Option two: I could leave a note and slip it through the mail slot. It’s probably faster and more personal than an email. The only thing is, I don’t have any paper. Maybe I could pop into the café downstairs and grab a napkin to scribble a note on.
Option three: I give up and ring Angela to pick me up. That’s likely what’s going to happen eventually, but I came all this way and I’m not leaving without making an effort.
So I suppose the clear winner is option two.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
My head begins to ache. Angela isn’t relenting. I decide to answer the darn mobile and let her know I’m almost done. Reaching into my pocket, I grab the device and slide to unlock the screen, mindful of my injured finger. Taking a deep breath, I begin, “Angela, I’m so, so, so sorry. I promise I’m going to spend the next five years making it up to you.”
“Princess Alice! Finally! Where are you?” she asks, sounding exasperated.
“I’m in Battersea.” I give her Art’s address.
“Stay where you are! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I will.” I apologize to her again and disconnect the call. Angela is likely still in Covent Garden. It’ll probably take her about a half hour before she’s here. I know she asked me to stay where I am, but if I pop down to the Corner Café, it’ll only take a second to find a napkin and borrow a pen. A good barista never goes far without one. Besides, technically, it’s just the ground floorof Art’s building.
Inside the café,I spy several customers sitting at tables chatting, while others are working on their laptops. Nearly everyone has a nice ice-cold beverage. Suddenly, I need one too. I’ve forgotten just how thirsty I am from the cab ride and all the running around.
“Can I help you?” a cashier asks in a bored tone.
“Yes. I’d like an iced vanilla soy latte please.”
“Size?”
“Large.”
The cashier pushes a few buttons on the register. “Your name?”
“It’s Ali—son,” I sputter, momentarily forgetting myself. Luckily, the cashier doesn’t seem to notice. She scribbles something on a cup and rings me up. I pay with my mobile. Just as I start to step off to the side, I pause. “Oh, do you have an extra pen I could borrow?”
The cashier wrinkles her nose.
“I promise I’ll give it right back.”
Wordlessly, she reaches into her pocket and slides a black marker across the counter to me. “See that you do.”
“Thanks.” Smiling brightly, I dash over to the condiments area and swipe a napkin from the dispenser. I only need one, but they’re packed so tightly, I have to grab a wad of them to get any out.
Uncapping the pen, I begin to write:
Dear Art,
I’m sorry we missed one another. I’m so sorry for everything. You have no idea how much I’ve been dying to see you so we can...
A person walks up behind me. I hear them coughing. I turn my head.
“Do you mind?” a man dressed in a blue football jersey and black joggers asks.
I blink a few times.
He frowns. “I’m trying to get to the creamer.” He holds up a paper cup.
“Oh right. Sorry.” I hastily grab my napkins and pen and step to the side, using the lid of the rubbish bin as my new countertop.
. . .talk things out and make things right. I completely understand if...
“Alison!” the barista shouts.
