by Jenny Kane
Relenting a little, Rob spoke more gently. ‘Look Jack, Amy asked me not to talk about it, and, quite frankly, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to end up being piggy-in-the-middle again. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘But she’s coming to London!’
‘I know.’
‘But she’ll want to see me.’ The panic that had been building in Jack’s brain began to leak out of his mouth.
‘After the way you treated her, I wouldn’t bank on it.’
Jack spoke urgently. ‘Why, what has she said?’
Realising he wasn’t going to be able to escape being the middle-man once again, Rob bit down his annoyance, ‘She’s said very little. Amy called me in July, told me she was coming down. Apart from a text last week to say she’d found a room to live in, and that she’d call me when she arrives, I know nothing.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Jack dripped disbelief.
Rob gave up trying to be calm and let go of his temper. His voice was sharp as he snapped his reply. ‘Right! Now you listen to me carefully, Jack. Beyond birthday and Christmas cards, Amy has hardly been in touch with either me or Paul for these last ten years. Ten years, simply because we are friends with you. Don’t you dare blame anyone but yourself for that!’
Jack slouched onto the stool behind the counter, and ruffled his fringe through his fingers. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you. I didn’t think she’d do it, you know. Actually come here.’
Sighing, Rob’s voice returned to its normal level. ‘Neither did I.’
‘Look, mate,’ Jack stretched a consolatory hand towards his friend, ‘I’ve not had much kip. I need to sleep. Think. You know.’
‘Who was he this time?’
‘Ouch!’ Jack grinned up at his friend through his long eyelashes.
Rob didn’t need Jack’s fake flirting right now. He screwed up his eyes as if to gather strength, ‘Just go home, Jack. Sleep, go for a walk, anything. Come back when you’re in a more receptive mood, OK.’
‘Thanks.’ Jack got up. He had to find coffee fast, but alone. Today was not the right time for more confessions. ‘And I’m sorry, it’s just I …’
‘Forget it.’ Rob made a dismissive gesture with his hands, ‘Just leave me in peace to have a non-productive day on my own.’
Seven
October 4th 2006
Kit clicked Send and watched the screen as her latest manuscript headed invisibly, electronically, across the Atlantic to the States. She hadn’t been required to write more than a couple of short pieces of flash fiction that week, and had quickly completed her allotted work.
As always, Kit was apprehensive. What if this was the month that her work wasn’t up to standard? What if today was the day when her publishers emailed her to say, ‘Hey honey. Sorry babe, but we’ve got a new source, you understand?’ It would happen sooner or later, which was why she knew she should crack on with a proper novel. The snags were that she had no ideas, limited time, and no belief in her abilities.
Kit was also feeling guilty. She’d been so engrossed in her latest story, Waitress Service, and in caring for the twins, that she hadn’t called Jack since he’d walked out on her. Well, now she had some free time before the next requests came in. If they did. Kit picked up her mobile and sent Jack a text.
Stories for this fortnight done. Coffee? Cake? Shoulder to cry on. Ears open. Promise. K x
By the time she had been to the loo and dug out her autumn boots, her phone was beeping.
Good on stories. Can’t do coffee. Busy. J x
‘Damn,’ Kit sat down on the edge of the bed. That was not the answer she’d expected. Jack was never too busy for coffee.
Perhaps she’d offended him more than she’d thought. Kit mentally kicked herself. She shouldn’t have just left things. Why hadn’t she taken him more seriously? It was so out of character for him to ask for any sort of opinion when it came to matters of the heart. Jack usually went out of his way to stay impervious to the emotional tangles that afflicted the rest of the world. Sometimes Kit wondered if she knew him as well as she thought she did.
‘Well, if the gay man in the leather jacket won’t come to the writer, then the writer must go to the gay man in the leather jacket.’ Kit announced as she picked up her coat and headed off to apologise for whatever the hell it was that she’d done; or not done, or whatever.
‘Hey, Kit,’ Rob looked up from the article he was reading while he sat behind the short maple-wood counter, ‘as you can see we are insanely busy just now, so perhaps you’d like to join the queue.’ He gestured to a non-existent line of customers and beyond to the small deserted bookshop.
‘Business booming then?’
‘Bloody Internet, it’s killing us.’ Rob rustled the magazine he was studying at her. ‘Reading up on how to get us online. Jack’s been on at me for ages to get a website going; reckons it’s the way to fill in the lull between the summer and Christmas trade. I know he’s probably right, but unless it involves straight typing or emails, I know nothing about this stuff. I’m about as computer-literate as a banana, so I’m swotting up a bit.’
Kit surveyed the customer-free space. ‘Being out of season can’t help.’
‘True. The lack of enthusiastic American tourists with a desperate need for a tree spotter’s guide before they hit Kew Gardens is certainly a hindrance to sales.’ Rob oozed sarcasm. ‘Anyway, how are you?’
‘Where’s Jack?’
‘Home I guess. He was in for a while this morning, but then headed off. It doesn’t need two of us here this time of year. And I was asking about you.’
‘I’m fine.’ Kit brushed a stray hair from her eyes, ‘Jack told me he was busy, I assumed he’d be at work.’
‘Trust me, Kit, “busy” is not an adjective you can associate with this place.’ Rob picked up the book he’d been about to return to the shelves, ‘I don’t suppose you want to buy a blockbuster on the Great British Hedgerow? Lots of sex and violence!’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Rob faked a dramatic groan. ‘If Jack’s not at home then he’ll either be with his latest bedmate, walking around Kew, or lurking in one of the myriad of caffs that litter our part of town.’
This was a bit too dismissive for Kit. ‘You two haven’t had a row, have you?’
‘Not really; but hell, he’s a prickly sod sometimes. I know he can be more precious than the crown jewels, but this week he’s been so damn jumpy and snappy, he’s been about as useful as a broken brolly.’
‘Jumpy?’
‘Every time a customer comes in, he reacts as if a rocket’s been jammed up his backside.’
Kit wrapped her coat tighter around her chest as the early autumn wind blew the door open and sprinkled a handful of rust-coloured leaves across the carpet.
‘I was out with him the other day. He was so serious; not his usual fly-by-night self. I didn’t know what to say to him. Jack was trying to open up to me, and I was so surprised that I handled it badly.’
Rob was intrigued. ‘What did he say?’
‘Something about “loving someone not being enough.” I wasn’t too clear about what he was saying. Do you think he’s met a bloke he likes beyond a quick shag?’
‘No. No I don’t think so. It sounds to me as if this is about someone else,’ Rob began to mumble as if talking to himself, Kit temporarily forgotten, ‘but honestly, she’s never even asked where the shop is. I don’t think even she knows what it’s called or anything, let alone the hours Jack works.’
Kit moved around to the staff side of the counter, her brow furrowed, ‘Rob? Who and what are you talking about?’
‘I’m not sure I should say. Anyway, I could be wrong. It might not be that at all.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Robert, don’t go all mysterious and loyal on me now. I’m worried about Jack.’
Rob got up and slammed the shop door shut. ‘OK,’ he sounded resigned, ‘like I say, I could be wrong, but I think the nam
e Amy might sum the situation up nicely.’
Kit was stunned.
‘Who on earth is Amy?’
Eight
October 4th 2006
... She shifted slightly, in an attempt to prevent the bookshelves that were digging into her back from bruising her permanently.
Jayne had only come in for the latest John Grisham novel, and now she was pressed back against the shelves in the darkest corner of the shop. Legs spread; her fingernails dug into the owner’s shoulders as he knelt before her, his mouth worshipping her with an expertise that belied his ‘crusty old bookseller’ image.
Closing her eyes, Jayne concentrated on the electric sensations building within her, praying that the shop door wouldn’t open, as he took his index finger and …
Despite her lack of success in tracking down Jack, the bookshop had inspired Kit, and directly after her visit she taken refuge in the nearest café to scribble down some lines for a potential story. Now, as she sat in her study, copying her draft on the computer, a call from downstairs broke through her line of thought.
‘Mum!’
Kit hastily pressed Save and switched on her screen saver. ‘Mum!’ Helena was bounding up the stairs two at a time, and threw open the door.
Kit swivelled around on her chair and faced her huffed-up daughter. ‘Helena, will you please knock before you come in here.’
‘Tom is being horrible. He won’t let me watch my programme, and you promised I could.’
Kit bit down a choice expletive and turned her monitor off completely. ‘Which programme?’
‘Walking with Dinosaurs. He knows I love it. Oh, Mum!’
Kit stood up, ushering her daughter through the door and down the stairs so she could adopt the role as referee. ‘What is it you’re watching, Tom?’
‘Walking with Dinosaurs.’ Her son was in his usual spot on the sofa, his drainpipe- thin legs and sockless feet stretched out so that they had the optimum chance to trip up unwary passers-by.
‘He wouldn’t, Mum, he …’ Helena, whose hands seemed permanently to be attached to her hips these days, launched into another protest.
‘Be quiet, Helena.’ Kit turned back to Tom, ‘Your sister’s just told me that you wouldn’t let her watch it. Well?’
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on the television screen. He answered calmly, plainly pleased to have successfully wound up his sister. ‘I changed my mind. I like it too.’
‘You pig, Tom, you said that...’
‘ENOUGH!’ Stopping her daughter before she hit full steam, Kit took away the remote control. ‘You will both sit quietly and watch this. Then it is going off.’
This made Tom sit up. ‘But Mum, I wanted to see…’
‘No, Tom. Then it is going off.’
Kit left the last vestiges of arguing behind her and sought refuge in the kitchen. She flicked the radio on and, submerging herself in the music, started peeling potatoes while playing around with the lyrics for future story lines. She was just speculating on how she could manipulate the lines of Depeche Mode’s ‘Personal Jesus’ into a plotline, when the twins’ mutual cries of ‘Dad!’ told her that it was time to put the kettle on, and to cook the pork chops that she’d forgotten to put under the grill.
‘So, how’s it gone today?’ Phil lounged against the kitchen units cradling his mug of tea.
‘Good,’ Kit started to clear the table for dinner, ‘I popped in to say hi to Rob, and got a bit of story done. Pearls haven’t ordered anything new yet, but I started banking up a few ideas in case of a literary emergency. It’s been more of a thinking day really. You?’
‘Escaped the office for a bit to show a new client her new home, but apart from that it was the same old same old.’
Kit looked at her husband as he sipped his tea. How could she tell him to give up his life’s work? She could see how bored he was, but knew she couldn’t be the one who pulled the plug. ‘I tried to have coffee with Jack, but Rob tells me he’s got his knickers in a twist again about something or other.’
‘Sounds normal.’ Phil loosened his tie as his wife flitted around the kitchen.
‘What was the new client like?’
‘Nice. Quiet. New to London.’
‘Really?’ Kit spoke absent-mindedly as she stirred the gravy.
‘Yeah, Amy something. Crane. Amy Crane.’ Phil dug out some plates so Kit could serve up, ‘I don’t think she’ll be here long though.’
At the mention of the name Amy, Kit found herself paying more attention than she usually did when Phil ran through his day. ‘Why not?’
‘No job,’ Phil sat down at the table, ‘so no money coming in. I think she’s living off the proceeds of her last flat deposit and her savings; she’s moving down from Scotland. Still, she probably thinks the streets are paved with silver and gold instead of rotting leaves and dog shit.’
Kit felt unaccountably cold as she sat down to eat. It had to be her. It had to be that Amy.
‘You not hungry, love?’ Phil shovelled a forkful of hot roasted vegetables into his mouth as Kit felt her appetite slip away. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Kit felt as if she was slowly being boxed in; or maybe pushed out.
Nine
October 5th 2006
‘Jack, it’s me again. I’m sorry if I upset you. You caught me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve spoken to Rob. Please call me. Coffee sometime?’
Kit left a third message on Jack’s voicemail as she trudged thoughtfully towards Pickwicks. Since Rob had told her Amy was Jack’s ex, and then Phil had mentioned an Amy, Kit hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that she’d wandered into the plot of a third-class soap opera. It had to be her. The same name, new in town, and fresh from Scotland. How clear did it need to be for God’s sake?
Kit hadn’t mentioned to Phil that his client could be one of Jack’s other exes; she hadn’t even asked him what this Amy was like. Kit felt uncomfortable as she negotiated her way through the busy streets, as if she was keeping secrets from her husband, but she wasn’t sure why.
‘Coffee’s coming,’ Peggy called out as Kit pushed open the café door.
Inhaling the comforting aroma of freshly-ground beans and baking cakes, Kit headed towards her table as if it was a place of sanctuary, ‘Thanks, I need it.’
‘What’s up? The smut not pouring forth from the pen?’ Peggy winked theatrically as she finished checking the till.
‘That’s it; tell the world what I do for a living why don’t you!’ Kit spoke rather more sharply than she had intended.
‘Hey?’
‘Sorry, Peg. Lot on my mind.’ She smiled with gratitude as Peggy brought her over a cup of coffee so large that it could have doubled as a soup bowl. ‘You’re so good to me, petal.’
‘And am I rewarded? No!’ Peggy put her hand to her forehead in mock despair.
‘Actually, you are. Here.’ Kit passed her a couple of pages with five hundred words of carefully constructed thrills neatly typed onto it.
‘What’s this?’
‘You inspired it, so it seems only right that you own a copy, but for God’s sake don’t flash it about; my publisher would not appreciate you getting an advanced copy.’
‘Wow,’ Peggy scanned the first paragraph, ‘I’m surprised the paper isn’t singed around the edges. You wait till Scott reads this!’
‘Yes, well, I’d rather not know.’
‘You’re amazing. How can you be so prudish and yet write this stuff?’
‘I’ve always been complicated, honey. Now, be a good little waitress and go yonder to serve that poor woman by the window, she’s been sat waiting for her pot of tea for ages.’
As she watched Peggy zip toward her new customer, her mobile announced the arrival of a text.
What Rob say?
Kit read Jack’s message with a mixture of relief and foreboding. She really didn’t want to land Rob in the doghouse. On the other hand …
Told me someone called Amy was in town.
Kit pr
essed Send and sat looking at her phone, willing Jack to respond, yet full of apprehension as to what his reply might contain.
When Peggy arrived back at her table an hour later with a fresh top up of coffee, Kit realised that she’d been staring into space and hadn’t written a thing. Depeche Mode’s words were still whizzing around her head, but she couldn’t decide what to do with them. Some sort of bondage and punishment story seemed obvious, and fitted in nicely with the rather vague story request she’d received from Pearls early that morning, but where to set it? It was time to call in a second opinion and ignore the lack of activity on her phone.
‘Peggy, help!’
‘You bellowed, your writer-ship.’ Peggy put down the cake tongs and moved towards Kit.
‘I’m stuck.’
‘Oh, great. What is it this time?’ Peggy pulled out a chair and sat down, rubbing her hands together as her head trotted through a selection of her own highly charged fantasies with which to assist her friend. She spoke with relish, ‘You stuck on a character’s name, or can’t you think of what unspeakable things they should do to each other?’
‘Sometimes I wonder why it’s not you writing and me serving coffee.’ Kit lay down her pen. ‘I need a location to work from. I can’t picture anywhere suitable in my head.’
‘Where have you used recently?’
‘Here for one. I’ve got something drafted set in a bookshop, and last week I had a go at the bus station.’
Peggy nodded, running possible situations through her mind, ‘What sort of story?’
‘Bondage, probably with some punishment, but not too heavy. Nothing forced. Lines from “Personal Jesus” keep running through my head.’
‘Cool. I’ll have a think.’ Returning to the counter to collect some cheese on toast, Peggy delivered it swiftly to another regular, and returned to Kit with a wicked expression across her face. ‘How about the snooker club?’
‘What the hell has snooker got to do with being desperate for someone to touch you?’
