‘Jess!’ my colleague Yasmine cried as I joined her behind the counter. ‘I’m so glad you are here. Kyle has been such a dick, again.’ Her brown eyes pleaded with me, her curly blonde hair scrunched up in a bun, emphasising the dynamic angles of her young pretty face. Sweet seventeen-year-old boy dramas. If only I could tell her it was easier at twenty-seven.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about Kyle the week that your Sam is getting married.’ She shook her head apologetically. The fact she referred to him as mine showed that I’d shared my own dose of boy-related drama over our couple of weeks together too. I really should introduce her to Alice and show her that women have far better things to dedicate their brain power to than men. ‘How many days is it now?’ she asked.
It was four. Four short days. Alice, Andrew and Mark had done a good job at walking the line between Sam, Jamie and I, keeping mentions of them to a minimum when they were with me. But the date of their big day was impossible to forget, ever since Jamie had told me, less than two months, eight weeks, fifty-six days ago.
‘Is he still not picking up your calls?’ Yasmine asked, reminding me of a young Zoe – a Zoe who actually knew every inch of what was going on in my life. I hadn’t heard from her since the morning of the exhibition opening; I guess my staying in his spare bedroom was one Sam-drama too far for her; part of me was beginning to understand why.
‘No,’ I sighed. Alice had said he wasn’t mad any more but had told me just to leave it. Three years since our break-up and I was still here talking about him; clearly ‘leaving it’ wasn’t my forte. ‘Anyway, Kyle?’ The magic word. Yasmine set off on a long tirade, interrupted only by customers. ‘… cheat… ex-girlfriend… Americano?… sex with… here’s your change, sir… never again…’
The hours passed as I made coffees, cleared tables, juiced fruit, wiped down the bar. My fine art degree raged unused within me, but I ignored it. The Coffee Shop customers had made me feel lighter than I had done in days. Sure, it wasn’t CreateSpace. Sure, it wasn’t painting. But it was people, familiar faces, friendly conversations and in some strange way I knew it was slowly soothing whatever it was that broke within me when my ‘maybe one day’ crashed and burned. Plus, it was one of the only things in Sydney I’d sorted out for myself.
I looked out over the small coffee shop, across the smiling faces and chatter of conversations and out the long glass storefront to the sea and— shit.
‘Shit.’ I crouched down under the counter. Yasmine, busy clearing a table, instantly appeared by my side. Following my gaze to where it had been only moments before, she saw who I had been looking at. I couldn’t let him see me working in a coffee shop, not after the last time we had spoken.
‘Is that him? Is it Sam? Do you want me to—’
‘Yasmine,’ I interrupted, ‘he’s fifty and he’s wearing a kimono, of course that’s not Sam! That’s Tim, my boss from CreateSpace.’
‘The one who fired you and then you went back and yelled at?’
Couldn’t remember a three-drink order, but she could recall all the dirty details of my demise.
‘That’s the one.’ I smiled ironically.
‘I’ll cover for you… G’day, sir!’ Yasmine jumped up to standing as Tim materialised at the counter. ‘What can I get for you, latte, Americano, espresso, skinny cappuccino, matcha macchiato?’
‘I’d like to speak with Jessica,’ Tim declared grandly. Shit. ‘I heard she was working here now?’
I studied his sequin-studded Converse through the five-inch gap between the counter and the floor. I looked up at Yasmine, pleadingly.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Yasmine began, wooden and rehearsed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anyone working here by that na—’
‘I can see her under the counter,’ Tim interrupted, deadpan. Oh crap. ‘Jessica, I’d like to speak with you.’
With shaking legs and a face full of shame, I stood from where I was hiding and brushed dust from the floor off my apron as I absorbed the full extent of Tim’s flamboyant attire. I racked my brain for reasons he could be here, none of them good.
‘Jessica.’ Tim looked down at me through his thick black frames. ‘I wonder whether I could coax you onto your break? I’d love to chat.’
Think of an excuse, Jess. Think of an excuse.
‘I can hold the fort,’ Yasmine said before I could filter through my thoughts of dogs and homework. I had no choice but to say ‘Thanks, Yasmine,’ through gritted teeth. ‘Could you make Tim an iced green tea, please?’ I knew his order well.
‘Anything for you?’ she asked, an excited look on her face.
Wine? Gin? Valium?
‘Just a filter, please,’ I responded.
‘So, how are you? How’s the exhibition? How’s Olivia?’ Nervous chatter spilled out as I led Tim over to a table. Somewhere between hiding behind the counter and being caught dusty-handed and red-faced, my mind had decided we should go on the offensive. He couldn’t get angry without getting a word in edgeways. ‘I read the review in Vogue, such a—’
‘We need to talk.’ Four words I had dreaded for much of my adult life. Though I never thought I’d hear them from a fifty-something man wearing adult-sized children’s Converse. This was about my appearance at CreateSpace. This was about Atwood and Sommers. This was about that lie. This was about the coffee stain I got on the back of Patience that Tim never found out about. I silenced my thoughts and tried to concentrate on his.
‘This is about your collection.’
My collection. I had wanted to be credited for my contribution but even I thought calling it ‘my collection’ was going a bit far.
‘Olivia received your press release and passed it on to me.’ Oh, my collection. My eight paintings. The Alice’s Living Room Sessions; very much a working title.
‘They’re very good,’ Tim said and very almost smiled as I questioned his use of Botox for the umpteenth time. I accepted the compliment with unease, sure he was lulling me into a false sense of security. Surely he hadn’t come here to compliment me.
‘Jessica,’ he repeated, taking a sip of his tea and glancing over to Yasmine. God forbid it wasn’t ice cold. ‘Do you know why I wanted to go into the art industry?’
‘The free alcohol?’ I quipped, regretting it instantly.
‘I looked at every other industry and saw order,’ Tim continued like he hadn’t even heard me. ‘Clocking in, holding up a hierarchy, fearful of falling out of line.’ He reached for the pot of sugar sachets on our table and started to lay them before him top to tail, to illustrate his point – even his explanations were artistic. His fingers were flecked with a familiar shade of deep blue paint that he’d failed to completely scrub away.
‘Artists seemed fearless. They either broke the rules or made their own.’
I nodded along, pretending that I knew where he was going with this.
‘I see that same spirit in your work.’ He raised an eyebrow in a way that made me question whether ‘my work’ consisted of my painting, my telling Sommers that Atwood was a bitch or my shameless pursuit of a soon-to-be married man.
‘Thank you. I just started painting and it was like I—’
‘Jessica. Would you just shut up for a moment? I’m trying to tell you something.’ Well, spit it out then.
‘When I saw your pieces, I was reminded of why I got into art in the first place. To break the rules, to foster new talent, not to be bossed around by an archaic woman with more money than sense…’ He trailed off, while I looked on, unsure whether it was my turn to speak or not. I studied his beard, simultaneously well-kept and out of control. I looked through his thick-rimmed glasses to the eyes behind, eyes that were becoming softer with every second. I took a breath, ready to apologise again, to say I never meant to lie to him, never meant for it to get out of hand.
‘And do you know how I got into the industry?’ he asked.
I shook my head, this time knowing to stay schtum.
‘I lied,’ he said
, letting the words hang there. For a moment he looked a little ashamed, then it was replaced with something like pride.
‘You did?’ I asked, unable to comprehend why he would have to, as if somehow he’d been born a successful gallery curator.
‘Well,’ he said, as his eyes narrowed in mischief. ‘Highly embellished the truth. It was a group interview and I knew this bitch was beating me—’
‘Tim,’ I said, interrupting before he could properly get going.
‘Jess, what I’m trying to say,’ Tim said, ‘is that I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have written you off like that – not when you’d been such an asset, such a, well…’
I could have sworn I saw his eyes begin to well up. But given the dramatist that he was, I doubted their sincerity. His apology, however, I believed. I smiled across at him, only then realising that when I’d lost my job, I’d lost a friend too.
‘Now,’ continued Tim, with his customary swagger restored. Apology over, now time for business. ‘As a member of my team I won’t be able to pitch your work to CreateSpace but together we can get you some bookings elsewhere.’
Hang on. Member of his team?
‘We can usually sort something out.’ Tim waved his hand as if to illustrate the point. The blue on them reminded me of the painting Sam and I had talked about: Nameless by Anonymous. Surely he couldn’t be the painter behind it? I smiled at the thought; the symmetry of mystery and the randomness of a world that just sometimes all made sense. But CreateSpace would never let him hang his own work in an exhibition he had curated – he had just said that. Maybe Tim was more of a rule-breaker than he’d even care to admit.
‘You will come back to work for me, right?’
I took another sip of my coffee, not that I needed the caffeine right now. He was offering me my job back. I looked around The Coffee Shop, at Yasmine not-so-subtly over-polishing the table besides us. I was a twenty-seven-year-old barista sitting before a crazily talented curator offering me a professional lifeline. The answer was obvious.
‘No.’
‘No?’ Tim questioned. I was as confused as he was. What was I doing? I caught Yasmine looking gleeful behind him.
‘Is this because I fired you? Jessica, I’m sorry about that, I finally felt like I was getting somewhere and I had to protect my—’
‘No.’ I was a broken record, after a life of being a ‘yes’ person. I was finally putting my foot down, even if I hadn’t quite worked out why. ‘No, it’s not that, it’s just, I think I’ve spent a long time skirting around what I want to do but never really doing it. Art Today, CreateSpace, helping to put on exhibitions, it’s all about painting, but it’s not painting. And I’ve remembered how much I love it, Tim, how it makes me feel, and I’m not ready to give that up right now. I don’t want to distract myself with an almost-dream.’
‘Jessica.’ How many ways could he say my name? ‘You are talented but not many people have a future in painting professionally.’ He smiled kindly but his furrowed brow exposed his concern.
‘Tim.’ I imitated his persistent interruptions. ‘Take it from someone who’s spent most of the past decade investing in a future that didn’t exist, I’m okay just enjoying today.’ And I was. I had spent so long trying to shoehorn my dreams to make them fit in with someone else’s. I didn’t want to compromise now.
‘Well, I hope you get some funding for your own exhibition one day,’ Tim sighed, defeated. ‘It really is a great collection. What’s it called?’ The press release hadn’t given it a name. I racked my brain. Life’s A Beach. Too cliché. Eight Pieces of Heartbreak. Too tragic.
‘Starting Over,’ I replied, quiet and confident. And I was.
‘To Starting Over.’ Tim raised his iced tea. I met it with my filter coffee and smiled.
‘Oh, and you’ll never guess who got in touch to say I’d done a great job, that we’d done a great job with the exhibition?’ I could only think of one person. ‘Carlo.’ Tim had finally found him again. ‘Bit of a surprise.’ He grinned. Maybe he wouldn’t miss me at all, the original formation back together again. ‘But do you know what surprised me more?’ Tim went on. ‘I didn’t even care. Turns out I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone but me.’ He polished off his tea, stood, and without turning, thanked Yasmine. She looked sheepish, realising he’d known she’d been loitering there all along. Tim walked towards the glass doors of The Coffee Shop in his sparkly shoes, turning some heads as he did. Then he turned. ‘And Jessica.’ Oh crap, had I forgotten to wear mascara? ‘If you ever change your mind, I still need someone to hold my clipboard.’ He winked and left.
Yasmine instantly came up beside me. ‘Man, he’s intense. Think you’ve made the right decision?’
‘I have no bloody idea,’ I replied, honestly.
But for the first time in a long time I was excited to find out.
Chapter 39
I took off my apron and wiped the loose coffee grounds off my black jeans. Sydney was in the high twenties and I was still in my skinnies; maybe I was becoming a local after all. Coogee was changing too, beginning to burst with sunburnt tourists from far and wide. Inside, The Coffee Shop was no exception. At least our hipster six-table capacity meant I only had to deal with a couple of them at a time. Shift complete, Yasmine long gone, I headed for the door as the evening staff were arriving to swap mugs for glasses and cake for canapés as The Coffee Shop morphed into its wine-bar counterpart.
As I walked out onto Coogee Bay Road, towards the beach, I replayed my day as friends, travellers and couples meandered up the street towards their evening reservations. Tim’s visit had taken me by surprise, but not as much as my rejection of his job offer. Why wouldn’t I take that job? The question reverberated around my brain even though a few hours before I had been excited by the prospect of the unknown.
Maybe if I’d taken the job I’d be able to get my own place sooner. Alice had been so kind in letting me stay at hers. Over the last few weeks she’d really become a proper friend. But I couldn’t help but be reminded that she was Sam and Jamie’s friend first. And Joshua had asked her to look out for me like one of his teenage mentees. Sure, Alice, Mark and Andrew seemed to enjoy my company, but come Saturday, they’d all be celebrating the marriage I thought one day I’d have for myself. And I’d be alone, in a flat that wasn’t mine, waiting for friends that weren’t really mine to come home.
I glanced out across the dark sea, the reflections of the street lights dancing on the waves. Sam was getting married on Saturday. I had lived with the thought for almost two months but it still made my heart ache. The thoughts of what could have been had not completely stopped playing on a loop in my brain, but they’d become increasingly drowned out by the laughter of Alice’s apartment and become blurrier with every stroke of my paintbrush.
My eyes followed the sound of a giggle across the beach towards a couple of teenagers trying to trip one another over as they walked along the sand. I smiled to myself, remembering how Sam and I had watched Zoe and Austin do the same in Brighton, stumbling over the pebbles underfoot. It was beginning to feel like another lifetime ago. But it wasn’t another life, it was a chapter of mine, and a good one. Now I was beginning to allow the pages to turn on. Despite the odd wobble, I was starting to come to terms with the fact that Sam’s wedding wouldn’t be my wedding, but I was struggling to imagine that I wouldn’t be at his wedding at all. He’d been my best friend for five years, a friendship that had still seemed to be there despite three years apart. I reached for my phone, illuminating the screen in my palm. Zoe still hadn’t called. Nor had Joshua, not that I expected him to. Nor had Sam; I expected that even less. No matter how many times Alice had told me that Sam and Jamie didn’t hate me, that they’d forgiven me, that they’d moved on, I still couldn’t buy it. How could they? They had shown me nothing but kindness, gone above and beyond, and I had ruined it. I flicked to Sam’s number. I wouldn’t believe it until I’d heard it from him. I wanted to tell him about Tim, tell him about my pain
tings, but mostly I wanted to tell him I was sorry. So impossibly, unforgettably sorry. I looked across the beach to the young couple now sitting on the sand, embraced in each other’s arms and looking out to the horizon as one. Glancing down to my phone, I swiped to Sam’s number and prayed, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me. I went to dial but just as I did, my phone sprang to life.
‘Alice? Hello?’
‘Jess, come home now. You have to see this.’
I banged on the door of Alice’s apartment, regretting that I hadn’t accepted her offer to get my own key cut. Joke’s on you, Jess. I knocked harder, hoping to God she was okay. Had something happened to her? Had something happened with the wedding? The door flung open to reveal Alice, a smile on her face.
‘Jess! You’re home!’
Yes, because you told me to be.
‘Come here, come and look at this!’ She certainly didn’t look like a woman in crisis. Pyjamas on, her hospital scrubs slung over the back of the leather couch, she beckoned me over to her laptop resting on the dining table and opened the website we’d hosted my paintings on. ‘Look what they are saying!’ She grinned and pointed. Surely she wouldn’t be smiling like that if it was bad. Then again, trolls could be hilarious. I breathed in and out dramatically, like a woman in labour, and sat down at the table, tilting the laptop towards me. She held my hand as I scanned down the comments:
‘stunning’
‘skilful’
‘a real find’
‘really speaks to me’
My eyes welled with tears but I held them back so I could read on.
‘Where can I buy this???’
‘Do you do prints?’
The Spare Bedroom: A totally heartwarming, funny and feel good romantic comedy Page 28
