Chapter 1: A Pint and a Prayer
The Fox & Hound smelled of stale hops, old wood, and the ghost of a thousand spilled pints. In a quiet corner draped in faded floral wallpaper, where the low hum of Thursday night conversation faded into the crackle of the vintage jukebox playing Here Comes the Sun on a loop, Johnny MacTavish nursed a whisky.
He was a big man, too big for the spindly chair, and he held himself with a rigid awareness that seemed at odds with the pub’s drowsy atmosphere. His eyes, a pale, washed-out blue, tracked the room without seeming to—noting exits, assessing the harmless clusters of friends, dismissing threats. Habit. A habit that felt as useless here as a parachute in a basement. The scar through his left eyebrow pulled slightly as he frowned at his glass. Civilian time moved wrong. It was either syrup-slow or it lunged forward in chunks, leaving him disoriented.
The door swung open, letting in a blast of cool, diesel-tinged air and a petite woman with a cascade of black box braids. She entered in a gust of rushed energy, scanning the room with wide, expressive eyes. She was talking to herself, a slight, frustrated huff of breath as she patted her coat pockets.
Johnny watched her. She was all warm brown skin and subtle curves in a mustard-yellow jumper, a striking pocket of colour in the muted pub. Her anxiety was a visible thing, a quick flutter of her hands as she counted the tables, her lips moving slightly. He saw her gaze land on his corner, on his table—the only one with a single occupant. A hopeful, apologetic smile bloomed on her face.
She weaved through the clutter of chairs and was sliding into the seat opposite him before he could process the movement.
“Hi. Oh my god, hi. I am so, so sorry,” she said, the words tumbling out in a South London cadence that was all melodic haste. She shrugged off her coat, her braids swinging. “The District line was a nightmare. A signal failure at Tower Hill, which, of course. And then the bus was just sitting there. I practically ran. You must have thought I’d stood you up.”
She finally took a breath, her smile turning sheepish. She tucked a braid behind her ear. It was a nervous gesture, he noted. Automatic.
Johnny opened his mouth. A simple correction formed on his tongue: I think you’ve got the wrong table. But the words dissolved. Her presence was like a sudden, unexpected sunbeam cutting through the pub’s gloom. She was talking to him, her face animated, her brown eyes bright with genuine apology. It was a welcome treat. It had been a long time since anyone had talked to him with such unguarded, flustered charm. So he closed his mouth. He gave a small, non-committal nod, a ghost of a smile touching his own lips.
“It’s fine,” he said, his Glasgow accent roughening the words. “No damage done.”
She beamed, relieved, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “You look different than your picture, David. Better, I mean. Less… LinkedIn. More…” She gestured vaguely at him, her eyes flickering to the scar, to the breadth of his shoulders under his plain grey henley. Her confidence faltered for a microsecond. “More real.”
That was his cue. He couldn’t let it go further. The guilt of enjoying her mistaken attention pricked at him.
“Ah,” Johnny said, shifting in his chair. The wood creaked in protest. “That’s probably because I’m no’ David.”
Her expression froze. The hopeful light in her eyes didn’t just dim; it shattered, leaving behind pure, unadulterated horror. Her cheeks flushed a deep, warm bronze. “Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no.” She shrunk back into her seat as if trying to vanish. “I am so stupid. I just saw you sitting alone and I— oh god. I’m so sorry. I’ve just hijacked your table and your evening and—”
“Stop,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “Dinnae fash. It’s alright. It was… nice. For a minute there, I was kind of jealous of this David fella.”
Her mortification was so complete it was almost theatrical. She covered her face with her hands for a second before gathering her coat and bag. “I’m going to go and hide in that other corner now. And possibly die. Please forget this happened.”
“I’d rather no’,” he said, but she was already scrambling away, offering him one last pained, apologetic grimace before installing herself at a small, sticky table by the fireplace, as far from him as the small pub allowed.
Johnny returned to his whisky, but his focus was gone. He watched her, this stranger. She ordered a glass of white wine and checked her phone, placing it carefully on the table like a sacred artifact. She smoothed her braids. She counted the bricks in the fireplace. She checked her phone again, the screen lighting up her hopeful face.
He watched the slow, cruel transformation. The way her shoulders, initially tensed with anticipation, gradually sank. The way her eyes, which kept flicking to the door, began to stay fixed on the silent phone. The bright, animated woman who had burst into his corner dissolved, replaced by a still, quiet figure of disappointment. An hour bled away, marked by the jukebox cycling through The Beatles again. She finished her wine, a final, decisive sip, and stared into the empty glass.
Johnny found himself standing before he’d made a conscious decision. He walked over, his movement catching her eye. She looked up, a defensive wariness settling in.
“He’s a mug,” Johnny said, nodding at the empty chair opposite her.
She managed a weak smile. “The Tube was really bad. Maybe he…”
“He’s a mug,” Johnny repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Can I… would you let me buy you a drink? A proper one. Not a waiting drink.”
She studied him, the wariness softening into a kind of exhausted resignation. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been sitting alone for two hours and you were the only interesting thing that’s happened all week. And because getting stood up is shite.”
A surprised laugh escaped her—a short, gasping sound that seemed to startle even her. “It really is shite, isn’t it?”
“The worst.”
“Okay,” she said. “A proper drink. Yes. Thank you.”
He fetched their drinks—another whisky for him, a gin and tonic for her—and sat, not in David’s vacant chair, but at an angle beside her, so they weren’t squared off across a battlefield.
“I’m Yaa,” she said, clinking her glass gently against his.
“Johnny.”
“Not David.”
“Never David.”
They drank in comfortable silence for a moment. “How does one even get stood up in the age of the instant catastrophic text message?” she mused, more to herself than to him. “It’s almost impressive. A final, flaccid power play.”
Johnny chuckled. “You’ve a way with words.”
“It’s the righteous indignation. I haven’t done this in ages. Finally mustered the courage, you know? And for what?” She swirled her gin. “My last boyfriend was a human spreadsheet. Manipulative in a really boring, pedestrian way. He’d criticize my choice of mayonnaise. Took me a year to realize I’d rather eat dry sandwiches for the rest of my life than listen to his opinion on condiments again. And now this.” She gestured to the empty chair. “The universe is telling me to stick to Netflix and my cat.”
“The universe is full of noisy bastards,” Johnny said. “Best no’ to listen too closely. What do you do? When you’re no’ on dodgy dates?”
“I draw mice in waistcoats and depressed unicorns for a living. Children’s books.”
“That sounds important.”
“It’s more important than mayonnaise critique,” she said, and that surprised-gasp laugh came again. It was a good sound. “What about you? You sit in pubs looking intimidating and rescuing stood-up women often?”
“Newly retired,” he said, the word still foreign and clumsy. “Used to be in the army. Properly in. Adjusting to the… quiet. And the choice. Too much choice in everything. Breakfast cereal nearly gave me a panic attack last week.”
Yaa nodded slowly, understanding in her eyes. “That’s a big change. Do you miss it?”
“Parts. Not the bits you’d think. I miss knowing what to do. The clarity.” He took a drink. “A lass broke my heart while I was deployed. Married a civilian. Can’t blame her. I was a ghost on a satellite phone. This…” He gestured around the pub, “this is me trying to figure out how to be a person again. It’s slower going than I’d like.”
“Sounds lonelier than my year of dry sandwiches,” Yaa said softly.
“Aye. Maybe.”
They talked then, really talked. He told her about the surreal dread of a supermarket. She told him about the intense political drama of her group chat with her three best friends. He made her laugh describing his failed attempt at a sourdough starter, which he’d codenamed and treated like a hostile asset. She described the quiet joy of seeing a kid in a library smiling at one of her illustrations.
The pub emptied around them. The barman started wiping down tables, giving them a pointed look.
“I should let you close up,” Johnny said to the room. He turned to Yaa. Her earlier anxiety was gone, replaced by a thoughtful calm. “I enjoyed this. More than I’ve enjoyed anything in a while.”
“Me too,” she said. “It was a good salvage job. Turning a disaster into a…”
“Not a disaster,” he finished.
She smiled, tucking a braid behind her ear. “No. Not a disaster.”
He hesitated, a unfamiliar nervousness seizing him. It wasn’t a tactical hesitation; it was human. “Would you… would it be utterly mad to ask for your number? Not as your fake date. Just as… me. Johnny.”
Yaa looked at him, her eyes searching his face—the scar, the earnest question in his tired eyes, the hands that looked like they could dismantle an engine or cradle something fragile with equal care. She saw the man who had watched her be humiliated and hadn’t laughed, who had called her interesting, who found the quiet lonelier than war.
She took his phone from his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing his. She typed carefully, saved her name, and handed it back.
“Just you is fine,” she said.