‘The drinks? To take away?’
‘No, drink in.’
She paused, her eyes performing a quick scan of the coffee shop before inclining her head in the direction of the card reader. I tapped my Apple watch against the front, and it gave a cheerful chirp as though it knew caffeine was on the way.
Joe was sat in his usual seat, facing the front of the shop, shoulders hunched as he inspected the photos he’d just taken in the tiny viewfinder on his camera, like he’d done a million times before in that very spot. As a photographer, and one of those lucky individuals who’d managed to turn their hobby into a career, Joe never left the house without his camera. It was the third person in our relationship. Every time he stepped outsidewas, to him, an opportunity to capture the beauty he saw in the world.
‘Jenny? Jenny Thompson?’
A rush of cold air swirled around my ankles, making me shiver, or maybe it was the sound of that familiar high-pitched voice. The barista banged the used coffee grounds of the sleep-deprived mother’s double shot nosily into the dispenser below, and I tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard her. No such luck. A leather-gloved hand gave my shoulder a brisk tap, and I had no choice but to turn around.
‘Itisyou, I thought so. I’d recognise that mop of red hair anywhere!’Mop, seriously?There were a few places I’d like to tell her to shove her bloody mop. Grace McCory – my former childhood friend (sadly not as loyal as either Jacob or Alice) turned arch-nemesis, who’d just decided on the first day of secondary school that I was ‘so last year’ and proceeded to make the rest of my school years a living hell – had an unrivalled ability for making anything sound like a sugar-coated insult. A hard, sickly-sweet shell with a bitter centre.
‘Grace, how lovely to see you,’ I lied.
‘Gosh, I haven’t seen you since .?.?.’ Grace’s voice trailed off, her face twisting into an odd, pained expression that could be attempted sympathy or a severe bout of constipation. The Botox made it impossible to tell. She stared unblinking at me, as if expecting me to finish her sentence. I buried my fist deep into the pocket of my coat, clenching so tightly it felt as though my nails were piercing the skin. We stayed locked in our awkward, silent stand-off until the hiss of the milk frother forced Grace to blink, the spell broken. ‘.?.?. Well, in a very long time,’ she concluded with a pitying look. ‘How are you doing with everything? You look – great. Truly, great.’ The obvious pause as she ran her eyes from mymopdown to my Converse and back up again, said otherwise.
‘I, on the other hand, look an absolute state,’ she pouted, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing some imaginary dirt from her lululemon leggings. ‘We just moved and the place is a right fixer-upper; I mean, it doesn’t even have underfloor heating. Can you imagine?! I’ll miss our cute little townhouse, but since Arabella came along, we just need more space.’ Thanks to her @athomewiththemccorys interior design account on Instagram, I – along with her 50k other followers – knew that herlittle townhousewas a palatial four-bedroom, double-height-ceilinged, detached period property on the outskirts of town that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover ofArchitectural Digest. There was a pause, which she was clearly expecting me to fill with sympathy, but when none came her smile tightened. ‘Are you here alone?’
‘No, I’m here with—’ but when I turned automatically to gesture in Joe’s direction, I saw the table was vacant. Both chairs tucked neatly underneath. ‘Must have just nipped to the bathroom,’ I explained, waving my hand casually in the direction of our table.
Grace nodded slowly, an irritating noise coming from the back of her throat.
‘Jenny.’
‘Hmm?’
‘You know, a friend of mine runs this fantastic group in a little studio near Hove Park. You should try it some time, it would do you the world of good.’ Her head tilted to one side, her perfectly blow-dried bangs falling neatly around her face, which was now contorted into another baffling expression where her eyes bulged from their sockets, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Oh God, was it pity? Did she feel sorry for me? Whatever it was, it made me miss the insults. I bit my tongue, holding back theI would rather stick pins in my eyesresponse that was so eager to come out.
‘One black coffee and one oat milk hazelnut mocha with extra whipped cream.’
‘Yes! That’s me!’ I shouted eagerly, even though I was literally stood right next to the startled-looking barista. She placed two oversized mugs on the counter in front of me before taking a small step back. Fair enough. I grabbed both cups and quickly retreated to our table, before I found myself accidentally panic-accepting an invitation to some heart attack-inducing spin class or whatever fitness fad was in vogue right now.
‘Lovely to see you,’ I called over my shoulder at Grace, only letting my fake-ass smile slip when I was safely sat with my back to her. I placed Joe’s cup down in front of his empty chair, cradling my own in both hands. Two sips of coffee later and the welcome tinkle of the bell above the door had me breathing a sigh of relief, my shoulders visibly lowering an inch or two. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder, relieved to see the coffee shop was now a Grace-free zone.
When I turned back, Joe was sat opposite me. As though he’d never left.
‘What took you so long?’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘You timing me now?’
‘Some knight in shining armour you are, leaving me to fend off Grace McCory by myself.’
‘I had no doubt you’d emerge victorious.’
‘It was a close call, she almost talked me into coming along to some hot naked yoga class or something,’ I shuddered, my face suitably appalled by the idea as I took another sip of coffee, closing my eyes as I felt its warmth spread through me.
‘Hot naked yoga? Now that sounds like something I could get on board with,’ Joe wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Has she left already? If I go now, I might still be able to catch her, sign us both up .?.?.’
He was peering eagerly around me, halfway to a standingposition as though he fully intended to chase Grace down the street and book into the next class then and there, when my death stare stopped him in his tracks. A grin quivered at the corner of his mouth as he slowly lowered himself down again, my scowl only relenting when his bum was firmly back on his seat. He eyed me across the table, something wicked twinkling behind his glasses.
‘So, just to be clear, that’s a firm no on the hot naked yoga?’
3
When people ask me what I do in that small talk, comment-on-the-weather way us Brits do, I tell them I’m a journalist. Or rather I tell them I’m a journalist and then cringe slightly, my face scrunching inwards, my shoulders shrugging apologetically. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m afraid of the look of mistrust that often follows this admission, or the fact that I’m calling itjournalismwhen I spent the best part of last week writing an article entitledSerial shop-lifting seagull, Ralph, wanted by Sainsbury’s Local for £200 of stolen sandwiches.Not exactly the hard-hitting reporting I envisioned I’d be doing when I started at theBrighton Tribune10 years ago.
There was a time – long, long ago – when I semi-enjoyed my job. I never jumped out of bed on Monday morning or came home feeling I’d changed the world, but starting out as a lowly intern, there was still that fizzing excitement of possibility, a naive belief that the world was my oyster, that I could make a difference. Ten years, two pitiful pay increases (which, considering inflation, meant I was being paid less now than when I started) and one too many articles about prize-winning vegetables later, and that spark had been well and truly stamped out, pissed on and smothered into oblivion.
