by Jess Ryder
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear,’ says a voice. It’s Lorenzo. He’s lived in the UK since he was a child, but he still has a faint Italian accent. People say he puts it on for effect. He’s in his sixties, short, with a barrel chest. Thick wavy grey hair and a generous moustache, which he’s worn for so long it’s become fashionable again.
He rolls up the shutters and I go straight to the coffee bar area. Everything was properly cleaned before we left yesterday, so there’s not much to do except switch the machine on and wait until the water reaches the correct temperature. I check the stock and give the workstation another wipe with antibacterial spray. The holiday season is over now, and everything has calmed down considerably. Lorenzo has let his summer staff go, keeping just a few of us on for midweek customers. Weekends are still busy, but students are given those shifts and Lorenzo doesn’t ask me to work unless there’s a crisis.
It’s half-eight. We have a few regulars who drop by at the same time every morning, collecting their takeaway coffees on their way to work, or sitting in their favourite seat by the window to read the paper. At around eleven, we mostly see retired couples and small groups of mums, meeting up while their kids are at school. The café’s too far away from the town centre to attract the business crowd, but we still manage a reasonable trade over the lunchtime period, then there’s a long gap until afternoon teatime, when the retired set emerge again. Coffee and tiramisu at Lorenzo’s is something of a tradition. The atmosphere couldn’t be more different to the café bar in Shoreditch, but I like it here.
My colleagues arrive – Artur and Marek work in the kitchen and Jolanta waits on tables. They’re all Polish, so naturally they converse with each other in their native language. Lorenzo tries to make them speak English because he suspects they’re moaning about him. I don’t get involved. They work hard and never complain to me.
I serve the early-morning rush – such as it is – then make myself a flat white and take it to the window. I’m idly watching the tiny shape of a cruise ship making its way across the horizon when I see her, walking along the promenade towards the café. The hot cup slips through my fingers and I only just catch it before it falls to the floor.
What the fuck is she doing here?
I rush back to the counter, leaning across and calling out, ‘Lorenzo?’ He appears at the threshold of his tiny office-cum-stockroom, a wad of paperwork in his hands.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I … er … I’ve just seen someone I need to talk to.’
‘You want a break? How long? Fifteen minutes?’
‘Maybe a bit longer. I won’t take lunch. Is that okay?’
He gestures at the empty tables. ‘What do you think?’
The door opens and she walks in, looking around cautiously. Her face relaxes when she sees me. I move quickly towards her and give her a hug. ‘Don’t forget I’m Sarah,’ I whisper, squeezing her. She nods, and we separate with a fake laugh, pretending we’re old friends who have happily bumped into each other. I lead her to a table in the far corner, away from the counter and Lorenzo’s curious ears.
‘How the hell did you find me?’ I say.
‘I went to your flat. Your mum refused to let me in. I said I’d wait outside till you came home, so she told me where you worked.’
I take my phone out of my back jeans pocket. Lorenzo insists we keep them on silent during shifts. Sure enough, there’s a text from Mum, and three missed calls.
‘Why are you here? I thought we agreed—’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but I had to come.’
My face darkens. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a long story.’
‘I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like?’
‘A chai latte would be perfect. If you do them.’ She sits down nervously.
I go back to the bar, where Jolanta is stuffing sachets of ketchup into the lunchtime condiment caddies. ‘You want me make?’ she asks. I’ve been training her in the barista arts and she’s always keen to try out her new skills.
‘Would you mind? That would be wonderful.’ I give her the order, then return to the table.
Jen turns away from the view with a sigh. ‘How fantastic to work in a place like this,’ she says. ‘So beautiful.’
‘It’s just a café. But yeah, could be worse. I came here to please Mum, but I love it now.’
‘She looked so shocked when I turned up this morning. I’m sorry. There wasn’t time to send a note. I came as soon as I could.’
‘What’s happened, Jen? You’re scaring me. For God’s sake, tell me.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Sam found me.’
‘Sam?’ His name stabs me. ‘But … but how come?’
‘I don’t know. I thought I’d chosen the most obscure, ordinary town in England to hide in, but it turns out it’s where he comes from. He’s homeless, or pretending to be homeless. We met by accident – at least I think it was accidental, but I don’t know any more. My head keeps going round and round, trying to work it out. He confronted me last night. Didn’t seem to know about the crash. I told him what happened, and he seemed genuinely surprised. But now I keep thinking … maybe it was all an act.’
Sam. A vision of him running around the driveway wielding an imaginary fire hose pops into frame. Emily shouting nee-naw, nee-naw at the top of her voice, giggling as he lifts her up and they pretend to rescue a ‘miaow’ from the magnolia tree.
‘I still can’t decide about Sam,’ I say. ‘He was such a nice guy, and when I confronted him he swore he had nothing to do with it. But … you never know, do you? People lie all the time.’
Jen lowers her eyes guiltily.
With exquisitely bad timing, Jolanta brings over our drinks. We clam up while she puts them on the table. ‘Sugar?’ she asks, studying our body language. Urgent, anxious, conspiratorial.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Jen replies, and Jolanta retreats – to gossip about me in the kitchen, no doubt.
‘Any news of Nick?’ I say as soon as she’s out of earshot. I’m terrified that he’ll wake up and remember what he saw that day. I can still see the astonished expression as he looked out of the passenger window; can still feel our eyes locking in hatred.
‘I don’t know how he is,’ Jen says gloomily. ‘That’s the trouble: we’ve no way of checking. I don’t want to make enquiries, and I don’t think the hospital would tell me anyway.’
‘No, don’t suppose they would …’
She pauses to sip her chai latte. ‘Maybe you could ring up? Legally you’re still his next of kin.’
I shudder at the possibility. ‘I daren’t. They might want ID proof, contact details …’
We sit in silence for a few moments, trapped by our own thoughts. I’m cross with Jen for coming here. We keep our communications to a minimum, even though we’re both using new identities. No emails, no calls, no texts. We notify each other by post of any changes of address, but apart from that, we have nothing to do with each other. It’s the safest way.
‘I’m afraid Sam is looking for you,’ Jen says finally. ‘He believes, understandably, that we’re deadly enemies. He thinks you’re the one I’m hiding from and wants to be your avenging hero.’
I frown at her. ‘What do you mean? My avenging hero?’
‘If you say the word, he’ll kill me, that’s what he said.’
Foamy milk splutters from my mouth. ‘What?!’
‘He wants to redeem himself. Thinks all this is down to him. I didn’t say anything, of course, but I thought I should warn you that he might try to track you down.’
‘He didn’t follow you here, did he? For God’s sake, Jen – sorry, Anna.’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t follow me. I was very careful. Anyway, he’d never imagine for one second that I would lead him to you. Nobody knows that we’re in touch.’
‘But what if Nicky has woken up and sent Sam to look for us?’ I say.
‘It’s
Hayley I’m more worried about,’ Jen replies. ‘She was furious with me for not visiting Nicky and she’s suspicious because we’ve both gone to ground. I don’t know, I just have this feeling she knows we were working together, that’s she’s figured it out somehow. I’m sure she blames me for the accident. I mean, all that stuff about my car drifting out of the lane …’
No, it was Nick’s fault, I think. He was trying to grab the wheel off you. At least, that’s my version of what happened. He saw me and realised that Jen had betrayed him. But I can’t tell her that, because I know she’ll blame herself for the deaths and the injuries. I’m glad she doesn’t remember those final moments. It’s for the best.
She pushes back tears. ‘I don’t know where to go or what to do now. I don’t know anything any more. I feel like I’ve come to the end of the road.’
‘Don’t say that.’ I put my hand on her arm.
‘I think maybe you should get out of Bournemouth, to be on the safe side.’
‘I don’t want to move,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Mum. She’s been amazing, I couldn’t have got through the last year without her. I took her away from her home, cut her off from all her friends … We used to argue all the time, but now we’re really close.’
‘I’m glad about that. It’s good that you’re coping, given what you’ve been though.’
I look at her carefully. All that Jen veneer has been scraped off and she looks red raw. ‘How about you?’
‘I don’t think I can take it any more.’ She fiddles with her hands. ‘I tried counselling, but I wasn’t being honest with her, so surprise, surprise, it didn’t work. Then I met this guy – he was really sweet. A bit boring, but in a good way. Steady. Heart of gold.’ Her voice starts to break up. ‘It’s over now, I finished it. I didn’t deserve somebody like him. I didn’t tell him the whole truth, but I told him about the accident. How guilty I felt. Chris is a Christian. He kept talking about forgiveness, but I don’t care what anyone says, some things aren’t forgivable, they just aren’t. And I don’t believe in God, so what does it matter? He can’t help me. He’s not the one I need forgiveness from.’
‘I forgive you,’ I say, taking her hand. ‘I told you that the last time we met, and I meant it. You need forgiveness from yourself.’
‘I don’t understand how you can bear to look at me, let alone touch me.’
Her pain is almost visible. It’s etched on her face, in the twist of her fingers, the heavy slump of her shoulders. I can’t bear it. Please don’t do this to me, Jen, please don’t.
‘We all have to move on,’ I say.
‘I’ve tried and tried but I can’t do it. It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, I’ll always carry this around with me, I’ll never be able to let it go.’
‘It’s hard, but there’s no choice.’
‘Yes there is. I can end it.’
I grip her hand more tightly. ‘No, no, don’t talk like that. You mustn’t—’
‘It’s the easiest thing in the world to do, if you really mean it.’ She looks away towards the sea, as if imagining wading into its cold grey depths. I understand the temptation. There were times when I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t talk to anyone except Mum. I thought about ending it, too, several times, but I would have chosen tablets, not drowning. I couldn’t have guaranteed that as the water poured into my lungs, I wouldn’t have put up a fight.
Even after all the terrible things she did, I can’t let Jen take her own life. I have to stop her.
Lorenzo is standing behind the counter, trying to catch my eye. ‘Look at me,’ I say quietly, stroking Jen’s hand until she turns to face me again. ‘Don’t do anything stupid – promise me.’ I nod apologetically at the boss, who raises his eyebrows and taps his watch.
‘I promise.’
I don’t believe her for a second, but I ask her where she’s staying.
‘In a hotel,’ she says in a trembling voice. ‘Near Alum Chine.’
‘Right. I want you to go back there now and get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept for a week. I’ve got to get on with my shift now, but I finish at three. Meet me on the beach, over there, by the steps. We’ll go for a walk, talk some more, okay? Promise me you’ll come.’
‘Yes, yes. Thank you, you’re so kind, too kind …’
I stand and collect our dirty cups. ‘Just be there. Three o’clock.’
42
Now
Jennifer
* * *
Somehow I make it back to my cheap and not so cheerful hotel, with its bold-patterned carpets that don’t show the stains, varnished pine and laminated notices on every available wall. I booked it on the train coming down; it didn’t look too bad in the photos on my phone, but then again, I was viewing it through a veil of tears. Still crying now, damn it. I rummage in my bag for a tissue and pat my face while the receptionist isn’t looking.
She’s tapping away at the computer, seemingly ignoring me, even though she knows I must be standing at the counter for a reason. The key to my room is almost reachable. But thinking about it, the last thing I want to do is go there. It’s a very cramped double and must be above the kitchen because it smells of chip fat. What I really want to do is have a drink.
‘Is the bar open?’ I ask.
‘Till eleven p.m.,’ she tells me, not looking away from the screen. ‘Just behind you, next to the lifts.’
I follow her directions and find myself in a sad, gaping hole of a room, littered with green upholstered tub chairs and low wooden tables, their surfaces scratched and ringed with glass marks. The furniture looks as if it was tipped off a lorry and left to arrange itself. There’s a very large mirror on the far wall, doubling the dismal effect. Fairy lights are strung up behind the bar and eighties pop music is blaring through the speakers, even though it’s daytime and nobody else is here. I think of fiftieth birthday parties and silver wedding celebrations. Middle-aged ladies getting pissed on Prosecco and touching up the waiters.
‘Double gin and tonic, please,’ I say to the boy behind the bar. ‘Can you put it on my tab? Room 212.’
‘I’ll bring it over,’ he says, indicating that I should choose somewhere to sit down. I walk over to the back window, hoping for a glimpse of the sea beyond the chine, but my view is cut off by buildings. There’s a small outdoor swimming pool, covered in a blue tarpaulin for the winter, and about a dozen white plastic sunloungers are stacked against a row of changing huts. On the other side of the paved area is a flat-roofed sixties extension, housing self-catering apartments, by the look of it. Paint is peeling off the window frames and moss is growing between the cracks in the stone slabs. In the grey light, it all looks very sorry for itself. Bit like me, I suppose.
The waiter, a nice blond boy with an Eastern European accent, arrives at my side and hands me my G and T. I sign the chit for the room with his chewed biro. He’s put too much ice in, but I don’t say anything. I sit at a table by the window and down the alcohol before the cubes have time to melt. Then I signal to him for a top-up.
‘On the room again?’ he asks.
‘You got it.’
He brings it over. This time I get a small bowl of stale cheese and onion crisps. I don’t think it’s normal practice. I think it’s a hint.
When I order my third gin, he tries to encourage me to have some lunch, recommending the pizzas, which he assures me are home-made. I refuse. I sense he’s worried about me, in the same way he’d worry about his mum if she was getting pissed on her own in a downbeat seaside hotel on a Wednesday morning in October. He’s a sweet kid; I don’t want to embarrass him. I decide to take my glass to my room, hiding it under my jacket as I wait for the lifts.
The bedroom’s not dirty, I’ll say that much for it. The maid’s already been in and made the bed. Tidied my towels. Hung the wet mat over the edge of the bath. Emptied the bin. Given me a replacement tooth mug, wrapped in plastic.
I rest my gin tumbler on the bedside table
, sit on the edge of the bed and swing my legs up. My spine presses against the mahogany-veneered headboard and I drag up a pillow to relieve the discomfort. I didn’t sleep last night, and with the alcohol sliding through my veins, I feel light-headed. I’m glad I saw Natasha, even though I ended up making a bit of a fool of myself. Threatening suicide. As if I had the guts … I smack my lips to get at the last of the gin and it stings my gums like mouthwash.
She is an amazing woman, Natasha. Such composure, such magnanimity. Why doesn’t she hate me for what I did? I don’t understand it. Having her forgiveness makes me feel worse, because I know that if I were in her position, I’d never forgive. I’d want blood.
I close my eyes, and as the gin slops about in my empty stomach, I go back to the last time I saw her. It was about six weeks after the crash, maybe as much as two months. I was back in my apartment, packing up to move out. The sitting room was full of boxes and bubble wrap and I was sitting on the floor in tears: every ornament, every photo frame, every book that I picked up tried to tell me a story. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to be out by the end of the week. Most of the boxes were destined for storage.
The outside doorbell rang twice. I staggered to my feet and, glass of Sauvignon blanc in hand, wandered over to the entryphone. I saw Natasha’s face on the screen, the camera peering down her nostrils as she squinted upwards like a mole sniffing for air. My blood ran cold. What could she possibly want?