“Or I can set you up with someone...”
“I know.” Dot can do anything. “Have fun tonight.”
“I’d say the same to you, but...” She winks affectionately. “See you tomorrow.” And, in a parting cloud of Gucci Bloom, she’s gone.
After she leaves, I knock the lights off one by one before taking my customary final pew near the window, to breathe in the fading scent of bread and coffee beans. Like a reflex, I slip my phone from my pocket, tap through to Grace’s number, and dial.
No. You can’t go on like this. Stop.
I cut off the call and snap the screen back to lock. Calling her is a habit I’ve been trying hard to break lately, but the sight of her name on my phone always gives me a lift, like a bright blast of sunlight on a rubble-gray day.
Allowing my gaze to unspool through the window, I unexpectedly find myself staring into the watchful, peat-dark eyes of the notebook man from earlier. With a jolt I start to smile, but I’m too late—he looks down at the pavement and makes himself a shadow, striding swiftly away into the evening’s mellow light.
He’s not carrying the cake box anymore. Either he’s already eaten it, or he tossed it into the first bin he saw.
4.
Joel
I lurch awake at two a.m. Easing out of bed, I grab my notebook, trying not to disturb her.
Last week’s warm weather has dissipated, and the flat’s a bit chilly. I pull on a hoodie and jogging bottoms, make for the kitchen.
Sitting up at the breakfast bar, I scribble everything down.
My younger brother, Doug, will be chuffed, anyway. I dreamed about his daughter, Bella, gaining a sports scholarship to the local private school, the year she turns ten. An outstanding county swimmer, apparently, winning fistfuls of medals every weekend. Strange how things work out. Doug was banned from swimming at our local pool as a kid, after one too many dive bombs and flipping off the lifeguards.
Bella’s not even three yet. But Doug’s view is that it’s never too early to schedule in potential. He’s already got four-year-old Buddy playing tennis, watchesBritain’s Got Talentfor tips on pushy parenting.
Then again, my dream has confirmed it’s going to pay off. I make and triple-underline a note about mentioning local swimming clubs to him, ASAP.
“Joel?”
Melissa’s watching me from the doorway, still as a spy.
“Bad dream?”
I shake my head, tell her the dream was good.
Melissa’s wearing my T-shirt, and she’ll probably wear it home, too. She thinks it’s cute, doing that. But I’d rather not have to keep an inventory of my own wardrobe.
She approaches me now, hops onto a stool. Crosses her bare legs, runs a hand through her mane of sandy hair. “Was I in it?” She throws me a wink that’s both coy and outrageous.
That would actually be impossible, I want to say, but won’t. She knows nothing about the nature of my dreaming, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
For almost three years now Melissa and I have been seeing each other every month or so, usually with little contact in between. Steve’s stopped her for a chat more often than I’d like, as though he thinks it might be worth getting to know her. Even Melissa finds this idea amusing, has started talking to him in the hallway just to provoke me.
I glance up at the kitchen clock. Stifle a yawn. “It’s the middle of the night. You should go back to bed.”
“Nah.” She sighs languidly, picks at a fingernail. “I’m awake now. May as well stay up with you.”
“What time do you start work?” Melissa manages media relations at the London branch of an African mining company. Her morning shifts frequently kick off at six a.m.
“Too early,” she says, eyes pinwheeling displeasure. “I’ll call in sick.”
I’d been planning a dog walk with my friend Kieran first thing, was hoping to have breakfast at the café. I’ve been back several times now, following last week’s nonpayment debacle.
Initially, I admit, I felt some kind of moral duty to return. But now it’s more about the dog-in-residence and great coffee. And the warm welcome I get, despite being a less-than-exemplary customer the first time I set foot in the place.
