Another Cup of Coffee

by Jenny Kane

  ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE

  Jenny Kane

  Thirteen years ago Amy Crane ran away from everyone and everything she knew, ending up in an unfamiliar city with no obvious past and no idea of her future. Now, though, that past has just arrived on her doorstep, in the shape of an old music cassette that Amy hasn’t seen since she was at university.

  Digging out her long-neglected Walkman, Amy listens to the lyrics that soundtracked her student days. As long-buried memories are wrenched from the places in her mind where she’s kept them safely locked away for over a decade, Amy is suddenly tired of hiding.

  It’s time to confront everything about her life. Time to find all the friends she left behind in England, when her heart got broken and the life she was building for herself got completely shattered. Time to make sense of all the feelings she’s been bottling up for all this time.

  And most of all, it’s time to discover why Jack has sent her tape back to her now, after all these years…

  With her mantra, New job, New home, New life, playing on a continuous loop in her head, Amy gears herself up with yet another a bucket-sized cup of coffee, as she goes forth to lay the ghost of first love to rest ...

  Acknowledgements

  This novel is dedicated to Steve, with love.

  Special thanks must go to KD Grace, Lucy Felthouse, Hazel Cushion, and all my friends in the world of erotic writing, who have been as supportive as ever while I’ve been dipping my toe into the contemporary romance genre.

  To Greg Rees for his wonderful editorial support, to Anneke for her proofreading skills and encouragement, and to Debs for her frequently proffered cups of coffee.

  A big hug must also go to Alan, Dave, Bec, Bren and Pete – just for being who they are.

  Finally, thanks to Sue and Dave, the regulars at the Madhatter Tearoom, and the staff of my local Costa. Without you, your coffee, and your happy banter, there would be no words.

  Jenny Kane, 2013

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Epilogue

  JULY

  In which Amy Crane finally finds out why…

  One

  July 2006

  Shrugging off her khaki jacket, Amy bent to pick up the pile of post that lay waiting on her doormat. As her hand reached to retrieve the small brown package half-buried beneath some junk mail, Amy froze. She knew that handwriting. She also had a funny feeling that she knew what was going to be inside.

  But why return it now, after all these years?

  The poorly-wrapped parcel broke open as her fingers fumbled at the sticky tape, and a music cassette fell into her hands. The cover was unmarked, just as it had been when he’d taken it from her. Amy stared, disbelieving, the blood draining from her already pale face. She remembered recording at least two tracks onto it herself. Maybe there were more now.

  Amy’s brother had given her the blank tape as she’d been climbing into their parents’ car, about to be driven away to start her new life as a student. ‘To record your musical memories along the way,’ he’d said with a grin. Back then Amy had had every intention to fill her gift with each musical memory associated with her student life, but the reality of actually living through those experiences had left her with little time to record more than a couple of tracks.

  Flustered, Amy shook the torn packaging in her hunt for a note of explanation. A small white envelope fell to the floor. Jack’s familiar spidery scrawl stretched across its front.

  Dearest Amy. Please listen to the tape BEFORE you open this. The letter will explain afterwards. J x

  With a feeling that she was outside of what was happening, detached, as if she was a spectre floating above herself, Amy walked into her tiny living room and put the tape down on her coffee table, as gingerly as if it was an unexploded bomb.

  What was on it now? She knew she couldn’t avoid this unexpected intrusion for long – but, on the other hand, a brief delay in order to clear her head suddenly felt essential.

  Taking refuge in the kitchen, Amy placed her palms firmly onto the cool, tiled work surface, and took a couple of deep yet shaky breaths. Forcing her brain to slip back into action, she retrieved a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured a large glassful and, squaring her shoulders, carried it through to the living room.

  Perching on the edge of her sofa, her throat dry, Amy stared suspiciously at the tape for a second, before daring to pick it up and click open its stiff plastic box. Two minutes later, her hands still shaking, she closed it again with a sharp bang, and drank some wine. It took a further five minutes to gather the courage to re-open the case and place the tape into the dusty cassette compartment of her ancient stereo system. It must have been years since she’d seen a cassette, she thought, let alone listened to one. She wasn’t even sure the stereo still worked …

  Swallowing another great gulp of alcohol, Amy closed her eyes and pressed Play, not at all sure she wanted to take this trip back in time …

  The sheer busy-ness and bustle of the place had hit Amy instantly. Being brought up by parents with a serious café habit, the energy buzzing around the student coffee shop had felt both newly exhilarating and yet comfortably familiar. She’d instantly enjoyed walking anonymously through the crowds with her plastic mug and a soggy salad roll.

  Sitting in the coffee shop one day during the second week of her first term as a student archaeologist, Amy noticed two lads, whom she’d seen in her Prehistory lecture only ten minutes before, struggling to find seats. Surprising herself by inviting them to share her wobbly plastic table, Amy recalled how she’d been even more surprised when they’d accept
ed her offer.

  With that one uncharacteristically impulsive gesture, Amy had met Paul and Rob. Those cups of strong black coffee in the overcrowded student café were only the first of many coffee stops they shared over the next three years ...

  The first track, which Amy remembered recording herself, was only halfway through, but her wine glass was already empty. With closed eyes Amy thought of them now. Rob was married with three small children. Paul was travelling the world, his archaeological trowel still in hand. Both were miles away. Their friendships remained, but were rather neglected on her side, she thought sadly. The sigh which escaped Amy’s lips was a resigned one, as the sound of Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of ‘69’ continued to fill the room.

  Amy sighed again, but couldn’t help the hint of a smile as she remembered how the student coffee shop had only appeared to own one CD, which it had played monotonously on a continuous loop. It had quickly become traditional for Amy, Paul, and Rob to time their departure to the sound of Adams’ belting out the last lines of his song.

  As track one of her tape died away, and the second began, Amy realised she’d been holding her breath. Expelling air slowly as the first notes hit her ears, Amy’s racing pulse was calmed by the recollection of a happy memory that had led her to record the song fifteen years ago …

  The rain was thudding down so violently that it seemed to be angling for status as a monsoon. The trainee archaeologists were still hard at it, though, stoically ignoring their soaking backs as drips ran down their necks, crept inside their T-shirts, and even permeated their underwear. Nobody knew that it was Amy’s nineteenth birthday as she stood, waist-deep in mud, in a Roman drain in South Wales during one of the wettest summers ever, soaked to the skin with her blonde ponytail plastered to the back of her neck. In the few months they’d known each other, Amy, Rob and Paul had discussed everything from their favourite curries to their preferred sexual positions, but somehow dates of birth had never come up.

  Despite the appalling conditions, it had been a considerable surprise to everyone when the site supervisor had called a halt to their labours and announced they could all have the afternoon off. Heaved bodily out of the hole by two of her fellow diggers, Amy had struggled her way through the thick, squelching mud to a sad-looking group of tents huddled together at the edge of the field. Almost pointlessly, she’d replaced the day’s soaking clothes with yesterday’s damp ones, before joining her waiting colleagues and climbing into the site minibus.

  As soon the bus had reached the town centre, Paul and Rob had tugged a confused Amy out, and waved goodbye to the other passengers. Bewildered, Amy had been led by the boys into a blissfully warm tearoom. Paul had spoken to the owner, explaining and apologising for their bedraggled appearance, while Rob had manoeuvred Amy to a table, complete with a green tablecloth and dainty, but rather clashing, Spode china.

  When the pot of beautifully strong jet-black coffee had arrived, Amy had felt a huge surge of love for her friends – but when the plate of cupcakes arrived, each with a small pink candle glowing on top, she’d been forced to bite back tears.

  As they hungrily bit into the birthday treats, Paul had told Amy that the site supervisor had discovered it was her birthday when he’d been tackling the overdue student insurance forms. He’d told the lads, and they’d hit upon the perfect birthday treat, and an excuse to escape the rain.

  The music in the teashop had been gently lilting classical, but it wasn’t the calming strains of Vivaldi’s Summer which Amy had recorded onto her tape once she had returned to dry living. Having taken pity on her soggy customers for having to live without running water or proper toilets for two weeks, the kindly café proprietor had given Amy the best present she’d ever had: a hot shower and freshly tumble-dried clothes.

  The neat, white-tiled bathroom in the compact flat above the café was filled with the sound of the owner’s radio. Standing in a spotless cubicle, washing the mud off and getting the tension out of her aching muscles, Amy had sung along as ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics blared out with well-timed irony.

  Amy pressed Stop. The remaining wine wouldn’t last the length of the cassette if she carried on like this. She was hungry too, after a day of dishing out tedious advice to various dull clients from various boring businesses. Without changing from her work-suit into her beloved jeans and a chunky jumper, Amy put her coat back on.

  Grabbing her long-abandoned Walkman from a kitchen drawer, and thankful that the batteries miraculously worked, she slid the tape in and stuffed the unopened envelope into her pocket. Rejecting her hated court shoes, she slid on her cosy brown Hush Puppies, barely registering the sartorial clash with her smart navy trousers, and hit the road in search of supper.

  With the cool evening air of Aberdeen blowing against her face, Amy walked from the granite-grey terrace that she called home towards the even greyer Union Street and its array of restaurants. Selecting an Italian that was just busy enough for her to hide in and think, while not sticking out as a single woman dining alone, Amy opted for a calzone and a fresh orange juice to counteract the wine sloshing around her empty insides. Her order was taken by a young, olive-skinned guy, who stared at her as if she might be genuinely insane when she started fiddling with her museum-piece technology.

  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.