Another Cup of Coffee (2 page)

Knowing neither her curiosity nor her nerves could wait any longer to find out what else lurked forgotten on the cassette, Amy settled back onto her padded red seat, positioned her unfashionably large headphones on her head, and started the Walkman.

Her heart thudded. She hadn't recorded anything else herself.

But Jack had.

The shiver that shot down her spine as the first bar of the next tune kicked into life was enough to make Amy slam the
Stop
button down with unusual violence. The pretty-boy waiter came back with her drink, looking concerned: perhaps he'd seen her shocked expression.
Or perhaps he desperately wants to tell me about MP3 players or iPods
, Amy thought, forcing herself to aim a fake smile of reassurance in his direction.

Amy slowly counted to three. How bad could it be anyway? She pressed
Play
. This time she wouldn't be taken by surprise.

She couldn't believe Jack had recorded it. But then of course he had: that's why he'd taken the tape in the first place. He'd owned a copy of the track in question, and had promised to record it for her. It had seemed funny at the time.

Amy had forbidden herself to think about Jack for so long that, now he was pushing himself back in, she feared she wouldn't be able to cope with the reason why.

She'd had a handful of boyfriends at university. Although they had all been rewarding experiences, each liaison being flirty and fun, they had also been ultimately brief. But the moment she'd seen Jack walking down the library steps with Rob, one Monday morning fourteen years ago, Amy had known he was different. His dark hair, and soulful hazel eyes, had made an instant and permanent impact. Yet, both of them being reticent to make the first move, they had managed to ignore each other and their obvious mutual attraction for three months, driving their friends mad with their inaction. Rob, frustrated by what was fast becoming an awkward situation, had finally set them up on a friendly ‘getting-to-know-each-other' date out of sheer desperation.

The butterflies had been stirring in Amy's stomach before she'd even got to the pub chosen for the occasion. She'd just about convinced herself that Jack wouldn't show up anyway, and was going to call the whole thing off, when Rob had phoned to assure Amy that no thumbscrews had been used to force Jack to come along. In fact, no persuasion had been required at all.

The pub had been poky to say the least, and the lack of sawdust on the floor was certainly an opportunity severely missed by the management. The smoke from the customers' cigarettes had reached smog levels, and there was standing room only. Even as she'd walked through the door Amy had experienced an overwhelming temptation to run, to escape before the inevitable hurt happened, but there'd been a tiny voice of hope screaming at the back of her head. So, she'd stayed. And then Jack had arrived.

Amy couldn't remember how they'd got talking, but in a remarkably short time they had covered their early childhoods, school days, past relationship disasters, and their hopes and fears for the future. They'd also discovered a mutual love of real, good-quality coffee – preferably served to them by someone else. By the time the barman was declaring last orders it had seemed perfectly natural for Jack to walk her home.

When they'd reached her rented terraced house, Amy hadn't hesitated before inviting Jack in. The kettle was boiled and drinks made before she'd even thought about the social connotations of inviting a man ‘in for coffee'.

Their drinks had never been drunk. The two chipped mugs sat on the magazine strewn table in front of the tiny sofa, upon which they'd cuddled while they chatted. Jack had been the one who suggested putting on some music, and not knowing where to hunt for a suitable tape, had simply turned on Amy's radio. They'd laughed out loud when Joy Division's ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart' burst into the room; agreeing that, even if it wasn't too pathetic to have a song that was ‘their song,' that that particular track would never be it.

Despite the fact that the restaurant was filling up around her, Amy didn't try to hide the tears which had begun to slip down her face in time to the music. It seemed absurd to remember how happy she'd been.

Forcing herself into further reminiscences, Jenny remembered how Jack had left at about two o'clock in the morning, after arranging to take her to see
The Bodyguard
at the cinema the following evening. Before leaving, he'd given Amy the most delicious, gentle and loving kiss she'd ever experienced. A kiss full of future promise. It had been a moment locked in time.

She told him all about her brother's tape, and promising to return it soon, the cassette had been secured in Jack's vast coat pocket, so that he could record their non-song. Amy hadn't been able to stop grinning, and by the time she met up with Paul and Rob the next morning, her jaw had ached with the strain of being so elated.

Making an emergency dash to the Ladies' cloakroom, Amy gazed at her 34-year-old reflection in the mirror. Her fair hair, really more yellow than blonde, was tied back into its practical work-day ponytail. Dark shadows circled her intensely blue eyes. Feeling suddenly very tired, Amy splashed her face with cold water. Then, telling the woman in the mirror to get a grip, she returned to her rapidly-cooling meal.

The discarded Walkman lay accusingly on the table. No one had pinched it as she'd half-hoped. No one had made her life easier by stealing the past away. Amy couldn't begin to guess what the remainder of the tape contained. She had loved Jack so much; no one else had stood a chance.

Her year with Jack had lurched from starting to stopping, re-starting to re-stopping, until finally collapsing into an unrecognisable heap right in the middle of her finals. The confused, almost disposable, feeling which had swamped her had remained ever since, like a hostile shadow, blighting any chance of further relationships. Overwhelmed by a rejection she hadn't understood, Amy had finished her exams, packed up her belongings for her parents to collect later, stuffed a suitcase with clothes and books, and ran.

That was almost exactly thirteen years ago. Amy inwardly groaned. Here she was in her mid-thirties, in a dull job, with no real local friends, no partner, and no children. Eking out her spare time sitting in unspectacular cafés, inhaling coffee fumes and reading novels. She had to do something about her life. And fast.

Slipping her mobile out of her pocket, Amy punched in the number before she had a chance to change her mind.

Rob answered the phone with blessed speed. Just hearing his delighted voice when he realised that the prodigal daughter was on the line made Amy feel so much better that she silently cursed herself for not calling him more often. She found herself accepting the frequently-made, but usually refused, invitation to visit, and was amazed by how happy he sounded, and by how quickly Rob made plans to invite Paul over from his current dig so that they could all make some coffee stops like they had in the old days.

Amy briefly explained what had happened. Did Rob still work with Jack? He did.

By the time she'd put the phone down on Rob, Amy's indecisive metabolism had decided she was starving and she ate her meal without registering what it tasted like. Once she'd finished, Amy slid her hand into her pocket and fingered the envelope nervously. Placing the headphones back over her ears and pressing
Play
, she flinched as Jack's soft voice spoke to her.

‘I'm sorry Amy. I'm sorry I hurt you. I hope you don't mind, but I've put two more tracks on your tape. I tried to imagine what you'd have put on it, if I'd returned it. I hope I got it right. I did love you. Still do, really, but, well, open the letter as you listen, it'll explain. Oh, and as far as the last track goes, remember we had very wide musical tastes back then – don't tell anyone who knows me I own a copy!'

The wounding, wounded lyrics of the first new track, Massive Attack's ‘Unfinished Sympathy', crowded her head, and Amy found she was shaking. Fresh tears threatened as she opened Jack's letter with clumsy fingers …

So that was it.

Amy felt odd; relieved, bereft, used, but strangely free. It hadn't been her fault. Her head thudded and an incredible anger welled up inside her. She'd wasted so much time over something beyond her control.

When the last track came on Amy couldn't help but laugh. No wonder Jack didn't want anyone to know they'd liked it. She could feel the weight of the last thirteen years lifting from her. He was gay. As simple as that. He must have felt as confused as she'd felt worthless. It was time to find him. Time to ask all the questions she should have demanded answers to years ago, not to mention the new ones that crashed through her head.

What had he seen in her? Amy wasn't naïve enough to believe she'd turned him gay, but why the hell had he gone out with her in the first place? Whatever had been the point? And why hadn't Rob ever told her? He must have known for a while if he worked with Jack every day.

Her brain did an abrupt U-turn and, with her thoughts spiralling out of control in another direction, Amy was seized with panic. Why had he told her now? What had happened to make him get in touch after so many years? Was Jack in trouble? Had someone hurt him?

As Whitney Houston's version of ‘I Will Always Love You' completed her tape, Amy fished the letter back out of her pocket. There was no address, but there was a mobile number.

Coming to a vastly overdue decision, Amy pulled her mobile back out of her pocket and pressed re-dial.

‘Rob. I'm not coming to visit. I've made a decision. I've been hiding long enough. I'm moving south. Please don't say
anything
about
anything
to Jack yet. OK?'

OCTOBER

In which Amy heads south, we meet an erotica writer, discover the perfect coffee house, and Jack has some explaining to do…

Two

October 2
^nd
2006

Jack sat on the edge of the stool. It was hard and unyielding against his buttocks. He suspected if had been specifically designed not to encourage lingering at the bar. In July it had seemed so much the right thing to do. Wiping his hands down his faded jeans, Jack remembered how carefully he'd wrapped the package before posting it north. He'd visualised Amy opening it, and had contemplated her reaction for a while. Then, in typical Jack style, he'd moved on, and placed the whole event into that part of his brain where the best-forgotten actions of his life dwelt.

Propped against the bar counter behind him, Jack stared at his mobile phone. He hadn't expected this. He read the text again.

Got tape. Got letter. Moving to London. Will c u maybe. Hope u ok. Amy

Jack gulped down a giant mouthful of Worthington's before allowing his eyes to rove around the pulsating dance floor. He needed a distraction. Something – someone – to stop him thinking. Jack's eyes fell on a tall slim man, about thirty years old, nice hair, dark eyes. He'd do.

Jack put his pint down and joined the fray.

Cramming the foot cream and moisturiser back amongst the more familiar clutter of books, tissues, and scraps of paper that adorned her bedside table, it struck Kit that not long ago she'd scorned such additions to her life. Nightly applications of unguents to stave off the evidence of aging were a paranoia reserved exclusively for other people.

Somehow that had changed recently. It was as if, on her last birthday, a trigger had gone off in Kit's head, and the fear of looking old, rather than being old, had consumed her. Phil had laughed when Kit had bought a pot of Nivea. Not in an unkind way, but in a ‘so you
are
growing up at last' sort of way. She knew it had annoyed her far more than it should have done, as she'd sulked in their bedroom, embarrassed at the ownership of something that the rest of the female race had taken for granted since adolescence.

As if having to admit she wasn't twenty anymore wasn't bad enough, other aspects of her life seemed to be losing their certainty as well. The twins were growing up way too fast. Although only nine years old (an age which was definitely the new thirteen, in Kit's opinion), they seemed to need her less and less beyond the functions of taxi-driver, housekeeper, and meal-provider. To top it all, writing her erotica, which had once given her so much pleasure, somehow didn't feel quite so satisfying these days.

‘I'm not even forty!' Kit flicked a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes and, slamming the offending lotion away with her socks, pulled open her knickers drawer for consolation. It always made her feel better to see her pile of delicate silk, satin, and lace undies. They felt soft between her fingers as she trailed a hand through the soft fabric. These were also a relatively new innovation for her, but not one that her husband joked about.

Confidence, that was what it was about, and since she had, after five years of moaning and a further two gruelling years of actually trying, lost the weight gained during pregnancy, Kit had rewarded herself by throwing her hated cheap and boring knickers into the dustbin, and built up a pile of lingerie to be proud of. She had to be careful though. For the first time in her life Kit saw how buying clothes could become addictive. This was a new sensation to someone who didn't give a damn about fashion, and regarded shopping as something inconvenient to be slotted in between coffee breaks.

Kit smiled and closed the drawer, ignoring the glint of a shiny silver vibrator Phil had given her as a present after the publication of her first smutty story. He'd be up in a minute, and the real thing was always preferable. Or perhaps she should try and get some sleep. After all, she was seeing Jack tomorrow afternoon, and judging by the tone of his voice when he'd called, it sounded as if their inevitable caffeine overload might be accompanied by some pretty heavy conversation.

October 3
^rd
2006

Fishing around in her kitchen cupboards, Kit produced two school lunchboxes, and began buttering slices of bread before facing the fact that she didn't have much to put between them.