But it was all lies. I never reconciled myself to having lost him. I still secretly, crazily, hoped.
And now he’s back. The words are thudding through my head like a drumbeat—he’s back, he’s back—while I stand in Anna’s Accessories like a starstruck fourteen-year-old, frantically trying out hair clips. As though choosing exactly the right hair decoration will somehow magically make Ryan fall in love with me.
I couldn’t cope with going straight home from the shop. What if he was there already, lounging on the sofa, ready to catch me out with his irresistible smile? I needed time. I needed to prepare. So at 5:00 P.M. I told Greg to close up and headed to the High Street. I bought myself a new lipstick. And now I’m standing in front of a display rack, trying to transform my appearance beyond belief with a £3.99 diamanté hair clip. Or maybe I should go for a flower.
Glittery hairband?
I know this is all displacement. I can’t even contemplate the momentousness of seeing Ryan again, so instead I’m fixating on an irrelevant detail which nobody else will even notice. Story of my life.
At last I gather up two beaded hair clips, some diamanté hair grips, and a pair of dangling gold earrings for good luck. I pay for them and head out to the balmy street. Mum will be laying out the table by now. Stacking the paper cups. Wrapping knives and forks in napkins. But even so, I need more time. I need to get my head straight.
On impulse, I duck into Café Allegro, which is our family’s favorite local café. I buy a bag of coffee beans for Mum’s cappuccino machine—we’re always running out, and Café Allegro does the best ones—then order a mint tea and go sit by the window. I’m trying to think exactly how to greet Ryan. What vibe to give off. Not gushy or needy, but self-possessed and alluring.
With a sigh, I retrieve my Anna’s Accessories bag, take out the two beaded clips, and hold them up against my hair, squinting into my hand mirror. Neither looks remotely alluring. I try the gold earrings against my ears and wince. Oh God. Terrible. I might take them back.
Suddenly I notice a guy opposite me, watching in slight amusement over his laptop, and at once I flush. What am I doing? I would never normally start trying on hair clips in a coffee shop. I’ve lost all sense of propriety.
As I shove the clips and earrings back in the bag, a drip of water lands on the table, and I look up. Now I think about it, there’s been a steady stream of drips from the ceiling ever since I sat down, only they’ve been landing in a bucket on the floor.
A barista is nearby, giving a hot sandwich to a customer, and I attract her attention as she turns to go.
“Hi, the ceiling’s leaking.” I point upward and she follows my gaze briefly, then shrugs.
“Yeah. We put a bucket down.”
“But it’s dripping on the table too.”
As I study the ceiling, I can see two sources of drips and a patch of damp. That whole area of ceiling looks very unhealthy. I glance at the guy opposite to see if he’s noticed, but he’s on his mobile phone and seems totally preoccupied.
“Yes,” he’s saying, in a voice which crackles with education and polish. “I know, Bill, but—”
Nice suit, I notice. Glossy, expensive shoes.
“They’re doing building work on the floor above.” The barista seems supremely unconcerned. “We’ve called them. You can move seats if you like.”
I should have wondered why this window seat was empty, when the rest of the coffee shop is full. I look around to see if there’s another available seat, but there isn’t.
Well, I’m not fussy. I can put up with a few drips. I’ll be leaving soon, anyway.
“It’s OK,” I say. “Just thought I’d let you know. You might need to get another bucket.”
The barista shrugs again, with a look I recognize—it’s the famous “I’m going off shift so what do I care?” look—and heads back to the counter.
“Strewth!” the guy opposite suddenly exclaims. His voice has risen and he’s making exasperated gestures with his hand.
The word strewth makes me smile inside. That’s a word Dad used to use. I don’t often hear it anymore.
“You know what?” he’s saying now. “I’m sick of these intellectual types with their six degrees from Cambridge.” He listens for a bit, then says, “It should not be this hard to fill a junior-level position. It should not. But everyone Chloe finds for me … I know. You’d think. But all they want to do is tell me their clever theories that they learned at uni. They don’t want to work.”
He leans forward, takes his cup for a gulp of coffee, and meets eyes with me briefly. I can’t help smiling, because even though he doesn’t know it, I’m hearing my dad again.
On the face of it, this man is nothing like my dad. My dad was a weather-beaten former market trader. This guy is a thirty-something professional in a posh tie. But I’m hearing exactly the same note of energy; the same pragmatism; the same impatience with clever-clever know-it-alls. Dad had no time for theories either. “Get on and do it,” he’d say.
“All I want is to hire someone bright and savvy and tough who knows how the world works,” the guy is saying now, thrusting a hand through his frondy hair. “Someone who’s been in the world, hasn’t just written a dissertation about it. They don’t even need a bloody degree! They need some sense! Sense!”
He’s lean and energetic-looking, with an end-of-summer tan. Deep-brown hair, lighter where the sun’s caught it. As he reaches for his coffee again, the fronds cast shadows over his face. His cheekbones are two long, strong planes. His eyes are … can’t quite tell. Mid-brown or hazel, I think, peering surreptitiously at him. Then the light catches them and I see a tinge of green. They’re woodland eyes.
It’s a thing of mine, classifying eyes. Mine are double espresso. Ryan’s are Californian sky. Mum’s are deep-sea blue. And this guy’s are woodland eyes.
“I know,” he says more calmly, his ire apparently vanished. “So I’m having another meeting with Chloe next week. I’m sure she’s really looking forward to it.” His mouth curves into a sudden, infectious smile.
He can laugh at himself. That’s one up on Dad, who was the sweetest, most softhearted person in the world but didn’t really get the concept of banter or laughing at yourself. You could never have sent Dad an irreverent, jokey birthday card. He would have just been hurt or offended.
“Oh. That.” The guy shifts on his chair. “Look, I’m sorry.” He passes a hand through his hair again, but this time he doesn’t look dynamic; he looks upset. “I’m just … It’s not happening. You know Briony, she gets ahead of herself, so … no. No home gym, not for now. Tanya’s designs were great, she’s very talented, but … Yeah. I’ll pay her for her time, of course.… No, not with dinner,” he adds firmly. “With a proper invoice. I insist.” He nods a few times. “OK. I’ll see you soon. Cheers.”
The wry blade of humor is back in his voice—but as he puts his phone away, he stares out of the window as though trying to rebalance himself. It’s weird, but I feel like I know this guy. Like, I get him. If we weren’t two uptight British people in a London coffee shop, maybe I’d strike up conversation with him.
But we are. And that’s just not what you do.
So I do that traditional London thing of pretending I didn’t hear a word of his phone call and staring carefully into midair in a way that won’t attract his gaze. The guy starts typing at his laptop and I glance at my watch—5:45 P.M. I should go soon.