Tugging my forelock behind his back, I make my escape into the café.
I tell Lutek to make the coffee "to go", then gaze off into the middle distance to try to restore my equilibrium. I get two, blessed Theodore-free minutes before he saunters into the café.
"Lutek! My man! I've been meaning to ask. What sort of a tag is Lutek?"
Lutek beams. "Polish."
"YoulookPolish." Theo waves an arm in the direction of Lutek's head. "–all that strong Slavic bone structure – but you don't sound it."
"I've lived in Port Derrum since I was seven."
Two years younger than me, Lutek's more local than half the town – the retirees, the young couples wanting to give their children a wholesome upbringing, the life-crisis-ers coming to Port Derrum to 'find themselves' and finding a committed relationship to the local artisanal fungi instead.
"Nice one, chica." Theo has the indecency to wink at me. "Giving it to the local Brexiteers. Black girl in the kitchen, too. Heads must spin." He steps back and places a hand on his chest. "Or can I not say Black? I'm never quite sure what's the new 'offensive'." He also has the indecency to raise his pointer fingers to invert-comma the word "offensive".
Ugh, he's a dick. Like I'd employ people purely to be politically provocative.
...
I mentally store the idea for consideration at a later date. "It's not the use of 'Black' that's the problem, Theo. Calling her a girl is a little, I don't know, infantilising?"
Lutek hands Theo his coffee, which gives him leave to ignore my comment in favour of removing the plastic lid to sniff the surface and hum a closed-eyed approval. "You make one savage brew, my man. You should be bottling that talent and selling it."
He puts the lid back on and walks backwards towards the door with two fingers pointed at me like a gun. "Bess," he says with a smirk and a wink and I will him to trip over and learn just howsavagea freshly-made brew can be when decorating a shirt front.
He doesn't. He saunters competently back to his car without incident and guns the engine just loud enough and long enough that every single head in the café turns to look at him.
I can feel a headache and a G'n'T debrief with Ed coming on.
Chapter three
Ed
Thegardenattherear of Bess' gallery and café is scraggly in summer growth and neglect. Against the back wall, Lutek's workshop issues thecrackleandspitof metallic artistry within.
It is wholesome and steadying and I breathe it in before telling myself I am a big, brave boy and if I can damn well take on Bess Harvey, I can damn well reach her to do it.
I push open the door to the internal stairwell that gives access to the flats above and the roof above them, and wish for approximately the sixty-third time that Bess preferred to have post-work debriefs in the pub like a normal person, or within the four walls of her flat where falling to your death isn't on the list of imminent dangers. Or any list.
But this is her chosen space to unwind and I must endure it if I want to spend time with her.
I absolutely want to spend time with her.
Opening the door to the roof, I spy Bess in the far corner, reclining in a sun lounger. I can't help but stop and hold my breath and watch her before the impulse to be near her takes over.
I can't see her face. I can't see much of her from this angle, in fact, but I drink in her presence anyway.
Bess Harvey has a loud presence. Even when she's not saying anything. The things she does with the intention she gives them is...bold. And it's hard not to admire her for it.
Take now for instance. She takes a sip from a glass and raises a pair of binoculars. This is because Bess is, apparently, an "avid urban bird watcher", but in reality, a G'n'T and a nosy squiz at other people's lives from the comfort of a sun lounger on the gallery roof is how she prefers to relax at the end of a working day.
Voyeurism is not a particularly laudable pastime, which I have pointed out to her, but in typical Bess fashion, she's completely unapologetic about it. Her rule is no looking at anything conducted in private: No windows, no back yards.
I have also pointed out to her that being a voyeur with one principle is probably cold comfort to those she spies on. It didn't make her voy – or whatever the verb form of voyeur is – less, though.
Bold is not part of my vernacular. I am uncomfortable with the idea of behaving loudly, but it makes Bess exceptional. Sure – misguided and somewhat startling on occasions, but exceptional never-the-less.
No longer able to resist the pull into her orbit, I make my way over to her. The spare sun lounger squeaks as I lower myself into it.
