Gillian moved with ease behind the bar, navigating the steady increase in noise and custom like a dancer who’d long since memorized the steps. The door swung open again, letting in a brief gust of cool air—and Robbie.


Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and a padded gilet he wore whatever the weather, Robbie was the kind of man who seemed to be everywhere and know everything. Or at least claimed to. He grinned as he approached, eyes already locked—not on her face, but lower.


“Evenin’, Gilly,” he said, lingering a moment too long as he leaned across the bar. “Looking good tonight, as always.”


She offered him a polite but unreadable smile and reached for a fresh glass. The neckline of her dress dipped low, the little brooch on the zipper glinting like bait. She liked the way men’s gazes snagged on it—liked knowing she had that power, when she chose to wield it.


“Pint of Pedigree, Robbie, isn’t it?”


“Aye, lassie, you ken me too well.”


She tipped the pump and began to pull the ale, its rich amber froth rising quickly in the glass.


Robbie leaned in, speaking loudly enough to be heard if one were listening. “You’ll never credit it. Martin Rowley’s been seen sneaking out of Mrs Hargreaves’ back door at two in the morning. Twice this week.”


Gillian raised her brows, amused. It was common knowledge that Robbie never let the plain facts spoil a juicy tale. But she kept her attention on the glass as the foam reached the brim. She set it on the drip tray and let it settle, glancing up with enough curiosity to keep him talking.


Robbie’s grin widened. “And she’s old enough to be his mother! Imagine that. Bet his missus hasn’t a clue.”


“Yeah, yeah. Robbie, you mustn’t spread gossip like that. It could be something quite innocent,” Gillian said mildly, though she doubted Robbie had ever reported anything innocent in his life. She topped up the pint in a single smooth pull. The head settled into a perfect collar, just shy of spilling.


She slid the glass across. “One Pedigree—just how you like it. Strong, dark, and no trouble.”


“Och, I like a wee bit of trouble. Makes life interestin’, and besides, at two in the mornin’?” His gaze never wavered from her cleavage. In theory, he was studying the brooch pinned above. In practice, he wasn’t fooling anyone.


“It’s too hot in here, isn’t it.” She rested a hand lightly on the bar, letting the zipper shift a fraction lower—enough to remind him she was perfectly aware of his attention. She didn’t mind men looking, as long as they understood the limit. Low enough to show the top of her bra, but nothing personal. It would take Robbie’s mind off Martin’s misdemeanour and give him something else to chatter about.


Following a moment of open-mouthed surprise, Robbie emitted a low chuckle. “You’re wasted here, you ken? Should be on telly or somethin’. You’d make a fortune.”


“Maybe,” she said with a shrug and a smile that gave him nothing more than he was already taking. “But who’d pour your pint then?”


He laughed, winked, and moved off to join a table in the corner, sloshing beer as he went.


Gillian turned to the next customer with her easy grace, the smile still on her lips, her bra still on show. She didn’t mind the glances. She’d grown up with them, learned how to use them without letting them define her. Let them look. As long as they kept it respectful—and paid for their drinks—she could handle it.


She wiped the bar and straightened the empty glasses. Her thoughts drifted again to Jonathan—and to the uneasy question that had begun to gnaw at the edges of her confidence:


Was she more admired than loved?


***



The Tern Inn was getting loud now. The low-beamed ceiling trapped the rising heat and chatter. Boots stamped. The jukebox competed with the television commentary of a horse race. The fruit machine trilled behind the oak pillar, and Gillian’s sleeves were damp from wiping foam off the bar. Alan gave her a wave from the far end.


“The usual, Alan?” Gillian reached for the Pedigree pump. As the glass filled, Jonathan slid in beside her, grinning as if they shared a secret.


“Got some great news for you.” Gillian stepped sideways to pour Jonathan’s lager, after which she swapped the glass mid-pour for Alan’s Pedigree.


“You’re staying over tonight?” said Johnathan.


“No,” she said, balancing the pint as it foamed up. “I just got the email this morning—big news.”


She leaned forward, grabbed a fresh glass for Alan’s second pint, and reached for the cider tap at the same time. With both hands full, she nudged the ale pump handle closed with her shoulder, wiping the spout clean with the cloth tucked into her waistband.


Jonathan raised an eyebrow, impressed in spite of himself. “What news?”


“I’ve been invited to give a talk. In Philadelphia - Philadelphia John. Proper academic conference. My research on the Wars of the Roses finally got picked up.”


Jonathan blinked. “Philadelphia. That’s in America?”


She handed Alan his drinks with a quick smile and turned back. “Yeah yeah, I’ll be away for a fortnight—want to catch the other speakers too.”


“A fortnight?” Jonathan frowned. “What about the rugby final, eh?”


She paused, reaching for two fresh glasses as Robbie waved from the dart board. 


“What about it?”


“You said you’d come with me. It’s Leicester Tigers in the Premiership Final—Twickenham! I’ve waited all season for this.”


She forced a smile, pulled the tap, and let the first pint of lager rush into the glass. “I only went to those local matches because I knew it meant something to you. I froze my backside off watching a game I don’t understand, just to make you happy.”


Jonathan gave a tight shrug. “Well, it’s a big match. I want you there.”


“I want you to be proud of me,” she said quietly. She glanced at him while she topped up the lager’s head. “This isn’t just any event; it’s international. Historians I’ve followed for years will be there - talking to me. I want to share it with you.”


He folded his arms. “So I’m supposed to sit around all day in Philly while you go off at your lectures? What’m I s’posed to do while you’re buried in medieval politics?”


She slid the finished pint toward the waiting customer and grabbed a bar towel. “You could come with me, you know.”


He scoffed. “Yeah, great holiday, that. No time together, no evenings out, just sittin’ in hotel rooms while you do your boring history thing.”


“So, it’s about the sex, isn’t it?” Her mouth twisted into a half-smile.


He said nothing.


She sighed, reaching for the next glass. “Yeah yeah. You go to your match, pint in hand, burger in the other, with some girl on your arm your mates can gawk at.”


Jonathan didn’t answer. She didn’t need him to.


Behind the smile she gave to the next customer, something inside her had already moved on.


***


Gillian stared out through the glass, as a plane taxied into the rain. Heathrow was all stainless steel and fluorescent lighting, the kind of place that made you feel both minuscule and important.


She’d come down the night before, stayed in a cheap hotel with too much carpet and not enough sleep. Jonathan hadn’t even bothered to message. No “Good luck,” no “Safe flight,” not even a heart emoji. She checked her phone again nonetheless, for verification.


Nothing.


She tucked it away. So that was that. No grand farewell, no dramatic final words. Sheer silence. Somehow that made it easier.


Her name appeared on the programme. Dr. Gillian Sutton, PhD. A room full of strangers in Philadelphia would listen to her speak about the Wars of the Roses, and maybe—just maybe—she’d find someone who actually cared what she had to say.


She reached for her boarding pass.


A crackle of static from the tannoy; “Flight BA67 to Philadelphia is now boarding at Gate B44.”


Gillian stood, took a breath, and walked toward the gate.


Whatever awaited in Philadelphia… it commenced.