“That all belongs to the guy downstairs,” Steve says. “Well, not actuallybelongs—he rents, like you. Sorry it’s so scruffy. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind tidying up if I asked.”
“No,” I say quickly, because those dead leaves and old bricks, rotting wood and dodgy fence panels, are truly the only things going in that oversized patio’s favor. “Don’t. It’s good for the nature, all that stuff.”
Steve frowns. “The...?”
“You know—the beetles and insects. Moths, spiders. They prefer... a bit of mess. For shelter, and...” I trail off, then switch on a smile because I really don’t want to lose this flat on account of appearing deranged. “So what’s he like? The downstairs neighbor.”
Steve pauses for a long time, which forces me to wonder why a simple description likenice guyordecent blokewouldn’t cover it.
“Well, he keeps himself to himself,” he says eventually, which I’m fairly sure is a neutral way of sayingantisocial. “You’d barely see him, probably.”
I try briefly to picture this person, elusive as a polecat, slinking between shadows, nocturnal and nervous. Maybe a little domestic mystery is what Dot has in mind when she says I need more excitement in my life.
•••
Dot wrinkles her nose when I relate all this to her later that afternoon. A party girl at heart, she doesn’t really see the point of neighbors unless youcan spend half your time hanging out in their flat sharing weed and flipping through their record collection. “You misspelledcappuccino,” she points out. “Twoc’s.”
It’s been a slow afternoon, maybe because storm clouds are filling the sky. I’m balanced on a stepladder, rewriting every one of our smudged menu items in bright white chalk pen and my best calligraphy.
I lift a cloth to the board, wipe out half of the offending word, and try again.
“Mind you,” Dot says, “I suppose he might be hot.”
“Don’t start.”
She shrugs, then starts anyway. “I still think you should let me introduce you to my kickboxing teacher.”
“No, thanks. He sounds terrifying. And please don’t bring him in here.” Dot’s got form on this, inviting guys she thinks I might like in for coffee and cake. I’ve told her to stop, that it’s weird while I’m at work—not much different from going on a date in your office, running them through your hobbies, top holidays, and favorite films between bouts of photocopying.
Naturally, Dot persists. “What about that guy I met speed-dating?”
“Dot, I’m not going out with your speed-dating rejects. How desperate do you think I am?”
Dot looks at me as though she wishes the question weren’t rhetorical. But before she can open her mouth to say as much, we’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat.
Turning to see Joel behind the counter, I palpitate with embarrassment as I try not to imagine how long he’s been standing there. I never even noticed him walk in.
“Sorry to interrupt.” His eyes are wondrous, near-black.
He’s been coming to the café almost every day for at least a month now, usually first thing, sometimes late afternoon. He always sits in the same seat by the window, asks me and Dot how we are, fusses Murphy, tips generously, and brings his crockery to the counter on his way out. I’veoften spotted him brushing the crumbs from his table into a paper napkin, or wiping it down because he’s spilled a splash of coffee.
Dot leaves me to it, shoulders shaking with mirth as she heads into the back office.
“Sorry,” I fluster, clattering down the stepladder. “We were... Never mind. Idle gossip.”
“No worries. Just wanted to—”
“Of course. Sorry. What can I get you?”
He orders an egg-and-tomato sandwich—he’s vegetarian, I discovered, like me—and a double espresso. He’s dressed for the cooler weather today in a charcoal crew-necked jumper, brown boots, and black jeans.
“Speed-dating,” I find myself saying, rolling my eyes as I scribble down his order. “My idea of hell.”
Joel smiles. “Yeah.”
“I mean, it’s bad enough being judged by one person on a blind date, but twenty people lining up to do it, with scorecards?” I affect a shudder. “Can’t think of anything worse. Isn’t it better to just meet naturally, and then...?” Catching his eye, I trail off, the silence that follows more than overdue.
He clears his throat and shifts his weight, like all he wants to do is make a break for the table by the window. “Couldn’t agree more.”
