by Libby Page
After a moment Monique stood up, closed the door again and went swiftly out the front of the flat. She made her way down the stairs softly and then she was out into the street, the cold flooding her and making her feel alive for a moment.
The street was quiet and dark; the windows had their eyes shut. Plump bin bags crowded the pavement, ready for the bin lorry that would be along in a few hours. As she stepped onto the street, she saw a cyclist riding by – a surprising flash of wheels. She caught a glimpse of him as he passed: joy on his face, cheeks flushed from the cold. He pedalled fast down the empty street and around the corner. She imagined what that must feel like, wheeling away to somewhere, or maybe to nowhere. To freedom. The wind cold on your face as you cycled towards the stars and the moon.
She started walking again, following her feet as if they were an impatient dog taking a sleepy owner on a walk. Above her streetlights glowed, obscuring the stars.
At the end of the road she turned right and kept walking, passing a night bus and a short row of shops with their shutters pulled down like blankets. On the corner of the street she paused, unsure whether to turn right or left. She opted for right, which took her onto a wider street with more shops, mostly dark, some with a few lights on – for security she supposed. Outside one, a furniture shop, she stood close up to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she looked inside at the neat beds piled with cushions and the desks arranged with just the right number of books and pen pots. If she could have melted through the glass and into the perfect interior she would have done. Taken her shoes off, placed them neatly on the rug and curled up in the middle of the pristine, impersonal living room set. Devoid of any detritus of life: a blank, a new start.
Instead she turned and walked on until she reached another bus stop. A night bus was just pulling up. She felt for her Oyster card in the coat pocket where she always left it and hopped onto the front of the bus, tapping her card and avoiding the eyes of the driver. She made her way to the back of the bus, although there were only two other passengers. A woman reading a novel and a man wearing a woolly hat and headphones, nodding his head to a steady silent beat.
She watched the city rolling past the window – quiet at that time of morning but never as quiet as she expected. Dark shop fronts and empty office blocks, but cars still tearing down the street and all-night convenience shops where shopkeepers leant against the fruit and veg crates and talked together in the night. And then she saw the sign for Stella’s glowing brightly above a large window and she buzzed to stop the bus. She had never noticed it before, the 24-hour café which, on stepping inside, had the feel of an American diner crossed with an old-fashioned British ‘caff’.
At 4 a.m. this café had felt like a refuge. She sank into the quiet as though into soft pillows on a hotel bed. But then that woman had come in and yelled for no reason and it had brought Monique back to reality. She could no longer ignore her phone that had been buzzing for a long time and had picked up, listening to her husband’s voice on the other end. He had sounded angry but scared too and Monique could hear the sound of a baby screaming in the background. She had told him she had just popped out and would be back soon. And she had left.
He was angry, of course, when she arrived home. He was carrying the baby in his arms, her face hot with tears. When she came in through the door he thrust the screaming child at her.
‘Where were you?’ Mike said, ‘She’s hungry. You’re her mother for Christ’s sake.’
Monique had held the baby and listened to the screams that had dulled slightly but still surprised Monique by their force – how such a small thing could make that noise. As she listened to the screaming she wanted to recognise the sound, to feel a pain somewhere in her heart. But all she heard was noise. Where there should have been feeling there was nothing but emptiness.
She fed the baby and together they put her back to bed. She didn’t tell her husband where she had really been, although she wanted to describe the bear in the top hat to him, and the strange comfort of the near-empty café that was open when the rest of the city was asleep.
Now, the baby is with Monique’s mother and a bottle of expressed milk in their flat. Monique had asked her to come round earlier this afternoon, saying she just needed watching until Mike was home from work, that she had chores to do. She didn’t give details and her mother didn’t ask; instead she scooped the baby up in her arms and smiled a huge smile.
‘Take as long as you need,’ she had said, ‘we’ll be just fine.’
Monique wasn’t exactly sure why she headed back to the café, but as soon as she left the flat that’s where she came. Despite the many decorations and pictures adorning the walls, it feels impersonal somehow too. An in-between place, a waiting room, a space where she is not a mother or a wife. Here, she is no one.
Monique turns back to her table, picks up her coffee cup, brings it near her mouth and then puts it down again. She picks up the spoon and stirs the liquid, then puts both the cup and the spoon back. Her elbow comes to rest on the table and she sits her chin in the cradle of her hand. With her free hand she uses her thumb to push her wedding ring up and down her finger. When she first started wearing it she couldn’t get used to the feel of it or the look of it shining gold on her finger. She didn’t like how brightly it glowed, how her skin was still tanned underneath it. She wanted a pale line of flesh around her finger, marking the years of her commitment – like her parents.
‘I want to be married to you for a hundred years and until my ring is scratched and stuck on my fat finger,’ she told him back then, covering his neck with frantic kisses. In the café she twists the ring round and round until it slips off her finger. She places it on the table next to her now-cold cup of coffee.
Mona
The café is quiet now and Sofia joins Mona at the counter. Mona sees her looking up at the clock; it is not long until her shift is over.
‘Not long now,’ Mona says with a smile, trying not to feel a stab of resentment that she is not finishing soon too. She is thankful really for the double shift – there are lots of costs associated with moving and it will be at least a month until she receives her first pay cheque, so she needs the money. But her whole body aches.
‘Yes, not too long for you either,’ says Sofia. Mona smiles at her, thankful to Sofia for trying to cheer her up, even though right now she feels sombre and the remaining hours seem to stretch endlessly in front of her. She is torn – she is exhausted and wants to sleep, but she is also anxious about returning to the flat and to Hannah.
‘That guy that came in earlier…’ says Sofia.
‘Hannah’s ex,’ replies Mona to the question that hadn’t been asked but was there in her voice.
‘And you said he’d been stealing?’
Mona nods.
‘He’d been doing it for months,’ she says, ‘Hannah had no idea.’
Sofia shakes her head.
‘He sounds just like my ex.’
Mona looks at her, frowning, surprised.
‘Oh, he never stole from me,’ continues Sofia, ‘But he lied constantly.’
‘Why did you stay with him?’ asks Mona, leaning against the counter, watching Sofia carefully.
Sofia shrugs, running a hand through her hair.
‘He was a master manipulator,’ she says, ‘He had me totally under his control. He did it subtly at first, just charming me and seeming totally devoted to me. But then he slowly took over my life. He didn’t like it if I went out so I stopped going. He said he missed me too much when we were apart, so I stopped seeing my friends. I didn’t mind at the time – I was happy to spend time with him – but looking back I realise he isolated me on purpose. When I eventually started questioning his lies he made me feel as though I was going mad and I had no one around me to back me up. When that guy came in earlier, I thought he seemed just like him, just like my ex.’
It
’s the first time Sofia has opened up to Mona like this and she feels shocked, because she never knew her story and because it sounds so similar to Hannah’s. Hannah might never have seen it herself, but from the start Mona thought there was something not quite healthy about their relationship, about the way it quickly took over Hannah’s life and Jaheim seemed happy about the situation.
‘That does sound like Hannah and Jaheim,’ Mona says slowly, lost in thought.
‘Eleanor told me about the fight between you and Hannah earlier, and that you’re leaving,’ Sofia says suddenly, making Mona return quickly to the café. So, Sofia did know, she just didn’t mention it. Mona feels surprisingly grateful – she didn’t feel ready to talk much more about it all when Sofia arrived on her shift.
‘Congratulations on the job by the way,’ adds Sofia.
Mona attempts a smile but she is still feeling distracted, thinking about how Sofia described her relationship and about everything that happened with Hannah and Jaheim.
‘Thanks,’ says Mona eventually, ‘It’s a bit of a mess really though. I mean, I’m so happy about the job. But things with Hannah … We’ve been friends for years but it seems to have totally fallen apart.’
‘And do you want to put it back together?’ asks Sofia.
Mona thinks about it. Does she? She thinks about all the hurt that Hannah has caused her over the past year, and how angry she still feels at her.
‘I’m not sure,’ Mona admits, ‘She was pretty unkind to me when she and Jaheim were together. She forgot my thirtieth birthday.’
It’s the thing she hasn’t said aloud because she feels so hurt by it, and petty for feeling so hurt. Her birthday was just over three weeks ago, just before Hannah and Jaheim broke up. Ever since Mona left home, she has never really celebrated her birthday. She doesn’t like the attention and it brings back too many memories of unhappy childhood birthday parties, her parents arguing and making all the guests uncomfortable. Each birthday is also another reminder that the years are passing and she is still a waitress, not doing the thing she loves every day. Only her very closest friends even know the date of her birthday – she has made a point of never putting it on Facebook and never has a party or even a group meal. But since they’ve been friends, she and Hannah have always done something together, the two of them. One year they went to a speakeasy cocktail bar and got so drunk so quickly that they ended up coming home at 9 p.m., ordering takeaway and eating in their pyjamas. Another year Hannah bought her tickets to a show at Sadler’s Wells. Another they cooked a special meal together, making all the Argentinian food that Mona sometimes craved.
But this year, Hannah forgot. Hannah had turned thirty earlier that year, celebrating with a big meal at one of her favourite restaurants, Jaheim, Mona and her other friends seated around a long table. Hannah had asked Mona then if she might like to do a similar thing for her own birthday, but Mona had been adamant she didn’t want a fuss. She didn’t want to admit how daunted she felt about turning thirty – it felt significant and yet she didn’t want to acknowledge it as such. It was just another year, she told herself, not any kind of turning point. When the date rolled round she picked up the birthday cards from her mother and father from the doormat, realising as she entered the hallway that Hannah hadn’t returned home that evening. She checked her phone for messages from her but there were none. Mona assumed that Hannah had stayed the night at Jaheim’s, and that she would be home that evening. But she never came home. Mona waited up, unsure whether to cook a meal for herself in case Hannah had a reservation for them somewhere. She considered calling her but didn’t want to have to remind her friend – it felt embarrassing and painful. At ten o’clock she made herself beans on toast and then went to bed. The next evening when she returned home from work Hannah was in the flat, but she was shut in her room underneath her duvet. She and Jaheim had broken up, she told Mona through her tears.
The days went by and Mona wondered if Hannah was going to remember, but she didn’t. And then Mona went to Paris and spent the weekend with Poppy and Antoine, where she auditioned for a job that she suddenly wanted even more than when she’d first applied.
Mona swallows back tears, trying to keep her chin high and her face unreadable, but she can’t help it. Her eyes are damp, her vision suddenly blurred.
Sofia reaches out and places a hand gently on her arm.
‘That must hurt,’ she says, her voice soft, her expression concerned, ‘But honestly, when I was with my ex I did so many hurtful things to my friends. I missed the christening of one friend’s first baby because my ex didn’t want me to be away for the weekend, and he didn’t want to come with me.’
Sofia winces as though in pain, shaking her head.
‘I know it wasn’t an excuse, but I was so totally blinded that I couldn’t even see it. It didn’t mean I stopped caring about my friends, though; he just made me careless with them.’
Mona can’t quite believe that Sofia is opening up to her this much. She looks around briefly to check there are no new customers, but the café is still quiet.
‘What happened with those friends?’ asks Mona, wiping her eyes, ‘I mean, are you still friends with them?’
She feels rude asking, but she wants to know, she has to know.
Sofia suddenly looks very sad. She slips her hands into her apron pockets, her shoulders slumped.
‘Some of them – no,’ she says, ‘Others I’m still working on, trying hard to get back what we once had. But my very closest friends – they are still in my life. They told me that however badly I’d behaved, there was still enough good stuff that they remembered about me and about our friendship before it all happened, that they thought it was worth trying to fix things.’
Mona’s mind is racing, her heart beating fast. Sofia looks intently at her.
‘I suppose for you and Hannah you just need to decide if there was enough of the good stuff. Whether she’s worth holding on to or whether you want to let go.’
Mona breathes deeply, Sofia’s words settling in her mind and causing thoughts to shift around uncertainly. Suddenly Sofia looks up at the clock again.
‘Time for me to go,’ she says, unwinding her apron, ‘I hope things work out for you. I’ll see you before you leave, right?’
Mona nods silently.
‘Thank you,’ she says eventually, as Sofia reaches for her jacket and handbag, ‘For earlier with Jaheim, and … Just thanks.’
Sofia gives her a quick but firm hug. Then she waves and turns for the door, leaving Mona alone, replaying Sofia’s words over and over in her mind. Was there enough of the good stuff? Was her friendship with Hannah worth holding onto, despite how upset and angry she feels towards her?
Before she can think about it more, her eyes fall on the customer with the messy hair who sits at a table alone. Mona notices that her coffee cup is empty and the woman looks up and meets her eye.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ asks Mona. The customer stares up at her as though she has just come up from being underwater, before ordering another drink. Mona nods and makes the stranger a fresh cappuccino, all the time thinking about Sofia’s words and the decision that she must make.
8.00 p.m.
Monique
‘Here’s your coffee,’ says the waitress, placing the cup on the table and removing the empty one. She pauses by the table for a moment, frowning and tilting her head.
‘Are you OK?’
Monique stares back. Then she shakes herself a little and replies.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for the coffee.’
The waitress nods and turns away. Monique watches her as she makes her way through the café. Two new customers have just arrived: two men who Monique guesses are in their fifties and who sit opposite each other in one of the booths. One is dressed in tracksuit trousers and a white polo shirt, the other in jeans and a T-shirt. They both have b
eards, one short and scruffy, the other full, reminding Monique of photos of her grandfather. They speak in strong East London accents. Between them on the table are two plates: a slice of Victoria sponge on one and a slab of carrot cake on the other.
Monique returns to her phone, opens Facebook and starts scrolling. Someone has had a promotion and celebrates with a photograph of champagne and smiles. It is someone’s birthday and their wall is covered with messages: ‘Happy birthday mate,’ ‘HB x’… One of her friends is on holiday and has posted a picture of a sunset over the edge of a balcony, two glasses of wine resting on a table just in front. Then there is her dad, who has changed his profile picture to one of him in the hospital, cradling his new granddaughter. The post has sixty-three likes and a stream of comments from old friends. He has replied to all of them.
She looks closely at the two of them in the photo. He looks old, or maybe it’s just that the baby is so young – only a few hours of breath in her body, her tiny hand clasped around his seemingly giant thumb. Her father might be older than Monique likes to think (he will always be her dad, lifting her up on his shoulders and winning a toy unicorn for her at the carnival with his expert shot) but there is light in his eyes, pride glowing as he looks at his granddaughter – her daughter.
‘She looks just like you,’ her father had said when he first met her, his eyes filled with tears – Monique had never seen him cry before.
