by Jenny Kane
‘Think snooker tables, balls and rope. Oh hang on. It’s for the US, right? Better make it a pool table.’
Kit’s eyebrows rose, ‘Bit clichéd?’
Raising her own eyebrows suggestively, Peggy answered, ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
Not for the first time, Kit looked at her friend with incredulity, ‘Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to know?’
Peggy laughed, and with a curtsey said, ‘More cake, madam?’
I suppose his first reaction was to be expected. ‘But it’s such a cliché! I mean! A pool table! There isn’t a month goes by without some girlie mag having a naked babe spread eagled across a pool table.’
‘Exactly,’ I replied, but Karl didn’t ask me about my fantasies again, and I felt like maybe I should’ve made a bit more effort. Perhaps I should have invented something more glamorous, but as I’ve always been a bit of a tomboy; getting down and dirty with the lads in a grubby, badly-lit pool hall with a few beers has always been more my style. Anyway, there’s something about the sound of pool balls clicking against each other ...
Kit had written over two sides of erotic activity by the time Jack’s text came through.
Did Rob mention a tape?
Kit re-read the message and muttered, ‘What bloody tape?’ into her coffee. All Rob had told her was that Amy was a friend from university, that she had done archaeology with him and his friend Paul, and that she was one of Jack’s exes. From what Kit knew of Jack’s past, that just made Amy one of dozens, be they male or female.
A tape, though? With Jack that did make a difference.
Kit felt a new wave of unease flow over her as she sat cradling her phone. Snooker, pool, ropes and interesting cue positions were all forgotten. She was remembering.
Ten
October 5th 2006
Amy awoke with a smile.
The evening before, waiting for her new housemates to come home from work, she’d been a bag of nerves. She’d boiled and re-boiled the kettle countless times before a key had turned in the lock.
Arriving together, James and Sarah had been delighted to walk in and discover freshly-brewed tea and coffee (she wasn’t sure which to make, so had settled for both), and a box of Scottish shortbread arranged on the dining-room table. They were neither as young nor as trendy as Amy had feared, and in no time they’d thrown off their professional coats and shoes, discarded their briefcases, and were slobbing out on the sofa.
After asking Amy countless questions about herself, they told her as much about the house and the local area as she wanted to know, plus loads about themselves, including the fact that they’d recently become a couple after years of house-sharing.
Dragging on her faded blue jeans, Amy reflected on how, as with the be-suited man at Heathrow, she hadn’t minded answering their queries. Strange; she thought, she’d always been so guarded before. She hadn’t mentioned Jack though; that would have been a confidence too far.
Drawing back her curtains, Amy looked through her window properly for the first time. Brick-built terraces, cars, motorbikes, deafening aircraft noise, litter clogging the kerbside drain, and people, masses of people. Richmond; right on London’s doorstep. A place simmering with possibilities. All she’d have to do was overcome her natural nervousness and grasp every opportunity. It was all out there for her. Even in its dark, damp, autumnal state, everything appeared inviting. She’d have to wait to hit the sights though; today she was going to be sensible. Today Amy was determined to take the first job she could find, and then tomorrow she’d start writing a CV and hunt down a proper career. Well, OK, maybe the day after tomorrow. Then she was going to call Rob. Jack could wait.
Amy felt a small rush of pride just thinking it.
Now she was here, Jack could wait.
The winter boots had been a mistake. Her feet felt uncomfortably prickly and hot. Amy smiled ruefully; this wasn’t Aberdeen. London was wet, true, but not half as cold as Scotland. It was incredible how having unpleasantly over-heated feet could make her feel good about her situation.
Amy passed by the grubby and well-worn Part-Time Help Required sign that had been stuck to the window of the small newsagent’s nearest the house, promising herself that if she hadn’t found anything else by the end of the day, then she’d enquire about it on the way home. Crap money was better than no money at all.
By ten o’clock Amy had already explored employment opportunities at Waitrose, Tesco, and WHSmith, and her need for a caffeine hit had reached epidemic proportions. Caffé Nero seemed to be calling to her, siren-like, from across the street, but it was packed and she couldn’t face being penned in with so many strangers. Looking around for an alternative, she spotted a faded sign advertising that Pickwicks Coffee House was lurking down a narrow side street. Amy strode off to discover where it was hiding.
She loved it instantly. An eclectic huddle of flower-filled vases and jars vied with each other for space on the crowded windowsill. Cream and blue Victorian tiles were embedded here and there in the plastered walls, and dark beams made the ceiling feel deceptively low. A higgledy-piggledy mixture of dark wooden furniture, a stripped pine floor, mismatched china, and a dominant aroma of coffee and sugar-coated pastries created a cocooned atmosphere of warmth and safety. Caffé Nero could keep its crowded convenience. In here, Amy thought, she could hide from the world.
‘Can I get you anything, love?’
The waitress, her incredibly long dark hair drawn back into a thick ponytail that almost reached the waistband of her black trousers, stood beaming at Amy as if she was the most important person she’d seen all day.
‘I would love a really huge black coffee please.’
‘Well, you’re in luck; we deal in really huge cups of coffee.’ She pointed across the room to a lady sat in the far corner scribbling away at something, a soup dish-sized mug of hot liquid caffeine in front of her. ‘That cup about the right size for you?’
‘That would be perfect, thanks! Oh, and a Belgian bun if you have one?’
‘Coming right up.’ The waitress shimmied away, returning almost instantly with Amy’s order.
Amy stared into her drink. It was so fresh that it steamed as if smoke was rising from its opaque surface. The cup’s welcoming presence gave out that special kind of comfort that you only get from coffee when it’s black. If she could find a job locally she’d be able to come in here for lunch every now and again. Maybe she’d meet Rob here sometimes. They’d always made time for plenty of coffee stops back then, so why not now?
‘And if you press this then you’ll get a nice steady stream of hot milk frothing on top of the coffee.’
Amy had been in Pickwicks for almost two hours, and her head was so full of new information that she thought it might burst. Anyone who considered being a waitress an easy option was under a serious misconception. Her booted feet had almost reached tropical temperatures, and were beginning to distract her as she struggled to concentrate on everything Peggy said.
‘So, do you fancy it?’ Peggy was bouncing around behind the counter like an exuberant puppy – how could she say no? Anyway, she did feel comfortable in here. Perhaps it was fate. Amy nodded, unable to believe her luck in finding employment so fast.
‘Thanks, yes! Although I think you’ll probably have to show me how to work the cappuccino machine a few more times before I get the hang of it.’
‘Not a problem. I’m just so glad to get help.’
‘Were you advertising then? I didn’t notice a sign in the window.’
‘Not really.’ Peggy tossed her ponytail from off her shoulder, ‘I keep an eye out every now and then, and pounce on anyone remotely suitable. The last girl who worked with me was a regular customer I lampooned. She ended up working here so she could afford to eat here. Nuts!’
‘I’m really grateful. Like I said, I’ve only lived here a day and I need something to tide me over. Something to work at, while I find something to work at. If that makes sense.’
‘No one makes much sense here, honey. You’ll fit in fine.’ Peggy ripped a piece of paper off her order pad and began to write. ‘Now, these will be your hours for this week, starting with a sort of training day tomorrow. The hours will vary each week, depending on the season and how lazy I’m feeling, but it will include most weekends until after Christmas. After that we’ll see if you want to stay, or if you’re off to become a captain of industry, OK?’
‘More than OK. It’ll give me a bit of free time too. Catch up with friends, develop a career, marry a millionaire, that sort of thing.’
Peggy laughed again, ‘Let me know if you find one, I’m still looking.’
‘For a millionaire or a career?’
Shrugging her shoulders, her new boss replied, ‘Both! I’ve been here five years and have been far too busy to actually look!’
‘Oh?’ The number of tables crammed into the room illustrated just how busy Peggy could be, especially if she didn’t always have waiting staff to help her.
‘And being married to the owner sort of helps the time fly.’
Now it was Amy’s turn to laugh, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I’d better pull myself together and go home. My removal van should turn up quite soon.’
‘Sure. Take care honey.’ Peggy beamed at Amy’s retreating back, feeling very pleased with herself for securing someone to help her without having to go through all the hassle of advertising.
Kit looked up. Peggy was free at last. The girl she’d been showing round must have gone. She waved in her friend’s direction. Peggy picked up the percolator jug from behind the counter and crossed the room to refill Kit’s cup. ‘How’s the snooker – sorry, pool – tale going? You’ve hardly raised your head since you put pen to paper this morning.’
Deciding not to tell Peggy that she’d spent more time locked within her own memories than writing, Kit replied, ‘Pretty good, thanks for the inspiration.’
‘Any time.’ Peggy tapped the side of her head. ‘Constant supply of material nestled in here, you know.’
Kit laughed ‘You’re a star, a grubby star, but a star nonetheless!’
Peggy began to sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle...’ as she danced back to the counter to fill out an employment form for one Miss Amy Crane …
Eleven
October 6th 2006
Jack wasn’t slumped in his seat this time, as he waited for Kit at the back of the department store café. In fact, he was looking pretty good. Not as relaxed as usual, granted, but not blatantly uncomfortable either. Jack winked at Kit as she crossed the room, her tray laden with highly-calorific treats. He patted the round-backed chair next to him.
Sinking down, Kit found herself embraced in one of Jack’s familiar hugs. She inhaled the smell of his leather jacket and felt reassurance and relief flood through her. It was Jack’s equivalent of saying sorry for walking out on her, and she accepted it without question.
‘How’s Phil doing?’
This was not the opening question Kit had been expecting, but if Jack wanted small talk, then fine. ‘Still hating work and pretending otherwise.’
Jack agreed, ‘He needs to get out before he burns out.’
Kit emptied the contents of the tray onto their table, ‘Tell me about it. Trouble is, he’s run Home Hunters for ages. I’m not sure he knows how to let go.’
‘He could sell up. Must be worth a bit; going concern and everything?’
‘I’m sure it is, but until he’s ready, I can’t make him change his life.’
Understanding Kit’s dilemma, Jack asked, ‘Have you talked about it?’
‘Not really. There never seems to be a minute, what with work, writing, the twins; time seems to evaporate.’
‘Oh, that old excuse.’ The corners of Jack’s mouth twitched into a wry smile.
‘Yes that old excuse.’ Kit trailed fingertips through the icing sugar that had fallen from her croissant. She glanced at the inexpertly-done wildlife paintings that adorned the walls, and not for the first time thought that they’d be better suited to a second-rate country hotel, rather than this genteel corner of an otherwise smart high-end department store.
Dragging herself back to the reason she’d arranged this meeting; Kit steeled herself to change the subject completely.
‘So, what tape?’
Jack was still squeezing Kit’s hand long after he’d finished talking. Kit hadn’t said a word, but had sat motionless, her body stiff as his words filtered into her brain. She already knew about his time as a student, about how he’d played the field when he’d been at university, while at the same time he hadn’t really been sure of his sexuality.
What she hadn’t known was that, just as Jack was starting to think about giving up the whole ‘women thing’, he’d met Amy, and for a while everything had felt OK. That he’d never loved anyone like he loved Amy, and he’d dared to think that maybe he was straight after all, and that the first flickers of suspicion that he might prefer men had been happily extinguished.
Without looking at her, Jack told Kit of how he came to realise though, as the months passed, that something was missing, wrong even. That, although he’d never loved anyone like Amy before, and when he’d slept with her it was fun and inventive, it wasn’t, well, right. He tried to describe the frustration that coursed through him each time he failed to feel content after sex.
It hadn’t only been the sex either; it was as if something was out of kilter all the time. Jack explained that he’d broken up with Amy, and got back with her again, more times than he dared to think about. How The Clash could have written ‘Should I Stay Or Should I Go’ just for them. That he saw now how badly he’d treated her; that Amy couldn’t have known if she was coming or going.
He explained how Amy’s tape had been a gift from her brother, and about the music he’d put on it for her. And how, more than anything else, he wished he’d left it all alone. Kept it buried. Never sent it back. For now Amy was here, in Richmond, he’d have to explain. He’d have to face all the guilt he had run away from.
Kit couldn’t speak. She extracted her hand from Jack’s grip and replayed his words in her head. “I never loved anyone like her.” It went through her like ice. He’d said it twice. Twice. And the music! Amy and Jack together had taken music as their own. But that’s what she, Kit, did with Jack. Had done, anyway. They’d frequently had entire conversations in song lyrics; it was rarer in these days of parenthood and responsibility, but they still did it now and again. Bile rose in Kit’s throat as she had a vivid recollection of dancing around the kitchen to David Bowie a few days before, her daughter watching with mystified disdain. It seemed ridiculous now. Worthless.
‘Kit?’ She was vaguely aware that Jack was talking to her, his hazel eyes clouded with confused concern. ‘What’s the matter?’
Kit studied his face like it was new to her. He really didn’t know. He genuinely had no idea that he’d just cut her to the bone. “I never loved anyone like her.”
Plus a tape. They had been going to make a tape of all the songs that had reminded them of each other, the important events in their lives, the things they’d said and the places they’d been. Jack had never got round to making it though. It had never mattered before, but suddenly Kit felt cheated.
‘Kit?’ There was an edge of panic to Jack’s voice as he watched his friend stand up, her legs wobbling beneath her. Jack grabbed her arm, ‘Where are you going? What is it? What’s up?’
Pulling herself free from his grip, Kit hoisted up her bag. She wasn’t sure how far she’d get, but she knew she had to leave. Turning towards Jack, a complex conflict of emotions etched onto her neat round face, she glared at him as he sat, a mass of incomprehension. ‘You like to express yourself with music? Go listen to our tape. Oh, of course, you can’t, can you, ‘cos you never bloody recorded it. Did you!’
Jack wasn’t sure how long he’d been sat there. He felt exhausted. It had cost him so much, telling Kit all that. Never in his life had he been so ope
n with anyone. Even when he’d come out, he’d never gone into details about his feelings. He shook his head as if trying to remove the image of Kit’s ashen face when she’d stalked out. He had truly thought she’d understand. Kit always understood.
With a hazy realisation that the café was crowded, and that other customers were looking for a seat while he cradled an empty mug, Jack got up, uncertain what to do. Was this how Kit had felt when he’d walked out on her the other day?
He’d go for a walk. He’d go to work. Anything but think, because he wasn’t sure what the hell to think.
Kit?
Twelve
October 7th 2006 – 1.00am.
With his duvet clenched around his shoulders, Jack attempted to get comfortable in bed. Turning over, he untangled the sheet that had somehow become looped around his legs. But even when he finally felt cosy, he was unable to prevent himself from thrashing through his conversation with Kit. Conceding a win to his subconscious, Jack gave in, and allowed himself to remember ...
June 2nd 1995
Jack could hear her laughing even before he opened the pub door. It was an infectious, light laugh that always started in her eyes. He loved her eyes, probably more than the rest of her. Kit knew that though; she knew this was for fun, and that was exactly what he needed.
His recent experience in Nottingham had unnerved Jack more than he cared to admit. He really ought to think about it properly, but if he acknowledged to himself that it had gone well, felt right; then he’d have to face the bigger truth, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Anyway, he was having fun with Kit. She was so different from the other girls he’d dated. She could drink as much as him without passing out, never bothered about her hair, told blue jokes, played Twister in the nude, and did whatever he wanted her to in the bedroom. She was perfect. For now.
Kit was sat squashed up around a small table with Rob, Paul, and a petite blonde student archaeologist Paul had bought with him from his latest excavation. ‘What’s so funny?’
