by Jenny Kane
The discarded Walkman lay accusingly on the table. No one had pinched it as she’d half-hoped. No one had made her life easier by stealing the past away. Amy couldn’t begin to guess what the remainder of the tape contained. She had loved Jack so much; no one else had stood a chance.
Her year with Jack had lurched from starting to stopping, re-starting to re-stopping, until finally collapsing into an unrecognisable heap right in the middle of her finals. The confused, almost disposable, feeling which had swamped her had remained ever since, like a hostile shadow, blighting any chance of further relationships. Overwhelmed by a rejection she hadn’t understood, Amy had finished her exams, packed up her belongings for her parents to collect later, stuffed a suitcase with clothes and books, and ran.
That was almost exactly thirteen years ago. Amy inwardly groaned. Here she was in her mid-thirties, in a dull job, with no real local friends, no partner, and no children. Eking out her spare time sitting in unspectacular cafés, inhaling coffee fumes and reading novels. She had to do something about her life. And fast.
Slipping her mobile out of her pocket, Amy punched in the number before she had a chance to change her mind.
Rob answered the phone with blessed speed. Just hearing his delighted voice when he realised that the prodigal daughter was on the line made Amy feel so much better that she silently cursed herself for not calling him more often. She found herself accepting the frequently-made, but usually refused, invitation to visit, and was amazed by how happy he sounded, and by how quickly Rob made plans to invite Paul over from his current dig so that they could all make some coffee stops like they had in the old days.
Amy briefly explained what had happened. Did Rob still work with Jack? He did.
By the time she’d put the phone down on Rob, Amy’s indecisive metabolism had decided she was starving and she ate her meal without registering what it tasted like. Once she’d finished, Amy slid her hand into her pocket and fingered the envelope nervously. Placing the headphones back over her ears and pressing Play, she flinched as Jack’s soft voice spoke to her.
‘I’m sorry Amy. I’m sorry I hurt you. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve put two more tracks on your tape. I tried to imagine what you’d have put on it, if I’d returned it. I hope I got it right. I did love you. Still do, really, but, well, open the letter as you listen, it’ll explain. Oh, and as far as the last track goes, remember we had very wide musical tastes back then – don’t tell anyone who knows me I own a copy!’
The wounding, wounded lyrics of the first new track, Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’, crowded her head, and Amy found she was shaking. Fresh tears threatened as she opened Jack’s letter with clumsy fingers …
So that was it.
Amy felt odd; relieved, bereft, used, but strangely free. It hadn’t been her fault. Her head thudded and an incredible anger welled up inside her. She’d wasted so much time over something beyond her control.
When the last track came on Amy couldn’t help but laugh. No wonder Jack didn’t want anyone to know they’d liked it. She could feel the weight of the last thirteen years lifting from her. He was gay. As simple as that. He must have felt as confused as she’d felt worthless. It was time to find him. Time to ask all the questions she should have demanded answers to years ago, not to mention the new ones that crashed through her head.
What had he seen in her? Amy wasn’t naïve enough to believe she’d turned him gay, but why the hell had he gone out with her in the first place? Whatever had been the point? And why hadn’t Rob ever told her? He must have known for a while if he worked with Jack every day.
Her brain did an abrupt U-turn and, with her thoughts spiralling out of control in another direction, Amy was seized with panic. Why had he told her now? What had happened to make him get in touch after so many years? Was Jack in trouble? Had someone hurt him?
As Whitney Houston’s version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ completed her tape, Amy fished the letter back out of her pocket. There was no address, but there was a mobile number.
Coming to a vastly overdue decision, Amy pulled her mobile back out of her pocket and pressed re-dial.
‘Rob. I’m not coming to visit. I’ve made a decision. I’ve been hiding long enough. I’m moving south. Please don’t say anything about anything to Jack yet. OK?’
OCTOBER
In which Amy heads south, we meet an erotica writer, discover the perfect coffee house, and Jack has some explaining to do…
Two
October 2nd 2006
Jack sat on the edge of the stool. It was hard and unyielding against his buttocks. He suspected if had been specifically designed not to encourage lingering at the bar. In July it had seemed so much the right thing to do. Wiping his hands down his faded jeans, Jack remembered how carefully he’d wrapped the package before posting it north. He’d visualised Amy opening it, and had contemplated her reaction for a while. Then, in typical Jack style, he’d moved on, and placed the whole event into that part of his brain where the best-forgotten actions of his life dwelt.
Propped against the bar counter behind him, Jack stared at his mobile phone. He hadn’t expected this. He read the text again.
Got tape. Got letter. Moving to London. Will c u maybe. Hope u ok. Amy
Jack gulped down a giant mouthful of Worthington’s before allowing his eyes to rove around the pulsating dance floor. He needed a distraction. Something – someone – to stop him thinking. Jack’s eyes fell on a tall slim man, about thirty years old, nice hair, dark eyes. He’d do.
Jack put his pint down and joined the fray.
Cramming the foot cream and moisturiser back amongst the more familiar clutter of books, tissues, and scraps of paper that adorned her bedside table, it struck Kit that not long ago she’d scorned such additions to her life. Nightly applications of unguents to stave off the evidence of aging were a paranoia reserved exclusively for other people.
Somehow that had changed recently. It was as if, on her last birthday, a trigger had gone off in Kit’s head, and the fear of looking old, rather than being old, had consumed her. Phil had laughed when Kit had bought a pot of Nivea. Not in an unkind way, but in a ‘so you are growing up at last’ sort of way. She knew it had annoyed her far more than it should have done, as she’d sulked in their bedroom, embarrassed at the ownership of something that the rest of the female race had taken for granted since adolescence.
As if having to admit she wasn’t twenty anymore wasn’t bad enough, other aspects of her life seemed to be losing their certainty as well. The twins were growing up way too fast. Although only nine years old (an age which was definitely the new thirteen, in Kit’s opinion), they seemed to need her less and less beyond the functions of taxi-driver, housekeeper, and meal-provider. To top it all, writing her erotica, which had once given her so much pleasure, somehow didn’t feel quite so satisfying these days.
‘I’m not even forty!’ Kit flicked a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes and, slamming the offending lotion away with her socks, pulled open her knickers drawer for consolation. It always made her feel better to see her pile of delicate silk, satin, and lace undies. They felt soft between her fingers as she trailed a hand through the soft fabric. These were also a relatively new innovation for her, but not one that her husband joked about.
Confidence, that was what it was about, and since she had, after five years of moaning and a further two gruelling years of actually trying, lost the weight gained during pregnancy, Kit had rewarded herself by throwing her hated cheap and boring knickers into the dustbin, and built up a pile of lingerie to be proud of. She had to be careful though. For the first time in her life Kit saw how buying clothes could become addictive. This was a new sensation to someone who didn’t give a damn about fashion, and regarded shopping as something inconvenient to be slotted in between coffee breaks.
Kit smiled and closed the drawer, ignoring the glint of a shiny silver vibrator Phil had given her as a present after the publication
of her first smutty story. He’d be up in a minute, and the real thing was always preferable. Or perhaps she should try and get some sleep. After all, she was seeing Jack tomorrow afternoon, and judging by the tone of his voice when he’d called, it sounded as if their inevitable caffeine overload might be accompanied by some pretty heavy conversation.
October 3rd 2006
Fishing around in her kitchen cupboards, Kit produced two school lunchboxes, and began buttering slices of bread before facing the fact that she didn’t have much to put between them.
As she worked, Kit’s brain was abruptly dragged out of its sandwich-preparing stupor by the radio. ‘Let’s Dance’ was oozing out of the speakers. David Bowie’s gravel voice made her skin chill and her heart leap at the same time. It had been so long since she’d heard it. Her mind slipped back to those precious months back in 1994. She was in his old bedroom with him then, dancing in time to the words, and …
‘Mum.’
Helena was staring at Kit with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. ‘Mum, what are you doing? You’ve put milk in your coffee. You hate milk.’
Coming reluctantly back to the present, Kit bit back an expletive, and put on her “Mum is in control” face. ‘Hello love. What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Shreddies please, Mum, I always have Shreddies.’ Helena gave a grown-ups are so stupid shrug, and sat imperiously at the kitchen table expecting full waitress service. ‘And blackcurrant juice!’
Moving around the room, completing her everyday routine, Kit’s brain totally disengaged, as her subconscious carried on dancing.
Three
October 3rd 2006
Kit had begun working from home three years ago. Except she hadn’t, because she couldn’t.
Phil had designated their home’s box-sized bedroom as Kit’s office, brought her a new desk, a laptop, and evicted all the twin’s baby toys, unused curtains, spare duvets and other clutter to the loft, but it was no good. Try as she might, Kit could not take on the persona of her pseudonym, Katrina Island, and think up intricate plot lines and erotic acrobatics in a house she knew needed dusting. So each morning Kit stuffed a notebook into her bag and, after walking the twins to school, headed to her favourite café.
Kit loved Pickwicks. Cluttered with dubious antiques and mismatched furniture, it had shuttered windows and a solid wooden floor that echoed as you walked across it. Classical music played gently in the background. It was the perfect venue in which to avoid real life, and become immersed in her brand of literary progress.
As a regular customer, Kit frequently found that her arrival had been anticipated, and a piping hot cup of black coffee would already be waiting on her usual table before she’d got through the door. Today however, Kit didn’t find her essential caffeine injection awaiting her, but a plotline dying to be exploited.
Her friend Peggy, resident waitress, manager, and dogsbody combined, was leaning so far across the glass cake counter that her head was dangling down over the other side, her feet only just touching the floor. Her shiny black hair had escaped from of its grips and cascaded downwards, obscuring the view of all the mouth-wateringly fattening cakes on offer.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Kit threw her bag down and crossed the room to rescue the sprawled waitress.
‘I was trying to clean the glass and I slipped.’ Peggy, her round face apple-red from the blood that had rushed to it, smiled broadly, adjusting her ample white blouse and black trousers.
‘Oh really?’ Disbelief dripped from Kit’s lips, ‘Why didn’t you go around the front then?’
‘Gets boring doing the same old thing every day,’ said Peggy with a mischievous grin, ‘I fancied a change.’
‘And I don’t suppose that husband of yours is just out of sight, wishing that a customer wasn’t so inconsiderate as to want serving, and thus causing him to quit playing waitress and chef?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Peggy brandished the cake-tongs in Kit’s direction. ‘Danish?’
‘Only after you’ve disinfected the counter, you hussy.’
‘Like you can talk.’ Peggy grabbed her cloth and began to wipe it down.
Childishly sticking out her tongue, Kit sat down at her table. Feeling inexplicably happy, her early morning visit into nostalgia forgotten, she opened her bag, grabbed a pen and began to write; hoping that the strong image in her head wouldn’t disappear before she’d committed it to paper.
… as her mass of black hair swept past the cake display, he pushed her body further across the counter. The last of the customers had gone, and the need he’d felt building all day was almost beyond his usual iron-clad control.
She squealed as her legs left the ground, her weight resting on the narrow counter bar, which was damp with droplets of spilt tea and coffee …
Friends who knew which literary genre Kit wrote for a living could never understand where she got her ideas from. She’d tried to explain that simply by picturing a location she could stimulate the background of a story. Then all she had to do was invent ways to get rid of everyone’s clothes – or not.
When Kit told people what she did for a living, they generally looked at her with a mixture of incomprehension, admiration and, more frequently, amazement. Kit simply didn’t fit their stereotype of the writer of erotica. Happily married with two children, she wore no make-up or scent, never wore skirts (let alone mini ones), had a strong aversion to body piercings, and her shoulder-length bobbed hair remained its natural red.
When people she sensed wouldn’t be able to cope with the knowledge of how she made a living, asked her what she did, Kit always told them that she worked for an Internet company. Hardly anyone ever asked ‘doing what?’ They usually assumed she was doing something dull and low paid to fit in with school hours. As it happened, Kit did work for an Internet company. She’d been writing for Pearls for some time now, but it wasn’t the sort of website she wanted to discuss in the playground.
Checking the clock on the wall, Kit saw she’d been writing steadily for three hours. Satisfied with her initial story draft, she gathered up her belongings, waved goodbye to Peggy and headed off to find Jack.
The moment she arrived Kit spotted Jack at their usual table. His brown leather jacket was thrown across the back of the wooden chair on which he was perched. He didn’t look right somehow. Normally he’d be virtually reclining, a flirty smirk playing across his face as he watched her walk towards him. Today Jack seemed pale and almost twitchy. Kit’s stomach turned over; what if he was ill? It was a possibility, especially in his world. She instantly told herself off for such a stereotypical thought, but a voice still nagged. Something was wrong.
It was a relief to come to her turn in the queue. Paying for a large Americano and two Chelsea buns (it looked as though they might need extra sugar); Kit took up her tray and headed towards Jack.
‘Do you think it’s possible to love someone, love them very much, and still know in your heart that it will never work between you?’ The sentence exploded from Jack’s mouth like bullets from a gun; not even waiting for Kit to take her coat off before blurting out what was on his mind.
‘Bloody hell, Jack! That’s a heavy question for a Monday lunchtime.’
‘Sorry …’ Instantly abashed, Jack seemed almost ashamed.
Too late, Kit realised that in her relief that Jack hadn’t announced he was sick; she had made a huge error in making light of his question. Such soul searching was so out of character that she’d been taken by surprise. He’d probably been building up to asking that all night.
Amazed, Kit watched as Jack stood up, ignoring his drink and cake, grabbed his jacket, and walked out. He’d always had a taste for the dramatic gesture, but this was different. Kit sat where she was, fighting her natural instinct to run after him. Sipping her coffee, she ran his words through her head. Who did he love hopelessly? Maybe he wasn’t referring to himself at all? Kit snorted into her coffee; of course it was about him. It was always about him. P
erhaps he’d fallen for a married man who wouldn’t give up the more traditional part of his life? Or maybe … no, don’t be ridiculous! Kit quashed a treacherous thought. Picking up her phone, she fired off a text.
Come drink ur coffee. I’m sorry, u took me by surprise. K x
Jack’s drink was stone cold by the time Kit had given up on him sending a reply.
Four
October 4th 2006
It was only once she’d checked in at Aberdeen airport, her luggage safely stowed, that Amy finally stopped moving. Slumped on a bench, looking around at the people rushing by, she realised that this was the first time she’d been inactive for weeks.
Once her impulsive decision to go home to England had been made, she’d barely stopped for a break in the haste to work her notice period, sort out the ending of the lease on her rented flat, and arrange somewhere to stay in London. Now that stillness was about to be forced upon her, Amy had to face the reality of what she’d done by throwing in a good job and a nice flat for no job and a rented room in a shared house in London that she’d never even seen.
‘I need coffee,’ she muttered to herself. Hoisting her tatty fabric handbag higher onto her shoulder in a bracing gesture, she headed for the café located next to the departure checkpoint.
Having successfully managed to convey her order to the Chinese-speaking assistant via a mixture of words and what could almost pass for semaphore, Amy sat down on one of the fiendishly uncomfortable steel seats. Ignoring the unsightly build-up of used cups, half-eaten meals and spilt fizzy pop, she briefly allowed herself to contemplate her situation. Almost instantly her nerves regrouped in her gut, and Amy decided to put off any serious thoughts about the future until she was on the plane. That way, any possible temptations to chicken out and stay in Scotland after all would no longer be an option. Major life planning could wait. For now she would just indulge in her drink and watch the world go by. Then she’d have a wander around the meagre collection of shops, and perhaps buy a book or magazine for the flight, putting reality off for a bit longer.