Billionaires Firecracker

A loud laugh cuts across the general noise of the bar interrupting my concentration and making me glance up in time to see a large group of men entering through the main doors. “Wanker bankers,” I mumble to myself grumpily noting their sharp suits that probably cost more than most people make in a month, before plastering on a ‘happy face’ in an attempt to hide my sour mood. I am the barmaid and, even if I despise this particular class of customer, it doesn’t make sense to give them any reason not to tip well.

My mood is made worse as crowds of women seem to part automatically for them as if they are some biblical phenomenon. Typical, I think to myself as they high-five and slap each other on the back for having finally made it across the room complete with various phone numbers and, in one case, a limpet on his arm. Argh, it makes me want to vomit.

“What can I get for you guys?” I ask, flipping my hair back off my face and adopting my most flirtatious tone. They are paying customers and these guys are par for the course when working in a bar in London’s financial district. While I studiously listen to their jumbled requests and start pulling pints, my attention is suddenly grabbed by a guy standing at the back of the group. In contrast to the others, he is wearing jeans and a light-blue button-down shirt that seems to match his piercing eyes. Urgh! A cold, wet sensation, suddenly makes me aware that I’m not paying enough attention to what I’m doing when the pint in front of me suddenly overflows and splashes all down my legs.

“Oh shit,” I mutter as I aggressively pull wads of paper towels out from the container on the wall before attempting to mop up the mess. Seriously, today is not going at all like I planned. The guy in front of me lets out the most annoying laugh, seriously this dude sounds like a donkey, and I have to resist the urge to pour the pint that I am holding all over him. I scowl, using my deadliest look, perfected since working in the bar. A look essential when you are a five-foot blonde working in a bar frequented by the lords and ladies of the financial world. Yes, it is Capitalism at its best, and they can’t wait to tell you just how much better they are than you because they drive a supercar and screw old people out of their pension funds. Yeah, I’m not bitter at all. The guy flinches slightly and shuts the hell up which is a welcome relief.

When everyone is finally served, including Blue Eyes, I watch them meander towards the back of the bar and take a seat in one of the large, raised booths. Taking advantage of the brief lull, I finish cleaning up the mess I have made all over the floor, swearing under my breath and trying to force myself into a better mood.

Usually, I love working behind the bar at Cock&Tails, even with the kind of pretentious idiots we usually attract from the nearby high-rise offices. Normally, I can find humour even in the most stressful situations but tonight is an aberration. I briefly consider calling out to one of the other bar staff or even Finn, the bar manager, who disappeared into the office about twenty minutes ago with a buxom blonde in painted-on jeans, to come out and take over but, hey, at least one of us should be having a good night.