Another Cup of Coffee (4 page)

As the founder and director of Home Hunters, Phil didn't usually do the initial visits with clients any more. He had underlings who he sent out, via Tube, taxi and bus, to usher people into their new flats and new lives. Today, though, Phil's discontent with his work had reached boiling point, and he knew he simply had to get out of the office. Glad of a genuine excuse to get away from the perpetual hum of the air conditioning, and to breathe in some of what passed for fresh air in London, Phil had decided to deal with the Richmond let himself. Plus it was close to home anyway: after he'd sorted this Amy Crane out, he'd knock off early for once.

The drizzle which had threatened to start all morning had finally broken through the clouds when a black cab pulled up outside 8 Princes Road. Amy had been sent a photo of the small end-of-terrace, but she hadn't expected it to look so cramped against its fellow homes. It appeared as if an overly optimistic builder had shoe-horned it into place. As Amy fumbled through her purse for money to pay the driver, she tried to swallow down a feeling of rising panic. £800 a month for a room in that tiny, squat-looking place? Bloody hell, what had she done? Was this really the ‘new home' part of her ‘new life'?

Phil, recognising the glaze of uncertainty that was typical of clients new to London, came over and took her bag. ‘Miss Crane?'

‘Yes, I'm Amy.' She stared about her. Perhaps it was the rain, but right now Richmond seemed every bit as grey and gloomy as Aberdeen had done.

The tall man from the agency seemed to be psychic. ‘Come on. It'll feel better when you're dry and have a cup of something warming in your hand.'

Steering Amy up the short gravel path, Phil produced a Yale key from a large bunch. He opened the front door.
Her front door. In Richmond.

Amy clutched her rucksack like a security blanket, reluctant to put it down as she lingered in the dark, narrow hallway. Phil was talking to her, but only his name and the fact he was going to put the kettle on had registered.

Once she reached the kitchen, though, Amy could barely disguise her relief. It was compact, neat and spotless. Rows of gleaming white and stainless steel cupboards lined the poster-free walls, and the work surfaces held only biscuit tins and cooking appliances. There wasn't a leftover meal, an unwashed dish, or even burnt toast crumbs, in sight.

‘You didn't think I'd let you live in squalor, did you?' Phil smiled, then picked up a mug and waved it at her. ‘Tea or coffee?'

‘Coffee, please, if the other tenants won't mind me scrounging some.'

‘No problem, I always come equipped.' He produced a handful of sachets from his inside pocket. ‘The only thing we have to steal is milk.'

‘I don't take it; but thanks, I need a caffeine fix fast.'

‘You sound like my wife.' Phil starting chatting away about his wife's café obsession, but Amy wasn't listening. She was surveying the clean crisp white walls, the tastefully chosen pictures, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf crammed with novels and DVD boxes. Why had she assumed this would be a return to student-land? That she was taking a step back, not forward?

The kitchen opened onto a small dining area with a table big enough for four. Then, passing through an archway she was drawn into a compact living area. Two mini navy sofas lined two sides of the room, a gas fire occupied a third, and the TV and a large bay window took up the fourth. In the centre of the room sat an oversized coffee table.

Phil was looking at her as if he expected an answer to a question.

‘Sorry, I'd phased out, I missed what you said.' Amy admitted shyly.

‘Not to worry. Do you like it so far?'

‘Yes, I do. I didn't expect to.' Amy gave a nervous laugh. ‘I hope the people here like me.'

‘They're very nice.' Phil passed Amy her coffee. ‘To be honest,' he called over his shoulder, ‘you probably won't see that much of them, I think they work all hours.'

‘I guess you'd have to so you can afford the rent.'

‘I'm afraid so,' Phil shrugged apologetically, trying not to think of his company's cut. ‘Have you got work sorted down here?'

‘No,' Amy lowered her eyes, inwardly cursing her honesty, and hurriedly continued. ‘Not yet, anyway. But I do have all the money from the deposit on the flat I was renting in Scotland. I can pay the rent.'

Phil changed the subject. ‘I'll show you upstairs.'

Pointing out a perfectly adequate but unspectacular bathroom, Phil indicated her fellow housemates' bedroom doors, and then opened the final door. ‘This is you then.'

As she stepped into the spacious room, Amy's relieved expression spread further across her face, knocking any fears about damp dark lodgings away for good. ‘You wouldn't think there was space for all this when you look from the outside, would you?'

Smiling, Phil said, ‘I'll give you a minute,' and headed downstairs, experience telling him his client wouldn't need him for a while.

Dark maroon curtains hung thickly over the bay window. Pulling them back, Amy let daylight fill the room, but ignoring the view for a moment, she concentrated instead on the furnishings. The double bed, complete with a pine headboard, had been made up for her. A note lay on the pillow:
We didn't think you'd want to go shopping for linen straight away, so you can borrow these sheets and things until you're sorted.
It was signed
James and Sarah
. Amy felt reassured to think that her housemates were already proving so thoughtful, and mentally thanked them. In her rush to leave Scotland she'd totally forgotten to bring bed linen with her. The removal van holding the few bits of furniture that actually belonged to her, rather than having been rented with her flat, wasn't due to arrive until tomorrow.

A large pine chair sat by the window, and a built-in wardrobe occupied the wall by the door.

‘I'll need to get a bedside table,' Amy told the curtains as she ran her fingers over them, appreciating their weight and thickness, which would help keep her room warm in the winter and protect her from the sun's early morning glare in the summer.

‘Miss Crane?'

Amy actually ran downstairs. ‘Hi, sorry, I got carried away. I love it, thank you.' Barely blinking at the amount, she signed the contract and the first three months' rent cheque before waving her new landlord goodbye.

The second Phil left, Amy retreated into the living room and burst into tears. She was here. She had no idea if she was crying from relief, happiness, excitement, or just in reaction to being herself at last. For the first time in years she didn't feel as if she was the wounded girl who had fled to Aberdeen and hidden for the past thirteen years.

She knew she'd been a fool to run in the first place- but she had, and there was nothing that could change the past, but perhaps she could return to being the sociable, chatty person who'd existed before? Before Jack had abandoned her with no explanation other than a few heartbreakingly devastating words.

‘I'm sorry Amy, this is going too well. It's over.'

Six

October 4
^th
2006

The power shower thundered, sending a searing-hot cascade of water down onto Jack's head. Squeezing far too much shampoo into his hands, he began to viciously scrub his short hair. What the hell had he been thinking? Well, actually, he hadn't been thinking, had he? He never looked beyond himself. The moment. The day. He was so stupid. So angry with himself.

Why the fuck had he posted that tape? And, more immediately, where was he? And how soon was he going to able to get away from whoever it was he'd spent the night with? Jack could feel the familiar sensation of suffocation closing in on him as he abandoned his hair and began to furiously soap his torso.

He was a shit.

But then you have to be good at something.

And now Amy was coming here. It hadn't crossed his mind that she'd even visit, let alone move her entire life back south. And not just south, but bloody
London
. Being back in touch, and hopefully forgiven, was one thing when she was safely tucked away in Scotland. But here. Face to face. Jack hadn't banked on that at all.

He really didn't want to see Rob today. It was his fault this had happened. Rob had come into work one day, back in the summer, going on about how worried he and Paul were for Amy. How she seemed to have placed herself completely off the emotional scale. The combination of bright sunshine, happy reminiscences, and the weight of a conversation he and Amy had never had, had brought his buried guilt racing to the surface.

Then, a few days later, Paul had visited Jack and Rob's bookshop, passing through on one of his rare visits between archaeological digs. He'd been sorting out some of his university mementos, and had come across a load of photographs.

They were all there, at university, more years ago than was acceptable if Jack was still going to pass himself off as thirty at the clubs he frequented. Amy, Rob and Paul huddled together in a muddy ditch, laughing. Rob, Paul and him, pints of Tiger lager in hand, outside their favourite pub. Paul, Amy and him, all cuddled together on Rob's battered and suspiciously stained brown sofa. Amy and him. Amy and him together. Smiling. Together.

That had been the killer. That was the photo that had made him think. Her eyes had shone at the camera. If Jack was honest, so had his. So, in a state of happy but unrealistic nostalgia, he'd gone home, dragged a box of assorted junk out from under his bed, and pulled out the tape.

He had weighed the clear plastic box in his hand. It was time to explain. If Amy was half the girl he used to know then she'd forgive him. And suddenly, from nowhere, Jack had found that he really, really needed to be forgiven.

That was why he'd put ‘Unfinished Sympathy' on Amy's tape. He wanted her to understand that he knew he'd hurt her. That he, himself, had been hurt by having to leave her. But for reasons he hadn't totally understood at the time, he'd felt he had no choice. A fact which had led him to the record the unbearably twee, but wholly accurate, ‘I Will Always Love You'. It seemed to say how sorry he was. It said everything he'd wanted to say then, but couldn't. He was sorry, really he was. But for Amy to turn up here!
Bloody hell
.

Stepping out of the shower, Jack began to dry himself with a suitably punishing rough brown towel. Now he was going to have to tell Rob he'd returned the tape,
and
have another go at talking to Kit.

He hadn't deliberately failed to tell Kit about Amy. Specific conversations about individual exes had never come up. Jack was pretty sure that Rob hadn't mentioned Amy to Kit either. Amy had been part of their old life, and Kit was part of their current one. Simple.

Jack knew he had to see Kit soon, before someone else filled her in. He wasn't sure why he'd walked out on her now he came to think about it. At least she'd understand. Kit always understood. After all, they'd remained friends. Great friends. They had moved on smoothly.

‘Talk about my past catching me up,' he muttered to his sleep-deprived reflection as he dragged a borrowed razor over his chin. ‘It's pretty much tripped me up, into a pile of shit, and it's entirely my fault. Bloody sentimental tape.
Fuck!
'

Approaching his bookshop, Jack peered up at the sign which swung, pub-like, from its low eaves, and silently thanked his grandfather for the money he'd left him.

Even though he'd attained a first-class degree in Ecology, Jack had never had any intention of taking up a career in that arena. The idea of running a bookshop had started as a faint possibility; an option amongst many. It had developed into a dream, and then, when he'd accidentally come across the empty premises in Kew, it had blossomed into an exciting and challenging project.

Now Reading Nature was a source of real pride, and despite his self-inflicted gloom, Jack got a kick of achievement from seeing its single bay-windowed frontage ahead of him. Through the glass Jack could see Rob's cropped ginger-haired head bent over the counter. He was busy sorting the morning's post into piles: to do, to send, the ubiquitous bills to pay, and junk to recycle,.

‘Morning,' Rob smiled up at his friend as he came in, but adjusted his expression as he saw the cloud hanging across Jack's face. ‘What's up? Club no good last night?'

‘It was fine, busy, you know.'

‘Not really, mate, but then I'm a boring old married fart.'

Jack attempt at a smile failed, ‘I've done something stupid. I think.'

Rob pulled a face that clearly implied
no change there then
, but simply said, ‘Go on.'

‘I've got in touch with Amy.'

‘Oh, is that all! God, I assumed you were about to tell me something dreadful.' Rob chucked a whole pile of pointless post into a tub under the counter. ‘Anyway, I know.'

‘What?' Jack stopped dead.

‘I know you wrote to Amy, and sent her tape back. She called me a while ago.'

Jack was stunned, ‘Why on earth haven't you mentioned it?'

‘She asked me not to.'

Jack slammed his hands flat onto the counter and fought the urge to shout. ‘Oh great, and you have to do what
she
says I suppose. Who's your mate here, exactly?'

Rob's hackles rose as he confronted Jack, ‘Oh, no. You are
not
doing this to me again. It was bad enough being caught in the crossfire when you and Amy were together, and then not together, and then together again, and then not, all the bloody time! Christ, you were on and off like a tap! I am
not
being put in that position again.'

‘But we work together every day, Rob!' Already feeling guilty for taking his anger at himself out on his friend, Jack sighed, he felt as if his customary fight had been snuffed out of him ‘You should have told me you'd heard from Amy. I'd like to have known she was all right.'