“I’ll bring it over.” This is not the sort of establishment that serves cappuccinos on a regular basis, but I’ll do my best. I point to a table in the corner, next to an older woman sipping her coffee. A fluffy dog pants by her feet, and I wrinkle my nose. I hate dogs. Horrible, unhygienic creatures, not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
I make Jack’s coffee, then take it over to him. It’s the most effort I’ve ever put into anything at this café. Jack looks wrong in this setting: ill-suited to the metal-legged chair, the tiny table. And yet, he seems at ease. He’s stretched one leg so it juts from beneath the table, and his arm is resting on the plastic surface as he scrolls through his phone. Emails, from the looks of it. This is a man who is comfortable with his place in the world. Utterly unbothered by taking up space. He smiles at me as I set the coffee down in front of him.
“What brings you here?” I ask. A pitiful opener, but some small talk is necessary. Small talk leads to big talk.
“I have a client meeting round the corner, and a few minutes to kill.” According to his LinkedIn, Jack works for a property development firm in the City. He’s a long way from the office. “I’m pleased I was early now.” He smiles again, eyes dancing, and yet I think I catch something lurking beneath. A familiar trace of sadness that makes my heart thud very hard. “Do you have time to join me?” He gestures at the seat opposite. “I’m not very good at being by myself these days. Too much time in my own company and I get a little too morose, if you know what I mean.”
I know exactly what he means—that’s why I spend so much time cleaning—and yet I hesitate. I watched a baby vomit all over this chair two days ago, and the memory is lodged in my brain like a parasite. But Jack’s worth it, so I take a fortifying breath, nod, and perch on the edge.
“I must say, I didn’t have you pegged as a waitress.”
I like that he’s given me enough thought to peg me as anything.Ididn’t have me pegged as a waitress, either, but beggars can’t be choosers. It became clear five minutes into my first shift here that hospitality is not for me. When I’d first begun applying to cafés and bars, I’d pictured myself in an establishment with distressed wooden floors, an enticing chalkboard, small tables arranged neatly on the pavement outside. Not laminated menus, metal napkin holders, knockoff bottles of red and brown sauce that crust round the lid. Bacteria-ridden children who stuff their fingers into every available crevice. Still, my options were thin on the ground, and I’m grateful to Mick for taking me on.
I’m not pleased Jack has seen me here. It would have been nice to maintain some mystery over my career, and there is nothing at all glamorous or alluring about this job. Were it up to me, I’d probably have made something up. Something that set me apart from the crowd. Something Marcie might have done. But that’s not an option now.
“Oh, it’s not permanent,” I say lightly. “I’m looking for something a little more challenging. I was in magazine publishing—a designer for them, actually—but after everything…”
“I understand. It’s hard, isn’t it?” Jack says gently. “Gets you when you’re least expecting it.”
It does, but I was actually thinking about how that child in the corner needs to be restrained. It’s waddling round like a malfunctioning Roomba, trousers round its ankles and nappy exposed. I nod anyway and give myself a small shake like I am trying to dislodge some long-forgotten memory. I ensure Jack sees me throw the child a maternal look. Nothing more unnatural than a woman who doesn’t like kids.
“Was it sudden?” he asks.
“Very. He was hit by a lorry.”
“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, it was difficult. More than difficult, really. Horrible to havesomeone taken away from you so abruptly. And he’d just proposed, of course.” I look wistfully at my left hand. It’s important that Jack sees me as an equal in grief, and boyfriend doesn’t quite cut it.
“I can’t imagine. I thought I had it bad with the cancer.”
As much as I enjoy his sympathy, this is heading down a dangerously platonic path. Nothing unsexier than dead partners. I need to lighten the tone. “Yes. It’s funny to think that he might still be with us if only he’d been looking where he was going.”
It takes Jack a second to register what I’ve said, but when he does he sputters with laughter, and his eyes soften. “I like that you don’t take it all so seriously. Things are serious enough without surrounding yourself with misery, too. That’s why it took me so long to go to the group. Don’t see the point of a bunch of depressed people all in one room.”
I am very nearly derailed by the first few words of this statement.He likes me.Said in that casual, easy way of his as though it’s hardly a big deal. I force myself to focus even as his words reverberate over and over again round my skull: the group, depressed people.Ask follow-up questions, show an interest in what he’s saying.Another piece of advice borrowed from Marcie’s magazines. I lean forward and meet his eye. Marcie noticed that men like it when you maintain eye contact as they speak: It appeals to their egos, makes them feel as though you are hanging on their every word. Like they’re the most important person in the room. Which, in Jack’s case, he is. “What made you change your mind?” I ask.
“My mother, I guess. I tried therapy and hated it, and she was convinced that I wasn’t coping. Threatened to move in if I didn’t ‘take steps’ to help myself.” He lifts his fingers into quotation marks. Evidently, his mother is more caring than mine. Must be nice. He really is the whole package: good-looking, well-dressed, loving family, au fait with grief.
“I’ve just moved back in with my mum,” I say.
“How’s that been? Are you close with her?”
I consider my answer carefully, remembering a similar conversationI had with Freddie in the kitchen just before I told him about Marcie.Family’s important, he’d said, as though it was a universal conviction. “Very. She’s my best friend.” I lean farther forward. “I know what you mean about mothers being a bit overbearing, though. She’salwayschecking up on me, making sure I’m eating enough. She basically forced me to move in after everything with Freddie. Didn’t like the idea of me living alone.”
Jack nods. “That’s it. Exactly. Can’t blame them, really, but I’m over thirty, for Christ’s sake.”
I give him Marcie’s best smile, tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth. “Well, any time you need some respite, you know where to come.” I pat the table and instantly regret it. My sanitizer is under the counter. I curl my hand into a fist, picturing the bacteria breeding on my skin, traveling up my arm. I suppress a shudder and refocus on Jack.
His eyes are twinkling in the loveliest way. “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind. What about your dad? Is he on the scene?”
I have a checklist that I refer to sometimes. It’s from an article I found on Google back when Freddie and I were first getting to know each other. It was titled “How to Tell if He’s into You,” and it contained a veritable treasure trove of information that I pored over, logging each salient point for later. One of them mentions effort in conversations: constant questions that keep the dialogue afloat. Freddie was excellent at that. It seems that Jack is, too.
I cast my eyes down again—partly to hide my pleasure at this sudden epiphany, and partly to suggest the question has brought up a memory I’d rather not relive, which is not entirely untrue. The thought of Dad always gives rise to complex feelings I’m not equipped to unpick. Easier to lie. “Sadly not. He died when I was about seventeen.”
“I’m sorry. My father’s dead, too. If it’s any consolation.”
I must have a sixth sense for these things, stumbling into another similarity without even having to try. “Recently?” I ask.
