‘I’m Italian,’ she replies. ‘Coffee is in my blood.’
‘I’m English. Mine’s thick with Marmite.’ We both turn as a small girl shouts, ‘Mummy!’ and throws herself in between us.
‘Ready for school?’ The woman hands me my coffee and closes the van doors. I feel sick to my stomach. The girl looks about seven and has haint-blue eyes. I looked up Charleston decor on the net after Vince told me about the colour of Joe’s eyes as a child.
‘I normally walk her there, but she wanted to show her friends Joe’s coffee cart. Appearance matters when you’re in year three.’ The woman with the perfect appearance and melt-in-your-mouth accent closes the van doors. ‘Joe should be back on Monday. With a much better cappuccino than I’ve made you, I’m sure.’
I hate cappuccino. It burns my mouth, tastes like charcoal and is unadorned with a chocolate sprinkles.
A heart is an image drawn in someone else’s froth.
On the way home I think about the name I kept seeing on his phone. ICE. I google it, to see if it’s an anacronym. Or maybe that nice ice cream company? I’m so confused. My phone gives me the information I need. ‘In Case of Emergency’. The person emergency services would call if you were in an accident. His next of kin. Joe’s wife just made me my first coffee of the morning? I tip it down a drain and tiptoe back, putting my feet in the centre of every paving stone. I can’t face any more bad luck today.
Chapter 35
I cry for a whole day. Every time a text comes in from Joe, wanting to explain, I cry some more. I eat two family bags of crisps and sob all evening. Next morning, I wonder if I should substitute the crisps for Deliveroo. Taking Doodle by the lead I schlepp out in my PJs and slippers, closing my front door with a bang that echoes into the porches opposite. I haven’t put on make-up or brushed my bird’s nest hair. Joe belongs to someone else so what’s the point in trying? To avoid meeting him, I walk the long way around, down Goldhawk Road. Perhaps I can absorb the relatively fresh air on the green and try to ignore Christmas in every window.
The winter has stripped the trees, which matches my mood. I can’t think about a Christmas tree. Eva has unsurprisingly backed out of our dinner, so there’s no point in a turkey either. Joe will probably be at home with his wife and child, and I’ll suck up the heartbreak over beans on toast. I pull my yellow bubble coat tighter as two children run past me bound into stiff mittens, while their mother trails behind carrying their scooters. Does anyone actually ride the stupid things?
I pick up a paper and continue on in the biting wind. And then I catch sight of the new Emojitel. Overnight, it has become a pink shocker of a building. How on earth did Kai get permission to do that? His dad clearly has friends in planning departments.
I walk from end to end to absorb the full horror. The building resembles an art deco cinema I once drove past in Rayners Lane, but much more aesthetically offensive. The crescent-shaped roof appears to have wings. Two lines of windows running vertically down the wings of the hotel frame a heart in bright pink, with a border of purple. There’s a capital H in the middle, also in purple. The sides are candy striped and the doors are gold. There are bay trees at either side of the entrance. I know the look from somewhere. I scrawl through the top 100 emojis and beyond, as well as searching for the graphic for hotel. But I’m wide of the mark. Emoji hotels look like hospitals. The exterior of this building is something else. I close my eyes because it’s giving me a headache, before becoming inspired to search up some alternative symbols on my phone. Hah! Kai, you devil.
He answers on the first ring. ‘Daisy Blane. Nice to hear from you. Eva will calm down eventually. Still coming to the launch tomorrow night? She may consume enough wine to forgive you for accusing her of sleeping with me for a zero-hours contract in a budget hotel.’
‘I’m not coming. I just wanted to congratulate you on your real-life emoji. How on God’s earth did you get permission to turn it pink in full view of the green?’
‘We didn’t. I’ve got the scaffolding people and decorators on standby to paint it white again when the good people of Shepherd’s Bush object in their dozens. Hopefully after the launch. We’re bringing Instagrammers in all day to create a buzz. Can you tweet it out to your gazillion followers please?’
‘You do know you’ve created the international symbol for love hotel?’
‘Well, we do have some pay-by-the-hour beds. Have a think about coming to the launch. You gave me all my best ideas and I’d like to buy you a drink.’
When I ring off another call comes in. I let it go to voicemail, before I listen, numb. ‘Daisy, it’s me. I don’t know if you heard any of my other messages so I’m going to say it all again. I don’t know what you took away from meeting Maria but as you’re not replying I’m guessing it wasn’t just a coffee. I didn’t realise she’d grabbed my keys and opened up until later– I was half delirious and would never have trusted her with my cappuccino machine or my customers.
‘Can I reassure you we aren’t together? They came from Italy a month or so ago. They were living in Acton, and I was helping out with childcare occasionally. But when I saw the state of their flat, and how little money they were trying to live on, I had to step in. They’re sharing my super-uncomfortable sofa. You might have noticed she had a widow’s hump? Sorry, stupid attempt at humour. I wanted to tell you but every time I thought up an explanation it seemed off. You and I were just getting going and I’m worried I’ve blown it now … can you call me please so we can talk?’
At the station I pick up a paper, scan it, and realise I don’t care about an Aurora exposé. I can’t even bring myself to read my own column, where Doodle advises an insomniac and the good people of London to get more sleep, quoting a survey where an astonishing amount of Americans confessed to using electronic devices an hour before bed. On impulse I email Aurora and ask her for a chat.
I walk back via Hammersmith Park. Despite the cold, I sit on the ground, near the waterfall. The sky is darkening. It feels like it might snow.
My phone rings.
I launch straight in. ‘If you’re going to go after me, please do so now and get it over with. Scanning the paper and waiting for Google Alerts is giving me heartburn. And hands up, you were right. I thought I was someone for a while but I’m not. I couldn’t find happiness under a rainbow, pot of gold pointing the way or not.’
‘Shall we meet?’ she says.
As I ring off, a voice from behind me warns if I sit on the ground for too long I’ll catch a chill. Turning, I look at the guitar and the small amp he is holding, half expecting him to strike up the opening chords for ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence’.
‘Bit late for you to worry about my welfare. And if you’ve been busking outside shops all day you’ve probably caught one too.’
‘Probably. Worse still I’ve had to go full on Slade and Joni Mitchell. May be heart-warming to others but turns my blood to ice.’
‘How do you get the leccy to power that?’ I nod at the amp he rests beside him.
‘Battery power, and when that dies I ask the shopkeepers. They all know me round here.’
‘Make a decent living?’
