A Street Café Named Desire

by R J Gould

  With agreement about the way forward reached they sat on three chairs that had seen far better days.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?’ Greg declared, looking across at Bridget. ‘You seem to know a lot about the industry for a woman.’

  David prayed that Bridget wouldn’t explode with anger and sack Saunders on the spot or attack him to such an extent that he’d quit.

  To his relief she remained calm, smiling at Saunders as she indicated that her job had involved setting up exhibitions which gave her a good insight into how builders operated.

  ‘Seeing him every day is going to be fun,’ she said when he’d left. ‘Let’s resolve our wall colour dispute, I’ve got a good idea.’

  Driving home David considered whether he had been out-manoeuvred by Bridget, but she was the arty one so he was prepared to give her the benefit of doubt.

  He was surprised how exhausting the planning was. After dinner he sank into an armchair and tuned into Film4 for an hour and a half of zoning out before bed.

  The doorbell rang. He pressed pause on the remote.

  It was Jane and she was in floods of tears. David’s good nature came through and he put a consoling arm around her shoulders. She was blurting out the news in between tears as David informed her that Jim had been round the previous evening so he already knew. He led her to the kitchen and offered her coffee or wine. She chose wine; he opened a red and poured two glasses.

  ‘He hasn’t come home since visiting you. No doubt he’s off to the club again tonight,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What do you mean “club”?’

  ‘The club where he met his new woman.’

  ‘No, she’s a colleague at the university, a Philosophy lecturer.’

  Jane dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, downed the rest of her wine, and held up her glass for a refill. David poured as requested. She took another large swig before continuing. ‘No, she isn’t. I discovered the truth. Jim is a regular at ComeInside. All this time when he’s been telling me he’s got to stay on for a lecture or a meeting at the university, he’s been going to a strip joint near Covent Garden.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Completely. I found out after a work colleague phoned to speak with him, a woman called Ursula who I vaguely know. I’d met her at a university drinks party. The evening she called he’d said he’d be late home as he needed to plan next year’s courses. With Ursula, the idiot told me.’ Jane started to cry again. ‘Got a tissue, please?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get them.’

  David rushed up to his bedroom – once upon a time their bedroom – and brought down a box of tissues. Jane took a handful and dabbed her eyes before continuing. ‘Soon after Ursula called, he texted to let me know that the meeting still wasn’t finished so it would be best to stay over. That wasn’t for the first time. Until then I’d had no reason to doubt what he said. I know lecturers can get a bedroom at the university if they’re working late and that had been his routine excuse. Of course, he didn’t stay there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because a couple of days ago I confronted him. As calm as anything he came out with it. Full of his bloody intense looks and “you see Jane, this” and “you see Jane, that”.’ She gave a bitter laugh before continuing. ‘I yelled at him for calling me Jane every few seconds. It’s a habit that drives me mad. He speaks like he’s a counsellor giving me advice. So there he was, fucking someone else, and my biggest complaint when he told me was his use of language!’

  ‘But what was going on if it’s not Ursula?’

  ‘He’s fallen in love with a woman called Nadine, who’s one of the hostesses at the club. ”Hostess” is the word they use but if my internet research is anything to go by, “prostitute” might be a more appropriate word. According to him she’s different to all the others; a comment which doesn’t help because it implies that he knows all the others. And “knows” in a strip joint puts a certain slant on the word. I hope I haven’t picked up anything.’

  Jane looked across to David, sensitive to the tactlessness of her remark. But thinking about Jane having sex with Jim no longer disturbed him.

  ‘What happens now?’ David asked.

  ‘Jim thinks she’s different, a “reluctant” worker at the club, gallantly saving to make sure her daughter has a good quality of life. And now that she’s found true love, la-di-da, she’s going to quit ComeInside and live with him. I suppose as soon as I’m out of the way.’

  She started crying again as she stretched her arm out for another top up of wine. David was still on his first glass. ‘It won’t last,’ he said. ‘The man’s an idiot.’

  The children had heard the crying and were standing by the lounge door. David was unsure how much of the sordid story they had picked up.

  ‘Can Mum stay here tonight, Dad?’ Sam asked.

  David had contemplated that; he was prepared to sleep on the couch.

  Jane thanked Sam, but indicated there was no need. Jim had agreed to move out until she found somewhere else to live. She reckoned that “somewhere” might be her mother’s for the time being.

  There was an awkward silence as the four of them walked to the hall and Jane opened the front door. ‘What the hell am I going to do now?’ she said quietly as she left.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s her problem,’ Rachel said after the door had closed.

  Chapter Forty-one

  WPC Zara Dixon was sitting on a very comfortable couch in a middle-class home located in one of the most affluent outer London suburbs. She was drinking Earl Grey tea served in a bone china mug. The startlingly bright orange walls were perhaps atypical, but everything else was appropriately respectable. The room was spacious with high ceilings; a maroon lacquered Chinese cabinet with big brass inlays stood by the bay window; two bold abstract art works hung on the wall opposite the Victorian fireplace; and a dark wood table in the centre of the room had coasters placed on each corner. She set her cup down on the one nearest then examined the swirling pattern on the Oriental rug that covered most of the polished wooden floorboards.

  David lifted the plate from the tray on the table and offered her a biscuit, which she took. Almond and pistachio slices were embedded on a light shortbread base and it was delicious.

  Zara had been transferred from east to north-west London almost a year ago and the contrast was dramatic. Back then she’d been involved in life-threatening operations at high rise blocks with their forever failing lifts, damp and blackened walls, and harsh concrete outside terrains. Here she was relieved to no longer have to break up feuding gangs or deal with associated knifings, shootings, and brawls. Her current beat, she’d have to admit, was very easy by comparison. Drunken teenagers, minor drug offences, and dodgy insurance claims were the main demands on her time. And this family had scored for all three despite their comfortable home, delicious biscuits, and the other outward signs of middle class propriety.

  ‘Why would I want to set fire to my own business premises before I’ve even got started?’

  ‘Why indeed, sir?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I can’t be held responsible for my ex-wife’s actions. We separated months ago and I can’t for the life of me think why she’d want to burn down the café. In fact we get on fairly well now.’

  ‘Clearly not that well. May I?’ Zara asked as she leaned across to take another biscuit.

  ‘Yes, help yourself.’

  ‘You say your “ex-wife”. We have no record of a divorce.’

  ‘Well we aren’t divorced yet.’

  ‘So she’s not your ex-wife then?’

  ‘Technically not, but to all intents and purposes she is.’ David was being made to feel guilty when there was nothing to feel guilty about. ‘The financial settlement was completed a while back and we’re going through the final legal bit now.’

  ‘To what extent is she involved in your coffee bar plans?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.
You’ve sorted out the split of your finances so she has no interest in the success or otherwise of your business venture. She doesn’t stand to gain or lose any money. So can you think of any reason for her action?’

  They were going round in circles. David considered Jane’s jealousy regarding his mother’s death and the subsequent windfall inheritance. Then there was her distress at being dumped by Jim. ‘I have no idea,’ he declared.

  At 12.15 a.m. on the previous Sunday morning, two policemen in a duty vehicle had been making their way at no great speed along Muswell Hill Broadway to ensure that the behaviour outside the pubs and clubs was not intolerable. As they reached the quieter end of the road, the officer who wasn’t driving glanced down a side street and noticed a car parked on double yellow lines with warning indicators flashing. They stopped to observe. It had been an unusually calm Saturday night and these two young policemen missed the buzz of confrontation.

  ‘I bet there’s a party on somewhere and that’s a poor parent who’s been ordered to collect their little darling but instructed not to park too close to avoid embarrassment,’ Robin surmised.

  William laughed. ‘No, it won’t be a party and I’ll tell you why not; it’s approaching exam season. All the sixth formers are busy revising.’

  ‘What about the younger kids?’

  ‘They’ve got exams too.’

  ‘Do you think they care enough to stay sober?’

  ‘This is Muswell Hill. Of course they do.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Let’s do a good deed and see what the problem is.’

  ‘I’m telling you, it’ll be a middle-aged lady. Mind you, we could get her because she is on a double yellow line. God knows why she hasn’t parked a little further up the road.’

  ‘You know what, I can’t be bothered. Let’s leave her in peace.’

  ‘Agreed. Turn at the roundabout and head back to the station. If we drive slowly we’ll be pretty well off duty by the time we get there. I’m knackered anyway.’

  Robin drove to the roundabout, went all the way round, then headed back down the Broadway at a snail’s pace. This gave them plenty of time to observe as the woman got out of her car and looked around before staggering up to the last shop on the small parade, an empty plot. She peered through the letterbox.

  William prided himself in recognising the potential for crime, although in this case it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to appreciate something was up. ‘Pull in for a minute will you, Robin. I want to see this.’

  Robin stopped barely a hundred yards from where the woman was standing. He switched off the car lights and then the engine. She was too preoccupied to notice company.

  Unsteadily the woman returned to her car, opened the boot, and lifted out a yellow metal container. It must have been heavy, she struggled to carry it.

  ‘That’s a petrol can!’ William exclaimed.

  They watched in awe as this smartly dressed middle-aged lady stumbled back to the shop, pushed the stem of a large funnel through the letterbox, opened the can, and began to pour out the contents. She was finding it difficult to control the action and some of the liquid was spilling onto her clothes. She set the can down on the pavement and put her right hand in her jacket pocket.

  ‘Enough of that,’ Robin declared. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Within seconds their siren was blaring, their lights were flashing, and the car was speeding the short distance towards the imminent arsonist.

  On hearing and seeing the advancing police car the woman raised her arms high in the air to indicate surrender. Her dramatic stance made William laugh out loud and he had to bite his lip to stifle it as he stepped out the car. He stopped smiling when he saw a lit match in her right hand. She was in grave danger of setting fire to herself.

  ‘Don’t you move an inch,’ he yelled as he sprinted towards her. ‘Not an inch!’

  When he reached her he grabbed hold of her wrist, brought it down close to his mouth, and blew out the match.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ Jane mumbled. The policemen’s attempt to get any sense out of her was pointless given her level of intoxication. A flustered, incoherent Jane was taken to the police station and locked up for the night with charges of attempted arson and drink driving imminent. On taking the breathalyser test she used the logic of an alcoholic to explain that the drinking had been essential to build up the courage to carry out the arson.

  She spent a miserable night in a cell and was remorseful by the morning when she gave David’s contact details to WPC Zara Dixon. After a brief interview Zara decided to visit the address provided, well aware she had been there before. Twice.

  ‘If, as you say, you are separated, why would Jane give this as her home address?’

  David explained the situation. His soon to be ex-wife had been dumped by the man she had left him to live with. Although she was still living in Jim’s house this was only for a short while until she found a place of her own. She probably thought his address was the best bet.

  ‘Though finding somewhere to live clearly wasn’t the only thing on her mind last night, was it?’

  David decided to keep any further answers brief in an attempt to terminate the interview. ‘Apparently not.’

  The policewoman asked if David intended to press charges. He’d been expecting this question and replied with a monosyllabic “no”.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That’s right, no.’

  Zara was beginning to think the work in east London, although a lot tougher, was rather easier to comprehend. She waited for David to explain his decision. It was a long wait, but finally he continued.

  ‘She’s going through a difficult time. And she didn’t end up doing anything wrong, did she? The premises weren’t set fire to, no property or person was injured. I’m sure she would have realised it was wrong before taking the action.’

  ‘Sir, the officers were fortunately able to intervene just in time. There was a pool of petrol inside your door, she was covered in it, and she had already struck a match.’

  ‘I’m sure all sorts of things were going through her mind at that point to prevent her doing it.’

  ‘In her state I don’t think much could have been going through her mind. We have a recording of her interview. She admits to getting drunk to give her the courage to commit arson.’

  ‘People can say things in the panic of the moment, things they don’t mean. The fact of the matter is that there was no fire and therefore no crime.’

  ‘Apart from driving when almost four times over the limit.’

  ‘I thought she was parked when you apprehended her. Did anyone see her drive in that state?’

  ‘Well that’s for us to act upon, it’s not relevant to this conversation. Are you sure you won’t press charges?’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘OK, I’ll record that.’

  ‘Is that everything then?’

  ‘I suppose it is. Thank you for your time.’ WPC Dixon stood and David led her to the front door.

  ‘There is one more thing, sir. Those biscuits, where do you get them from?’

  Chapter Forty-two

  ‘This place is so cool, Bridget,’ Rachel said.

  David had to agree – whether this was Scandinavian chic or not, the café looked fabulous. Bridget’s colours dominated, the largest beige wall filled with an exhibition of paintings by one of her friends, a two-tone grey wall bare but for two recesses with abstract scarlet glassware. Scarlet had been one of his colour preferences and there were bold splashes of it throughout the café – the coffee cups and saucers, the wooden edging around the giant mirror above the bar, all the doors, the aprons worn by the serving staff.

  ‘Yes, a huge well done to you both,’ Joe added. David had seen a lot of Rachel’s boyfriend in recent weeks and was rather fond of him, even though the knowledge that Joe was sleeping with his daughter wasn’t easy to come to terms with.

  Regardless of whether it was cool or not, the first night was as big a
success as they could possibly have hoped for. The café was jam-packed and everyone was in good spirits, laughing and chatting away. Jabulani’s band was well-received and customers were purchasing the full range of food and drink on offer.

  ‘Dad, please can I have a glass of red wine?’ Rachel asked, technically for the first time but she’d already requested white wine and beer.

  ‘Stop it, Rachel. You’re not having any alcohol. I could lose my licence and get shut down on the first night.’

  ‘I look old enough. Anyway if an inspector came in I’d hand my drink over to someone else,’ she said looking across at Joe, who had already turned eighteen.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Fun killer. Never mind, we’re off to a party now. Well done with this place, Dad. I’ll see you later or maybe tomorrow morning, I’m not sure yet.’ She kissed him and he could smell alcohol on her breath.

  ‘Text me if you’re staying out,’ he called after her. He was unsure if she’d heard because at that point the song the band was performing, initially soft and melancholy, picked up pace and volume. For the first time in ages David could let all thoughts of what was needed to be done wither away as he listened to the music.

  There was a loud cheer as the song reached its climax. Jabulani spoke. ‘Thank you, thank you very much. It’s an honour to be here on the opening night of my friend’s café. I must say a few words about David – he’s been helpful and kind from the first day I met him at work. But hey, I’m not going to speak, we’re going to perform our new song called ‘David and Bridget’s Dream’.

  There were no instruments for this song, just vocals. Wonderful harmonies across several octaves. The lyrics brought laughter even though most listeners were unaware of the significance of references to the local council, a lethal underground car park, Queensbury, tea at Harrods, and a tight-arsed boss called Mary.

  She wears ethnic chic

  Thinks our work is bleak

  Keen to criticise

  Especially all the guys

  It’s scary Mary

  Yes it’s scary Mary

  David roared with laughter until interrupted by a sharp poke in the ribs. He turned and faced his ex-tight-arsed boss. She was taking it in good spirits, all smiles as he would expect from the new Mary. The song ended with ‘My God, it’s scary scary … scary Mary’ and there was wild applause.