me. It’s definitely the sort of hotspot in London where people go when they want to be noticed. The occasional celeb makes their way through here too, tipping off the paparazzi who wait outside. There’re regularly high numbers of influencers in Ivan’s, all vying for social media clout.

Meanwhile, the remaining froth I missed looks obscene on the walnut bar. I wring out the cloth one more time for luck.

People in the queue for drinks are thankfully looking at the mess and not at me. In my crisp white shirt and black waistcoat and pressed trousers, I at least look the part like the rest of the waitstaff, if not the clientele. In fairness to me, I do tidy up quite nicely when I try. Except I’ve got no chill, especially not tonight.

Frantically, I wipe before the wood is ruined.

To be honest, aside from being a shit bartender tonight, there are several important facts as motivation that got me here. Fact #1: I’m a morning person turned night owl for my night job, which I need if there’s any hope of me making rent or repaying my student loans. Fact #2: I’ve been at this job for only two weeks, which is a far cry from the sleepy village pub my parents own, my comfort zone, where we’d have about a dozen tables at lunch. Fact #3: Ben Campbell used to work here until recently, which is probably about the time they needed a bartender, and they hired me out of desperation because I look good on paper.

I’m not Ben Campbell, who’s now an indie rocker on top of the UK charts. Or any kind of celebrity.

I’ll admit I have a flair for mixed drinks. When I’m not overwhelmed. Both in consumption and production, and ideally not at the same time. Technically, I’m an experienced bartender. And not just at my parents’ pub.

It’s the overwhelmed part that makes me a shit bartender. Because I’ve more than got the theory down. I know what I’m meant to do, at least, and I have plenty of experience, but the nerves get me every time. Especially when I’m doing something new, somewhere new. Now I live in London, and uni’s behind me, and so is village life. I’ve flown all of the comfortable, familiar nests.

“Matty! For the love of God, pull the pints already,” snaps my thoroughly pierced and impeccably dressed boss, the dictator known as Alexander. He scowls a warning over his bow tie, a localized, upscale tempest known to frequent London bars and wreak havoc like any self-respecting natural disaster.

“Right. Pints coming right up.”

I can do pints.

I toss aside the cloth with a wet slap on the lower countertop, earning another scowl from Alexander, while I spring into action like some spritely deer dashing across a meadow away from a hungry apex predator. “I’ve totally got this. Don’t worry.”

Except this particular bar has me all tangled up, permanently distracted by said nerves. Because Ivan’s has to be one of the poshest queer London bars I’ve ever seen. And the men who frequent it are highly distracting. Hence said slopping problem. Spilling is the least of my worries.

“I’ll have just one pint, if you don’t mind.” A man exchanges looks with his equally fit boyfriend.

I mean, really, I ought to be able to do this in my sleep, given I grew up in my parents’ pub. And I’ve worked in several others since then and a couple of bars back when I was in uni. I didn’t think I’d make my career bar work. Maybe it’s in the blood. Or maybe it’s inevitable.

“What’ll it be, then?” I ask gamely through the heat on my face.

“The Spitfire,” chirps the first man, all muscle and coif.

I nod, reaching automatically for a pint glass and going to pull the first drink, praying the keg doesn’t run empty, because that’s the last thing I need right now.

His equally attractive and self-aware boyfriend smirks and drawls theatrically, “I’m afraid it has to be the Pornstar Martini for me.”

With a splutter, my draw on the ale falters for a moment. “Of course.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hottie #2 peers at me, looking stern, but his boyfriend’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.