‘I’m afraid you’ve done it now, Nicole.’ She frowned, though Nicole caught the twinkle in her eye.

‘Done what?’

‘They’re very superstitious, this lot. When they lost the grand final four years ago they blamed the fact that Danny Temple didn’t wear his lucky socks. Got blown off the line in a storm. Though the boys will tell you Woodville stole them. Without the socks, they just couldn’t win. Been on a losing streak ever since. Danny almost got kicked off the team. Would have lost the captaincy too if it weren’t for the fact that it was the anniversary of his grand-dad dying and everyone felt sorry for him. If they reckon this win is down to your presence, then …’

She shrugged.

‘… well, I’m afraid you’re the new lucky socks. Better clear your Saturdays for the rest of the season.’

Nicole stared at Mandy with wide eyes. No, no, no. This was not part of the plan.

Mandy gently directed her down the street. ‘It’ll be all right, Nicole.’

The Royal stood proudly on the corner of High Street and Sydney Road, the main intersection, and the pub was the physical and spiritual centre of the town. It was a place where birthdays and anniversaries were celebrated. Families came by for quiet Sunday brunches, and nearly every fundraising event for the local school or footy team or bowls trip was held there. It was also one of the oldest buildings in town. Its red bricks stood strong against the weather of time, according to Mandy, who was giving Nicole a full run-down of the hotel’s history as she walked her to a quiet booth up the back.

George Russo had taken over the pub around forty years earlier and every few years or so thereafter he would reinvent the restaurant. There was the Italian theme at first, which was not surprising, given George had come straight from Naples to the cove. Then there was the Chinese era, self-taught from cookbooks, and after that was the short-lived Tapas phase that the locals didn’t take too kindly to. Nicole tuned out for a while and when she refocused, Mandy was up to the current flavour of the month, Thai.

‘Of course, he always keeps his famous penne carbonara on the menu. He’s no fool.’ Mandy shook her head.

‘Of course.’

Nicole leaned back into the green leather bench seat, no doubt a remnant from the Irish refurbishment Mandy had mentioned at some point in her spiel. On the walls were photos of the Rangers over the years, and old black and white pictures of George’s home city, with narrow streets and tall stone buildings.

The double front doors burst open with such force that Nicole was surprised the glass panels didn’t shatter, and a shouty, tuneless version of ‘We are the Champions’ erupted into the relative quiet. The boys had arrived.