Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  Lizzie put her arm around me. ‘You are doing something positive. You can take your life in whatever direction you can from this point on. I think it’s exciting.’

  ‘It is. And terrifying not to know what’s coming next. But I’m lucky to have my lovely family to support me. Thanks Lizzie.’

  ‘My pleasure! So how do you feel about living back with your mum and dad?’ Groaning, she slapped her hand against her forehead. ‘Forgive me. What a daft thing to ask.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, it’s a valid question. Actually, I think I’m fine. It was a bit difficult losing my personal space and all that, such as it was – but they’ve been brilliant.’

  Lizzie offered to refill my mug but I declined. ‘And how did your housemates take the news?’

  I grimaced. It hadn’t been the easiest conversation I’d ever had but that was more to do with the fact they were going to be a quarter down on the bills than without someone they had shared a home with for five years.

  ‘They were a bit annoyed, obviously. And I think Sarah thought I was mad. But I don’t think they’ll miss me. They’re all nice people but it was more like being in university halls than living with great friends.’

  During the flight to San Francisco, I’d had time to reflect a little on my life. So much had changed since the day I lost my job but one thing I had realised was how little life I had actually lived before then. Everything had been a means to an end, an ‘I’ll-be-happy-when’ existence, as if I was holding on until the good stuff arrived. I had always been the sensible one, the girl who could answer the ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ time’ question at job interviews without stopping to think about it.

  So I’d moved into the dreary house-share in Woodford with people I had nothing in common with other than a shared kitchen and desire to live near a tube station, because it was the sensible choice, allowing me to save for a place of my own while I rented. I had taken a job in the well-respected London Borough Council and had remained there for six years, waiting for the next opportunity to arise. It made sense to stay there until I found something else. Or until Aidan and I decided to be together permanently, when two wages coming in each month might offer a little leeway for something else.

  Even though I had a secret dream career that bore no resemblance to planning law or development permissions, I hadn’t allowed myself to consider it because it was risky and had serious potential to fail. When I’d saved enough … when I was in a better position to make the leap … when I felt ready … then I might allow myself to pursue it.

  But losing my job had thrown everything into question: it had removed my sensible living arrangements, challenged my savings and absolutely, definitely, ruled out any future with Aidan Matthews. I was already in a risky situation with no guarantee of anything other than unemployment and two months to do whatever I wanted to. Given this, the playing field was open wide and anything was now possible …

  Lizzie squeezed my arm. ‘I’m going to make sure you have the best time here. And we’ll start by getting you something to eat.’

  If my grumbling stomach could have whooped for joy it would have done so with gusto at that moment. ‘That’s a fantastic idea. Where are we going?’

  Lizzie’s broad smile seemed to illuminate the room. ‘Only the best place in the neighbourhood! I’m taking you to Annie’s.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Welcome to the neighbourhood

  There are times in your life when you find yourself in exactly the right place. It might not make sense at the time, but deep down inside you feel it: you were always meant to be there, on that date, at that time. Walking into Annie’s diner on my first day in San Francisco felt like one of those moments.

  Annie’s was everything I’d hoped a true American diner would be. Nestled on the corner of Haight and Clayton Streets, it was a neighbourhood hub that had been feeding the good people of The Haight for nearly forty years. From the outside it was unremarkable, save for the pink and blue neon signs hung in its wide windows, which wrapped around the corner that joined the two streets. The wood panelled frontage was painted the colour of very milky coffee and bore the scars and scrapes of years of weather, traffic and city air. Had it been in England, it would probably have been dismissed as a ‘greasy spoon’ café and avoided. But here in San Francisco, its time-earned war wounds of standing proud in the city merely added to its charm. I could imagine a scene from a US cop drama set here – where the hard-bitten detective would arrange a secret rendezvous with one of his illicit moles, dishing the dirt on a crime gang over huge stacks of pancakes and coffee so strong it could melt spoons …

  Lizzie laughed when she saw me taking in all the details of Annie’s exterior. ‘Your face – anyone would think I’d taken you to Disney World for the first time. It’s just a diner. A great diner, mind you, but still a regular, Stateside eatery.’

  Now it was my turn to giggle. ‘You said eatery … You’re such a Yank now!’

  But Lizzie was wrong. Annie’s was so much more than just a diner. I was later to learn what an institution it was in the community and how even people who had moved out of The Haight faithfully made the pilgrimage back here every weekend for brunch. The whole building smelled of coffee, sugar, vanilla, the delicious aroma of pancakes and frying steak, which wrapped around our nostrils. We approached the polished chrome counter, where customers were hunched on bottle-green leather bar stools over enormous cups of black coffee and gargantuan portions of food that made your eyes water as much as your mouth. Faded black and white photographs of past customers and staff peppered the red-painted walls, the smiling faces and bulging brunch plates in them no different from those filling the diner today. It was as if history hung heavily around the current customers, the eyes of the past bestowing their blessings on the faces of the present.

  ‘I’ve been coming here since my first weekend in San Francisco,’ Lizzie said. ‘You have to try the French toast – it’s pretty much legendary in The Haight.’

  ‘Hey Lizzie! You on a loyalty bonus from Annie now?’ shouted a broad-backed, balding man from the far edge of the counter.

  Sat next to him, a man of similar build with an impressive bushy beard but less hair chuckled. ‘Yeah – she’s on a short-stack bonus. One more customer introduced and she finally makes the three-stack!’

  ‘You wish,’ my cousin called back, as several other diners raised their heads in greeting. ‘Marty, Frankie, this is my cousin Nell from England. She’s here for a couple of months so you’d better get used to another Brit in the joint.’

  Marty – the one sans beard – raised his hand in greeting. ‘Well hello, Nell-from-England. This your first time here?’

  ‘It is, yes.’

  ‘You gotta be gentle with her, Marty,’ Frankie said, wiping ketchup from his beard with a paper napkin. ‘Annie’ll skin ya alive if you spook any more customers outta here. Nell, nice to meet ya. Don’t you listen to a word Marty says and you’ll fit right in.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll remember that, thanks.’

  A couple moved from a table near the counter and Lizzie grabbed it quickly. ‘Marty and Frankie are cab drivers,’ she informed me, holding a menu up to her face to shield her words, ‘and our resident philosophers. Anything you want an opinion on, they’re your men.’

  I looked at the considerable array of options on the laminated menu card, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the tables of Al’s Diner in Happy Days. ‘Wow, when you said French toast was big here you weren’t kidding. Seventeen varieties?’

  ‘Oh yes. And every one of them awesome.’ Lizzie’s expression reminded me of years before when our families would meet for Pancake Day tea. Out of the two of us, Lizzie had always possessed the sweet tooth, which made her extremely easy to buy birthday and Christmas presents for. I never saw her happier than when she was about to consume obscene amounts of sugar. ‘You should try all of them, of course, but my favourite is Banana Maple Walnut. Unbelievable. Some nigh
ts I actually wake myself up dreaming of it.’

  ‘I’ll give that a go then. And a cup of coffee, please.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that. You get coffee here even if you haven’t ordered it.’ She righted the upturned mugs on our table. ‘And coffee here is the best.’ She looked up as a young waitress approached us. ‘Hey Laverne. This is my cousin Nell from England.’

  Laverne stuffed her order pad into the waistband of her apron and shook my hand. ‘Hi! Lizzie’s told me so much about you!’

  ‘She has?’ Her enthusiastic welcome took me a little by surprise.

  ‘I was telling Laverne about that amazing chocolate orange cheesecake you used to make when we were teenagers, do you remember?’

  It had been a long time since I had last thought of that, but instantly memories of consolation cheesecake afternoons at my house after inevitable teenage breakups rushed back. ‘Yes, I do. We ate a lot of cheesecake after all our disastrous relationships.’

  Laverne smiled. ‘I’m, like, a total baking fan. You have to give me the recipe before you go back to England.’

  ‘No problem. If I can remember it, that is. I haven’t baked in a while.’

  ‘Thank you so much! So, what can I get you guys?’

  ‘One Banana Maple Walnut, one Nutella Pomegranate please.’ Watching Lizzie ordering struck me how utterly San Franciscan my cousin had become. The inflection of her voice now had a characteristic West Coast upward flick and she was relaxed and happy.

  ‘Sure thing. I’ll go grab the coffee pot for you guys. And hey, I’ll tell Annie you’re here. She’ll bust a gut to meet you!’

  When she left us, I leaned closer to Lizzie. ‘Annie? Is that the Annie?’

  ‘The very same. Founded this place thirty-seven years ago and still going strong. You’ll love her.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

  Lizzie folded her hands on the checkerboard tabletop. ‘So what’s this about you not baking, Nellie? You baked all the time when we were kids.’

  I relaxed back into the squashy booth seat. ‘Recently I just haven’t done it. Not since Aidan and I – since the last time we were together.’

  My cousin frowned. ‘But you didn’t just bake for him. It’s always been your thing, hasn’t it?’

  It made me uncomfortable to be thinking about Aidan, especially as I had tried so hard not to think about him over the last week. ‘I think after the last attempt between us failed I shelved everything that reminded me of him. I wanted to be someone different, I suppose. I was sick of the merry-go-round of our relationship.’

  ‘I can understand that. But, you know, my kitchen is your kitchen while you’re here. So if you get the urge to bake again you’re more than welcome.’

  I laughed as her veneer of innocence completely failed to cover the ulterior motive. ‘Oh and I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition if you had to eat whatever I made?’

  Busted, she giggled. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing …’

  Laverne returned with a jug of freshly brewed coffee and filled our huge coffee cups. ‘Here you go. Annie’s house coffee, Golden Grain.’

  Puzzled, I looked at Lizzie. ‘But coffee isn’t made from grain.’

  Laverne giggled. ‘You know that and I know that. It’s one of the mysteries about this place. Enjoy,’ she chirped as she left us.

  My first cup of American coffee smelled good and tasted like heaven, although it was considerably stronger than the filter coffee I was used to in the Planning Department – even when caffeine-fan Terry was making it. The memory of my former colleagues brought a glimmer of sadness to the pit of my stomach. I wondered how they were all doing. I made a mental note to ask Lizzie if I could email Vicky when we returned to her apartment.

  ‘So I hear the Brit invasion is happening?’

  I looked up from my two-pint coffee mug to see the half-smile of a diminutive woman of uncertain years. Her hair was dyed the colour of a new penny and her white smile glowed against the warm caramel of her skin. She had a red pencil behind one ear and several gold chains were arranged about her neck. Dressed in a black polo shirt several sizes too large for her that had Annie’s emblazoned in red embroidery on the front, black skin-tight jeans and leopard print pumps, she possessed a presence so all-encompassing that it was as if the sunlight streaming in from the diner windows dimmed a little in reverence.

  ‘Hey. I’m Annie Legado. I own this place.’

  ‘Hi. I’m Nell.’ I wasn’t sure whether I should curtsey or bow in her presence. Instead I extended my hand and she shook it, her grip surprisingly strong for her slight frame.

  ‘You look like Lizzie. How long you here for?’

  ‘Two months.’

  She nodded, the strange almost-smile still in place. ‘Two months is good.’

  ‘So that means we have two months to turn my cousin into a fully-fledged San Franciscan, Annie,’ Lizzie grinned.

  Annie drew in a breath through her teeth, like the sound a mechanic makes just before he tells you how much your car repairs will cost. ‘Tall order. But I guess we’ll try.’ She slapped the back of my seat. ‘You ladies have a good day.’ And with that, she was gone.

  I stared at Lizzie. ‘She is one scary woman.’

  ‘Wait till you get to know her. I think the term you’ll choose then is indomitable. You can see why her business has survived as long as it has. Nobody would dare to take it away from her.’

  The buzz in Annie’s was incredible, with several conversations crossing the room. A young couple dressed entirely in black with pale faces and matching Goth make-up at one end of the counter were happily conversing with Marty and Frankie at the other, comments occasionally moving to the opposite side of the diner where a woman with three small children was seated. Annie stalked the room like a stealthy lioness, dipping her head into conversations at every table as she went, nodding with her trademark half-smile before moving on.

  Lizzie nudged me. ‘So, do you like Annie’s?’

  I knew that I was grinning although I couldn’t tell whether this was due to a chronic lack of sleep, the power of turbo-caffeine racing through my body or simply the thrill of being here. ‘It’s wonderful,’ I replied. ‘Surreal, but wonderful. Two weeks ago I was losing my job and now I’m in San Francisco in a real-life American neighbourhood diner. For the first time in my life I don’t have a clue what will happen next. And it feels good.’

  ‘O-K, we got one Banana Maple Walnut, one Nutella Pomegranate.’ Laverne handed us oval plates so big that two of them barely fit on the table. ‘En-joy.’

  A gargantuan mountain of buttery toast triangles nestling between a blanket of banana slices, dusted in icing sugar and swimming in a glistening pool of maple syrup gazed oozily up at me. It was truly a sight to behold.

  ‘Are all the varieties of French toast here this big?’ I asked, staring at my plate.

  ‘Yup. Actually, compared to some other diners I’ve been to that’s a small portion.’

  I wondered if my arteries were going to hate me for dragging them across the Pond to be assaulted by this amount of fat. But as this was the first day of my American odyssey, I reasoned it was only right I made an effort. Although, if the food was going to be this amazing for the next eight weeks, I realised I would have to make sure I upped my exercise while I was here to stop me returning to the UK looking like Jabba the Hutt after a slave binge.

  An hour later, Lizzie and I struggled out onto the sidewalk in the bright sunshine. My stomach felt as if it had dropped several inches and was now snoozing somewhere around my knees.

  Lizzie gave a loud groan. ‘I was going to suggest we catch the Muni home, but given the amount of food we just ate, I think a walk might be good.’

  ‘A walk would definitely be good.’

  We crossed the street and walked for several blocks, passing a church and multicoloured wooden buildings. The sound of the traffic mingled with birdsong from the trees lining the pavements an
d at one corner we could hear the enthusiastic rhythms of a drummer practising in his apartment. Walking further still, we reached a grand stone staircase leading up into a park.

  ‘It’s a bit of a scramble up here, but I promise you, the views are worth it,’ Lizzie puffed, as the after-effects of our enormous brunch laboured our breathing. ‘This is Buena Vista Park. I didn’t even know it existed for the first two years I lived here. But then quite a few of the people who help out at my after-school club are San Francisco natives and they didn’t know about it either.’

  The park was more of a wooded hill, with pathways disappearing off into the trees around us. We passed a couple of people walking dogs and a tramp asleep on a bench, but besides them the park was largely empty. It seemed surprising to find this in the middle of a city and as soon as the trees overhead blocked the view down to the road I could have believed I was out in the wilds. Birdsong surrounded us and the wind rustled through swaying branches and these became the only sounds, spoiled a little by the puffing and groaning from two overfed women struggling up the hill.

  When we reached the summit we flopped down to catch our breath, Lizzie flinging herself dramatically back onto the sun-baked grass in the clearing.

  ‘You’d think, after so long living here, that my stomach would know its limits,’ she said, patting her belly, which made the long glass bead necklaces around her neck tinkle together. ‘But no. One trip to Annie’s and my resolve disintegrates.’

  ‘That French toast is amazing. How on earth do you manage not to be the size of a house?’

  ‘I walk. A lot. And with the schools work, my music lessons and all the other things I don’t tend to sit down for very long most days.’

  ‘You look amazing. So West Coast.’

  My cousin giggled. ‘Why, thank you, Ma’am. You look great too, Nellie. Happier. It’s a good look on you. Now,’ she struggled back to her feet and took my hand to drag me up, too, ‘you need to see the real reason we came up here. Just look at that …’