Jo revealed her own plans for a long soak, a glass or two of wine and a family bag of Maltesers. She didn’t mention that she’d read over some of her book again. Her mum was right. She needed to be brave. How could she ever know if she was any good if she didn’t show her work to someone?

6

Coyote Ugly

Saturdays were, by far, the busiest day of the week at The Ivy Inn. And they were traditionally Jo’s favourite days to work. She’d happily pull a twelve-hour shift and not think anything of it. Saturdays never seemed to drag. From lunchtime to last orders, they would be packed – at first with the Saturday lunchtime crowd, groups of shoppers calling in for soup and sandwich, family groups grabbing some lunch or brave souls who decided to start their evening festivities early.

By mid-afternoon, there would be a buzz of conversation and laughter around the place that always lifted Jo’s spirits. Yes, they had a wide clientele, but they also had a core bunch of regulars who she loved to catch up with and spend some time chatting to.

The mid-afternoon crowd would give way to the pre-drinkers who would go on somewhere more raucous and the regulars who enjoyed the live music Noah always insisted upon for a Saturday night.

Jo often found herself singing along loudly, and not necessarily in tune, while she poured pints and waited tables. Occasionally she’d even have a quick dance to her favourite songs.

It was a tradition when the bar was emptied and everyone had gone home that Jo and Noah, and, more often than not these days, Libby too, would enjoy a drink or two after cleaning up. Jo would sleep over in Noah’s flat above the bar, allowing them to continue their party into the wee hours before collapsing into bed with little extra effort. It was at those times that secrets were spilled, alliances were made and plans hatched. This, Jo realised, was her downtime.

While she worked incredibly hard, she thrived in the atmosphere. It was fun. It was raucous at times. It allowed her to be among happy people enjoying themselves, but, in truth, it still wasn’t ultimately where she saw herself. Her mother had been one hundred per cent correct when she had told her that to achieve her dream she had to go for it full throttle. She couldn’t continue to cower in her little safe space, bopping along to ‘Sweet Caroline’ in the bar on a Saturday night. She had to stop with the half-arsed approach to being a writer. She had to go full-arsed at it.