Darren had fallen into a little routine—work, boxing, Rachel, work, boxing, Rachel—occasionally punctured by half a weekend of doing more-or-less f**k all, and it didn’t generally include going to the pub. He wasn’t much of a drinker, because it was hard to get hammered for cheap down south, and if Rachel went out it tended to be tarted up with this Jodie bird down the clubs, and he wasn’t interested in tagging along.
So Darren was actually pleasantly surprised when the taxi pulled up outside a normal-looking pub instead of a gaudy nightclub with a queue of pissheads in the gutter.
“Didn’t take you for respectable,” he said as he paid the cabbie, and Rachel shoved him.
“Arsehole,” she said. “Hey guys!” She beamed as they passed into the pub, and made a beeline for a table in the corner
