It’s not busy, which is both a curse and a blessing.
A curse because there are fewer people to witness my transformation. My hair looks amazing, and Mick’s lovely, but he’s another one whose gaze doesn’t set the pulse aflutter.
A blessing because it will give me the chance to bring Mick round to my cause, which I’ve been carefully formulating in my head since last night. It was the bathroom that clinched it. I cannot stay in that house for any longer than I absolutely must. But, in order to move out, I desperately need more shifts. That’s where Mick comes in.
I lean against the counter just suggestively enough to make him look twice. When he does, I employ a look of utter desolation: I bite my lip, pull my eyebrows together and stare anxiously into the distance, as though all my worries are jostling for space in my prefrontal cortex.
It works just as well as I remember. Men are tediously predictable, and most can never seem to resist a damsel in distress. Mick, it turns out, is no exception. “Are you OK, Iris? You look like you’re miles away.”
I blink a few times, as though his voice has brought me back from the brink of some deeply distressing thought, then force a pained smile.
“I’m OK, Mick. Thanks.” God, I’m good. I’m wasted in this café. I sound distraught.
“Can I do anything to help?”
I’m about to land it. Better yet, I’m about to make Mick feel like it’s his idea. He gets to feel like my knight in shining armor, I get what I want, and everyone’s a winner. Or they would be.
Because, at the critical moment—the moment when I am about to summon my most distressing memory (which never fails to produce tears) and break down—the bell above the door tinkles.
I experience a wave of fury so intense I am momentarily lightheaded with it. Appalling timing, all so some old biddy can buy a cup of weak instant coffee that she could have made just as well—probably better—at home. Whereas I might need to wait hours—even days—before this opportunity comes up again.
Maybe I’ll spit in her drink. Add salt instead of sugar. But I look up and these thoughts are chased instantly from my mind. Because, as I wrestle with my rage and step up to the counter, I see it’s not some old woman at all, but Jack. All the air is driven from my lungs. The rage evaporates instantly.
It’s like I’ve manifested it: the hair, the casual internet stalking, the friend request. Like I’ve summoned him to me by directing all mywaking thoughts his way. The chances of bumping into someone you like when you’re looking this good are exceedingly slim, and I intend to make the most of it.
So I do. I shift to the right, out from behind the counter, so I’m standing directly in the sunbeam currently shafting through the café window. Hoping it touches my hair to capture that celestial quality I always coveted. When Jack looks up and catches sight of me and my new golden tresses, there’s a delightful spark of recognition in his eye. In one long, delicious sweep, his eyes travel the length of me. Slowly, almost lazily, and with just a hint of appreciation.Thisis what I’ve been missing. Every cell in my body is on fire.
He takes a step toward me. “Iris, isn’t it?” There is something about the way he rolls my name around his mouth. Like it’s not the first time he’s used it. Like he’s familiar with me. I’d been certain that I’d failed at the group somehow, that my performance was not quite up to my usual exemplary standards, but now I’m not so sure. I have a brief, glorious mental image of Jack typing my name into a search bar. Hovering over the “Add Friend” button on my own profile. Just as I’ve done to his.
I don’t allow any of this to show on my face, of course. Instead, I cock my head to one side and pull my eyebrows together as though I’m trying to place him.
“Jack?” I say, like I’m testing it out. He smiles in response. He has a very nice smile. Straight white teeth, offset against the remains of a summer tan. An unusual quality in the grief-stricken. Most of us avoid sunshine, as though the warmth on our skin might bring us slightly too close to something resembling happiness.
But I need to keep my head screwed on, can’t let the excitement of this chance encounter derail me. This is a big moment, and I may be off to a strong start, but I need to lodge myself right at the center of his psyche. So he goes away and I and my sparkling conversational skills are all he can think of. I need something punchy. Something that aligns ourcommon interests. Commonalities are what bind humans together, after all, the foundation for any strong relationship. That’s what Marcie’s magazines used to say, anyway.
“The other dead partner,” I say, as though the connection is only just dawning on me. “What are the chances?” It’s a risk—I don’t want him to think I’m taking his wife’s name in vain—but you only live once, and it’s enough to trigger a reaction.
He takes a half step backward, narrows his eyes, then blurts a laugh. Bingo.
“Slim, I fear. Or at least I hope so. Dead partners are difficult to come by at our age.”
Good. This is very good. He’s past the stage of crying every time he thinks of her, which bodes well for our future together. God, that bit was tedious.
To show that I approve of his answer, I slip him a mischievous grin and lean against the counter in much the same way I did with Mick earlier. Mick is looking at me as though I’ve had a lobotomy, as though he cannot square the woman who was on the brink of a breakdown not two minutes ago with the flirtatious, playful specimen in front of him. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but Jack’s needs are greater. I’ll deal with Mick later.
“Can I get you a coffee?” I twirl a strand of blond round my finger and watch Jack clock the action.
“New hair?” he asks, and I think that’s approval in his tone.
“I fancied a change. I’m normally better at keeping on top of it, but after everything that’s happened…” I tail off sadly.
“Suits you.”
I look down, bashful, as though I wasn’t aware of this fact.
There’s a pause, during which I can tell he’s still looking at me—appreciating me—though I keep my eyes on the floor. It’s really quite dirty.
Jack clears his throat. “I have a few minutes before my meeting. I’d love a cappuccino.”
