‘He’s a monster but I’ve been working on taming him.’
‘Doggy biscuit?’
‘Prefer biscotti if I’m honest.’
‘For him not you, you muppet.’ A tingle goes down my spine when he ruffles my hair. I fill him in about the approach from theGazette, prompting him to glance at the freshly shredded toe of my fake Converse. ‘God help the people of London if Doodle’s going to be chewing over their problems. But at least it’s better than trashing your shoes. Want to sit on my confessional stool and help me with this?’ He chucks me the paper, folded neatly at the crossword page.
‘You do know the rest of the world has moved on to Wordle?’
‘It’s a phase. Trust me, they’ll all be buying Sudoku loo roll again in the run-up to Christmas.’
I grab the stool as Doodle sniffs around for his pastry of the day, nipping at the edge of Joe’s trousers. ‘‘‘Punishment by dog bite?” Canine. But I’m sure you knew that.’
‘Ow! I do now,’ he says, pushing Doodle away with his foot. ‘I was also stumped on fourteen down.’
‘Have you ever actually completed one of these on your own?’
He flashes me a dazzling ‘you got me’ smile and my palms go a little clammy. He gives my coffee his full attention while I chew on his pen and try to focus on the words.
‘My heart is all over the place today,’ he says.
My ears prick up like Doodle’s and I wait for him to elaborate before catching sight of a wonky design on my froth. He’s not talking about me. ‘You’re a frustrated artist.’
‘Nah, I’m all about the dough. Although I’m starting again with this drink as it’s bugging me. The heart shouldn’t sit in the middle like an orphan but fill the whole cup. Symmetrical, sharp and white against the coffee.’ He tips it, washes it out and begins again. On the second pass, he angles the pitcher of milk a little further, almost resting it on the cup.
‘All about the dough? I wouldn’t have you down as someone who chased money.’
‘Because I work out of a van? Appearances can be deceptive. I keep a close eye on the bottom line. But I meant a different kind of dough. I’m currently obsessing about the perfect pizza, which I hope to make in abundance when I open my own restaurant.’
‘What? Why haven’t we talked about this before? You didn’t think to mention you had dreams of your own when I was droning on about my business?’ My tone is jokey but I’m a little stung.
He shrugs. ‘It’s old news. I’ve drawn up more plans for that building than you’ve had my hot coffees, but I’m no closer to buying it.’
‘Which building? Is it local?’ I try not to let panic creep into my voice. I can hardly bear his absence from a weekday morning let alone the rest of my life.
A man walks up and asks if he can have a cappuccino. I want to say no, go away. Joe replies he’s lucky to have caught him before he moves off. I hop down from the stool but can’t wait in suspense for twenty-four hours.
‘Where’s the restaurant? The one you’d like to buy?’
‘Just down the road.’
Relieved, I put the completed crossword onto the stool. ‘I want the whole story tomorrow.’
‘I can show you sometime if you like. We could grab a drink afterwards and work on our business plans some more.’ As I leave him brewing his last coffee of the morning, I lift the lid and find I’ve been gifted a perfect heart.
If only it was Joe’s.
Chapter 9
By the time I rock up to Vince’s house for our next session, I feel more qualified to be a happiness coach than I’ve ever felt before. My bag contains a neat file of lesson plans for the whole month, stuffed with practical exercises based on the most up-to-date behavioural theory I could get my hands on, and handouts I can give him if he questions any of my logic. This morning I dressed in a long lilac tunic, fuchsia-coloured tights and sparkly purple DMs before shrugging the whole lot off and choosing a brown linen shift dress and cream cardigan. Professional yet pretty and about the only thing in my wardrobe without a hint of pink.
Vince is a different guy today and I do a double take. But then, he’s an actor, isn’t he? Transforming himself is his job. Clean-shaven and attractive, he’s wearing a chocolate-brown polo neck, which accentuates his eyes, matched with dark blue jeans and tan shoes. He leaves me to shut the front door, and I hover just inside his living room, nervous again.
‘You can take the chair if you like, so you look like a proper therapist, while I lie on the couch and vomit out my damaging childhood experiences. Shall we begin with my mom renting a Cinderella Carriage in Central Park for my eighteenth birthday to test my gender identification? Want tea like a true Brit? Or have you come for the king of zing?’ He points to his gleaming coffee machine. His smile is as magnetic as ever, but the therapist comment sends me spiralling. And I don’t know where to begin with the Cinderella stuff.
‘Coffee please. But I need to remind you I’m not a—’
‘You don’t need to remind me of any such thing,’ he interrupts. ‘The main reason I hired you is you’re not one of them.’ I shudder on behalf of all therapists as I scan the room for alcohol. ‘So, do you want a coffee from the Jura GIGA 6, designed by the Swiss and made by some of the best robots in the world, or would you prefer a cafetière? I filled in that form of yours. It’s on the coffee table.’
