Another Cup of Coffee (3 page)

As she worked, Kit's brain was abruptly dragged out of its sandwich-preparing stupor by the radio. ‘Let's Dance' was oozing out of the speakers. David Bowie's gravel voice made her skin chill and her heart leap at the same time. It had been so long since she'd heard it. Her mind slipped back to those precious months back in 1994. She was in his old bedroom with him then, dancing in time to the words, and …

‘Mum.'

Helena was staring at Kit with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. ‘Mum, what are you doing? You've put milk in your coffee. You
hate
milk.'

Coming reluctantly back to the present, Kit bit back an expletive, and put on her “Mum is in control” face. ‘Hello love. What do you want for breakfast?'

‘Shreddies please, Mum, I
always
have Shreddies.' Helena gave a
grown-ups are so stupid
shrug, and sat imperiously at the kitchen table expecting full waitress service. ‘And blackcurrant juice!'

Moving around the room, completing her everyday routine, Kit's brain totally disengaged, as her subconscious carried on dancing.

Three

October 3
^rd
2006

Kit had begun working from home three years ago. Except she hadn't, because she couldn't.

Phil had designated their home's box-sized bedroom as Kit's office, brought her a new desk, a laptop, and evicted all the twin's baby toys, unused curtains, spare duvets and other clutter to the loft, but it was no good. Try as she might, Kit could not take on the persona of her pseudonym, Katrina Island, and think up intricate plot lines and erotic acrobatics in a house she knew needed dusting. So each morning Kit stuffed a notebook into her bag and, after walking the twins to school, headed to her favourite café.

Kit loved Pickwicks. Cluttered with dubious antiques and mismatched furniture, it had shuttered windows and a solid wooden floor that echoed as you walked across it. Classical music played gently in the background. It was the perfect venue in which to avoid real life, and become immersed in her brand of literary progress.

As a regular customer, Kit frequently found that her arrival had been anticipated, and a piping hot cup of black coffee would already be waiting on her usual table before she'd got through the door. Today however, Kit didn't find her essential caffeine injection awaiting her, but a plotline dying to be exploited.

Her friend Peggy, resident waitress, manager, and dogsbody combined, was leaning so far across the glass cake counter that her head was dangling down over the other side, her feet only just touching the floor. Her shiny black hair had escaped from of its grips and cascaded downwards, obscuring the view of all the mouth-wateringly fattening cakes on offer.

‘What the hell are you doing?' Kit threw her bag down and crossed the room to rescue the sprawled waitress.

‘I was trying to clean the glass and I slipped.' Peggy, her round face apple-red from the blood that had rushed to it, smiled broadly, adjusting her ample white blouse and black trousers.

‘Oh really?' Disbelief dripped from Kit's lips, ‘Why didn't you go around the front then?'

‘Gets boring doing the same old thing every day,' said Peggy with a mischievous grin, ‘I fancied a change.'

‘And I don't suppose that husband of yours is just out of sight, wishing that a customer wasn't so inconsiderate as to want serving, and thus causing him to quit playing waitress and chef?'

‘I don't know what you mean!' Peggy brandished the cake-tongs in Kit's direction. ‘Danish?'

‘Only after you've disinfected the counter, you hussy.'

‘Like you can talk.' Peggy grabbed her cloth and began to wipe it down.

Childishly sticking out her tongue, Kit sat down at her table. Feeling inexplicably happy, her early morning visit into nostalgia forgotten, she opened her bag, grabbed a pen and began to write; hoping that the strong image in her head wouldn't disappear before she'd committed it to paper.

… as her mass of black hair swept past the cake display, he pushed her body further across the counter. The last of the customers had gone, and the need he'd felt building all day was almost beyond his usual iron-clad control.

She squealed as her legs left the ground, her weight resting on the narrow counter bar, which was damp with droplets of spilt tea and coffee …

Friends who knew which literary genre Kit wrote for a living could never understand where she got her ideas from. She'd tried to explain that simply by picturing a location she could stimulate the background of a story. Then all she had to do was invent ways to get rid of everyone's clothes – or not.

When Kit told people what she did for a living, they generally looked at her with a mixture of incomprehension, admiration and, more frequently, amazement. Kit simply didn't fit their stereotype of the writer of erotica. Happily married with two children, she wore no make-up or scent, never wore skirts (let alone mini ones), had a strong aversion to body piercings, and her shoulder-length bobbed hair remained its natural red.

When people she sensed wouldn't be able to cope with the knowledge of how she made a living, asked her what she did, Kit always told them that she worked for an Internet company. Hardly anyone ever asked ‘doing what?' They usually assumed she was doing something dull and low paid to fit in with school hours. As it happened, Kit did work for an Internet company. She'd been writing for
Pearls
for some time now, but it wasn't the sort of website she wanted to discuss in the playground.

Checking the clock on the wall, Kit saw she'd been writing steadily for three hours. Satisfied with her initial story draft, she gathered up her belongings, waved goodbye to Peggy and headed off to find Jack.

The moment she arrived Kit spotted Jack at their usual table. His brown leather jacket was thrown across the back of the wooden chair on which he was perched. He didn't look right somehow. Normally he'd be virtually reclining, a flirty smirk playing across his face as he watched her walk towards him. Today Jack seemed pale and almost twitchy. Kit's stomach turned over; what if he was ill? It was a possibility, especially in his world. She instantly told herself off for such a stereotypical thought, but a voice still nagged. Something was wrong.

It was a relief to come to her turn in the queue. Paying for a large Americano and two Chelsea buns (it looked as though they might need extra sugar); Kit took up her tray and headed towards Jack.

‘Do you think it's possible to love someone, love them very much, and still know in your heart that it will never work between you?' The sentence exploded from Jack's mouth like bullets from a gun; not even waiting for Kit to take her coat off before blurting out what was on his mind.

‘Bloody hell, Jack! That's a heavy question for a Monday lunchtime.'

‘Sorry …' Instantly abashed, Jack seemed almost ashamed.

Too late, Kit realised that in her relief that Jack hadn't announced he was sick; she had made a huge error in making light of his question. Such soul searching was so out of character that she'd been taken by surprise. He'd probably been building up to asking that all night.

Amazed, Kit watched as Jack stood up, ignoring his drink and cake, grabbed his jacket, and walked out. He'd always had a taste for the dramatic gesture, but this was different. Kit sat where she was, fighting her natural instinct to run after him. Sipping her coffee, she ran his words through her head. Who did he love hopelessly? Maybe he wasn't referring to himself at all? Kit snorted into her coffee; of course it was about him. It was always about him. Perhaps he'd fallen for a married man who wouldn't give up the more traditional part of his life?
Or maybe … no, don't be ridiculous!
Kit quashed a treacherous thought. Picking up her phone, she fired off a text.

Come drink ur coffee. I'm sorry, u took me by surprise. K x

Jack's drink was stone cold by the time Kit had given up on him sending a reply.

Four

October 4
^th
2006

It was only once she'd checked in at Aberdeen airport, her luggage safely stowed, that Amy finally stopped moving. Slumped on a bench, looking around at the people rushing by, she realised that this was the first time she'd been inactive for weeks.

Once her impulsive decision to go home to England had been made, she'd barely stopped for a break in the haste to work her notice period, sort out the ending of the lease on her rented flat, and arrange somewhere to stay in London. Now that stillness was about to be forced upon her, Amy had to face the reality of what she'd done by throwing in a good job and a nice flat for no job and a rented room in a shared house in London that she'd never even seen.

‘I need coffee,' she muttered to herself. Hoisting her tatty fabric handbag higher onto her shoulder in a bracing gesture, she headed for the café located next to the departure checkpoint.

Having successfully managed to convey her order to the Chinese-speaking assistant via a mixture of words and what could almost pass for semaphore, Amy sat down on one of the fiendishly uncomfortable steel seats. Ignoring the unsightly build-up of used cups, half-eaten meals and spilt fizzy pop, she briefly allowed herself to contemplate her situation. Almost instantly her nerves regrouped in her gut, and Amy decided to put off any serious thoughts about the future until she was on the plane. That way, any possible temptations to chicken out and stay in Scotland after all would no longer be an option. Major life planning could wait. For now she would just indulge in her drink and watch the world go by. Then she'd have a wander around the meagre collection of shops, and perhaps buy a book or magazine for the flight, putting reality off for a bit longer.

Unable to put off the moment, Amy picked up her backpack and headed over to the departure gate. As she passed the newsagents' her eyes landed on a copy of one magazine in particular- it had the appropriate headline
New Job, New Home, New Life.

Amy muttered the words over and over in her head like a mantra as she purchased the magazine fate seemed to have left there for her, before joining the queue of people who were also turning their back on the Granite City, for to business commitments, holidays or, as in her case, for ever.

During the seventy-minute flight, Amy had managed to concoct enough excuses to delay any plan of action as to what to do next for a little longer. She'd examined the flight safety card thoroughly, had uncharacteristically engaged her fellow passengers in mindless conversation, and flicked through her magazine. Amy had read the occasional relevant passage, but had been disappointed not to find an article entitled
You've Ditched Your Life – So Now What
?

Now, trudging down the gloomy concourse at Heathrow to retrieve her luggage and trying to ignore the patina of perspiration on her palms, Amy was suddenly aware that someone was talking to her.

‘You OK?'

The man striding next to her spoke with a soft Irish lilt. ‘You've been chatting to yourself ever since we landed.'

‘Oh, God, have I?' Amy's face flushed. ‘I'm sorry; I'm always talking to myself. You must think I'm nuts.'

‘No!' His eyes twinkled at her as he spoke. ‘Well, maybe just a bit.'

Amy wondered how old he was. Roughly her age perhaps; she always found it difficult to tell with men in suits. Amy didn't want to think about it, or she'd get onto thinking about how much time had passed since she'd last smiled at a man of her own age, let alone spoken to one, and that way lay madness. ‘You're probably right. I've just chucked in my life, so perhaps I'm insane.'

‘A lot on your mind then,' he nodded his bespectacled head.

Amy carried on rambling. ‘No job, a home I've only seen on a computer screen, and I'm getting a serious case of cold feet.'

They reached the dimly-lit baggage collection area as the carousel sparked into life. The whole room spoke of transitory lives, and the dank atmosphere made Amy shiver inside.

The man had obviously noticed her growing unease. ‘Look, I know I'm a total stranger, and it's none of my business; but if it helps, I think it sounds fantastic. Exciting and brave.'

Spotting her luggage heading towards her, Amy grimaced. ‘I don't feel very brave.' She grabbed her heavy bag before it lumbered out of reach.

‘You have a blank page. A new canvas to start on. I'd swap what I've got for that, and so would most of this lot.' He gestured to the anonymous crowds that surged around them. ‘Go with the flow, have fun, be yourself, and smile. You have a nice smile.' Then he scooped up his navy executive wheeled case, extended the handle, and rapidly disappeared, his grey suit merging with hundreds of others in the crush.

Amy stood there, oblivious to the fact that she was in everybody's way.
A blank page
. For the first time in days excitement overtook the fear, as she hurried off to hail a taxi to transport her into the unchartered wilds of Richmond.

Five

October 4
^th
2006

Phil's oversized feet were beginning to feel quite numb as he stamped his six-foot-four frame up and down the street. To be fair, his client had warned him that her flight may be delayed, and that her time of arrival would depend on both that and her ability to quickly find a taxi, but her non-appearance was tedious nonetheless.

He knew it wasn't really the cold that was bothering him; he was bored. In fact, his whole day stretched ahead in a rather onerous fashion, and once again Phil considered the practicalities of packing it all in. The business was doing well, and now that Kit had a regular buyer for her stories he really didn't need to work such ridiculously long hours, but he was the bloke, right? Isn't that what he was supposed to do? Support his family. Earn the money. He didn't consider himself old-fashioned, but giving up a good regular income just because his job was driving him mad with its utter dullness seemed terribly selfish.