The 24-Hour Café

by Libby Page

  In either case, I wish you all the best. You have been dealt a hand that would not be wished on anyone, and unfortunately only time can start to heal your pain. I hope that time will bring you peace, new horizons, and a fantastic and well-earned job as an engineer.

  Yours in friendship,

  A crossword-loving insomniac

  Dan reads the note twice, only realising at the end of the second reading that he is crying. Tears stream down his face and drip onto the fabric of his green hoody. He cries from shock, for the kindness of a stranger, and he cries for his mum.

  Trying to stifle his tears, Dan slips the money and the note inside the envelope and reaches down for his rucksack. For a few moments he digs around inside, searching for something right at the bottom. Eventually he finds it, and out from a pile of clothes and books he pulls a large glass jar. The jar is filled with coins – coppers and silvers and golden pound coins, some dull, some glinting in the glare of the café lights. A pair of socks is rolled up on top, Dan’s solution to prevent the jar from rattling too much. It is heavy and just looking at the jar his shoulders give a twinge of pain. On the front of the jar is a label. In neat handwriting that he will forever remember as his mother’s are the words, ‘Orient Express’.

  Dan carefully opens the jar, removes the socks and places the envelope with the cash inside.

  Since his mum died, he has resisted spending the money in there. Even when he has skipped meals and desperately scrolled through the contacts list on his phone, thinking who might let him stay with them, the Orient Express jar has remained stuffed at the bottom of his backpack. But as he neatly stows it back in his bag he makes a decision. His mum would want him to use it. He will find a hostel – he has enough for a few nights, maybe even a few weeks. Tomorrow he will push through his pride and go to the students’ union at his university. He will tell them about his situation and he will ask them if they can help. And as he makes the decision and realises that he needs help and is ready to ask for it, he starts to cry even harder.

  ‘Oh!’ comes a voice, and he looks up. Through his tears he spots the dark-haired waitress again, moving quickly towards him across the café. When she reaches him, without pausing she bends down and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says the waitress, and even though she doesn’t know him, and he knows that it isn’t OK, not really, not yet, he lets himself be hugged.

  After a while the waitress pulls back and stands up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly, ‘I know that probably wasn’t very professional. I just can’t stand seeing people cry.’

  Dan wipes his face and tries a weak smile, shaking his head in an attempt to tell her that he didn’t mind – that he was grateful for it. She watches him for a moment as he tries to compose himself.

  ‘Do you really hate crosswords that much?’ she says.

  And despite it all, Dan laughs.

  11.00 p.m.

  Mona

  Once the boy in the green hoody has stopped crying, he orders pancakes with bacon and maple syrup and a side of chocolate cake. Mona occasionally glances over, checking on him. She had wanted to ask why he was crying, but despite the tears he seemed like he was OK, or as though he was going to be. She watches as he uses the last bite of pancake to mop up the last drop of maple syrup before moving on to the chocolate cake. She doesn’t know his story, but she feels pleased that the café is here for him and she was at least able to bring him cakes, despite the fact it is the last hour of her shift and she feels exhausted.

  Her mind is a tangle of thoughts. Snippets of her argument with Hannah replay in her mind. She pictures Jaheim standing in the café and Sofia and Aleksander supporting her as she asked him to leave. She thinks of Stella, who used to be a dancer but kept her past a secret for all these years. She thinks of Poppy in Paris and of Hannah at home in their flat, perhaps asleep, perhaps waiting up to speak to her. She pictures her thirtieth birthday that she spent eating beans on toast alone.

  The table of Scandinavian women ask Mona to take a photograph of them all, and she holds an iPhone for them and tells the women to move a little closer so they will all fit in the frame. Mona learns that it is one of the women’s fortieth birthday and as she has always wanted to visit London they have come over, from Sweden, it turns out, for a long weekend. On the back of their receipt Mona writes down a few places she thinks they should visit. Borough Market, Harrods just for the food court, Battersea Park, Portobello Road, Little Venice. She points them in the direction of Shoreditch, where they are continuing their evening, and they leave her a large tip which she slips into her apron pocket.

  The man in the dress and his companion have left now too, linking arms and laughing at a joke that only they know. In the booth a couple who arrived earlier are finishing their drinks, a red-haired woman wiping a splash of coffee with a folded napkin. A strand of hair falls in front of her face and the man sat next to her reaches and tucks it back behind her ear.

  In the windows, Mona can see the interior of the café reflected in the glass. The red telephone box, the pictures, the lampshade, and above them all the face of Ernest the bear who watches over everything, regardless of the time of day or day of the week. Mona adjusts her eyes and looks out at the street. The pavements are busy, people crossing from the station towards the café before they will turn away down a side street towards Brick Lane or continue walking down the main road towards Shoreditch and its many bars and nightclubs. Three young women in a similar uniform of jeans, heeled boots and leather jackets in varying shades link arms and share a laugh as they pass by the window. A cyclist tears past, whizzing through a red light. A bus pauses as it waits for the lights to change, and Mona can see inside to the passengers on the lower deck, some standing, some sitting and looking at phones, ears covered with headphones. One young woman, a baby strapped in a carrier to her chest, is staring intently out the window. Mona catches her eye, smiles, and then the bus pulls away. The movement returns Mona to the café, which is now completely empty, the couple and the young man in the green hoody having left, cash tucked beneath a mug and a plate on their tables.

  Deserted, the café looks strange and sad. Empty seats wait for customers in need of caffeine to perk them up, comfort food to make them nostalgic and somewhere warm to sit with a friend and pass gossip like salt and pepper across the table. The coffee machine stands silent, tables and chairs reflected in its surface. Aleksander is quiet and Mona realises she will miss the sound of him talking to himself in the kitchen. She will miss Pablo and the photos of Rosa that he shares with such pride. She will miss Stella, whom she feels like she has only just come to really understand. She will miss the customers that walk in at all times of the day and night carrying stories like heavy bags on their shoulders. She will miss the view from the café window and the city that spreads around it, its twists and turns impossible to fully master, but that all the same has become her home.

  Alone in the café, Mona finally returns to Sofia’s question, this time truly confronting it. In two weeks she will be leaving London for Paris, but as well as leaving her flat and this job, will she also be leaving her friendship? For a moment she puts aside the unhappy memories and all the times Hannah has hurt her over the past year. Instead, she asks herself the question that Sofia posed to her a few hours ago. If she thinks back over her friendship with Hannah, is there enough of the good stuff? Is there enough to hold on to?

  Suddenly, Mona’s mind is filled with memories from their friendship.

  The day Mona moved into the house in Bounds Green, and how Hannah spent hours helping her unpack, ordering them both a takeaway when they realised it had got late and they were too tired to cook. Evenings spent watching films together in one of their rooms. The time they found out that their housemate Lily had been keeping her illness a secret for so long, and the fact that Hannah and Mona both took some small com
fort in the fact they knew they would always look after each other. Hannah in the audience at every dance show Mona has ever performed in since they met. Hannah might be late for everything else and may have kept Mona waiting in restaurants and bars many times over the years, but she has never once been late to one of Mona’s performances. The Christmas that Mona spent with Hannah and Hannah’s parents when she couldn’t afford flights to Argentina and when her mother was spending the holidays catching some sun in Australia with her boyfriend. A home-made stocking from Hannah’s mother, despite the fact Mona was twenty-seven at the time, and tickets to an upcoming dance show that she had been wanting to go to but couldn’t quite afford, from Hannah (who, she admitted, had saved her tips for months to be able to buy them). Hannah leaving work early because Mona had locked herself out of the flat, arriving with her key and a smile instead of annoyance. The time Hannah washed her hair when Mona was sick and missed out on their planned trip to Paris to take care of her. The hospital trip for Mona’s sprained ankle, where Hannah carried her to A & E. The fact that Hannah often buys flowers and leaves them in a vase in Mona’s room for no reason. Hannah’s arm around her shoulders on one of the rare occasions when Mona has let herself cry after a phone conversation with one of her parents, frustrated and pained by their broken relationship. Hannah’s unwavering belief in her – the many, many times she has told Mona that she is absolutely certain that Mona is going to make it. The messages Hannah often sends her with links to silly YouTube videos and photos that are simply intended to make Mona laugh. The hundreds and hundreds of times that Hannah has made Mona smile and laugh so hard she cries.

  In the café, the sound of a new song comes through the speakers. It is ‘Tutti Frutti’, the song that always gets Hannah and Mona dancing together, however tired they feel, whatever else is going on in their lives.

  Mona suddenly decides that when she gets home she will talk to Hannah and try and work things out. Because in the emptiness of the café the words of their earlier argument seem to fade, the pain she has carried for months dulling just enough for her to want to hear Hannah’s familiar voice. The hurt is not gone, and she knows that there is still so much to talk about, so much to try and fix. She needs to tell Hannah about the pain she has caused and show her the marks that her actions have left. But she finds that she wants to at least try to fix things. Because Hannah might have hurt her, but over the past five years she has also made her laugh, and smile, and helped her when she felt lost and looked after her when she felt sick. There might have been bad bits, but there was also so much good. Mona thinks about leaving for Paris and how much she will miss about London, and realises that she will also miss her imperfect, at times careless but at times kind and wonderful friend. She looks up at the clock, watching as the minutes tick past, bringing her closer to the end of her shift when she can return to the flat and try to speak to Hannah. In the same thought she wills the clock to turn faster and also wishes it to slow down, not knowing yet what she will say to Hannah and what her friend will say to her in return.

  One year later

  12.00 a.m.

  Hannah

  As she approaches Stella’s, it surprises and relieves her how little it has changed. She spots the glowing light as soon as she steps out of Liverpool Street station, the bright windows standing out from the dark shop fronts along most of the rest of the street. She waits at the pedestrian crossing, caught up in a crowd of people who look dressed for a night out. A man holds tightly onto the lamp post, singing a song that Hannah cannot make out through the slur of his words. The lights change and Hannah walks across, breaking free from the noisy group as they continue down the main street and she veers off towards the café.

  For a moment she stands outside the window, looking inside at the room she knows so well. Although there are only a few customers, it is relatively busy for this time of night, and she feels pleased. The black and white linoleum looks a little worn but is still clean and bright. She notices that the tables have been rearranged slightly and she tries to remember exactly what the old layout was like but can’t. She decides she likes it like this – the café seems less crowded somehow, but still cosy. The lampshade has been reupholstered but the pictures on the walls are the same. And there is Ernest, still watching over things, still wearing his top hat. She takes a breath and pushes open the door.

  The young man at the counter looks up.

  ‘Hi!’ he says. He has sandy blond hair and green eyes and wears a polo shirt and jeans, a black and red apron tied round his waist.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he says in a soft voice. The voice seems familiar, as do his bright green eyes. She frowns slightly, trying to place him, but she can’t.

  ‘I’ll have a cappuccino,’ she says, and, finding she is surprisingly hungry and knowing she is in the one place where to be hungry at midnight is OK, she adds, ‘And some pancakes with berries please.’

  Looking around, she spots a table in the corner, where she will have a good view of the rest of the café.

  ‘I’ll bring it over,’ says the waiter as she makes her way to the table.

  Once seated, she looks around at the other customers. At one of the booths sit two familiar-looking young men, coffee mugs in front of them, their hands held tightly across the table. In the middle of the café are a man and a woman who look dressed up for the night, the man in a navy shirt and black jeans, the woman in a red dress, blonde hair that looks recently highlighted resting in neat curls on her shoulders. Their cheeks are flushed and they smile at each other as they talk in low tones, leaning closely together. At a table by the window sits a man in his sixties, drinking a cup of coffee alone.

  ‘Here we go,’ says the waiter, placing the cappuccino on the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, reaching for the mug and wrapping her hands around its warmth.

  The waiter looks at her for a moment, as though about to say something, but then nods and turns away.

  It feels strange for Hannah to be a customer. She quit nearly a year ago now, not long after Mona left. Thinking back to that time she remembers Jaheim for a moment and is surprised and relieved to realise it has been a long time since she last thought of him. The thought enters her mind for a second but then drifts away again like a scrap of litter carried on the wind down the street and disappearing out of sight.

  She notices a splash of milk on the table and wipes it carefully with a napkin. Then she leans back in her chair, takes a sip from her coffee, and waits.

  Joe and Haziq

  They hold hands across the table, their coffees growing cold beside them.

  ‘A year ago today,’ says Haziq with a smile. They are both dressed smartly, Haziq in a white shirt and black jeans, Joe in pale blue and chinos. They have been out for dinner in one of their favourite restaurants but decided to end their evening with coffee here.

  ‘A year ago today,’ repeats Joe. He squeezes Haziq’s hand and Haziq squeezes back.

  The engagement had been more complicated than they had expected. Despite proposing, Haziq had been forced to return to Indonesia anyway. It was several months before he was granted a visa to return. For both of them, the separation had been even harder than they’d imagined. Since becoming engaged, the need to be together had grown even stronger and each of them slept curled up on ‘their’ side of the bed, thousands of miles apart but still making room for each other. A month after saying goodbye at Heathrow airport they met in Portugal, renting a whitewashed house for a week where the sun blazed outside but they barely left the shade of their room. At the end of the holiday, saying goodbye for a second time had been painful, especially as they still weren’t sure when Haziq would be able to return.

  But eventually the paperwork had arrived. They will be married in three weeks, in Stoke Newington Town Hall with a reception at the pub opposite afterwards. The hall and the pub are a ten-minute walk from the flat they now share together, gr
ey pinstripe sheets on their bed, a mustard yellow beanbag in their living room and plants on every spare surface. Haziq’s parents won’t be there at the wedding, but Joe’s will. Joe’s mother will walk Haziq down the aisle to marry her son.

  Joe withdraws his hand for a moment and looks down at his coffee cup.

  ‘It’s getting close now,’ he says.

  ‘It is,’ replies Haziq.

  Joe stares intently at the dregs of coffee coated to the bottom of the cup. Despite the music in the background the café suddenly seems quiet as all the things Joe wants to say buzz in his head. He talks quickly before he can change his mind.

  ‘I just wanted to check you’re absolutely sure this is what you want,’ he says, ‘I mean, I know we’ve done all the paperwork and we’ve booked everything, but I want to know that you don’t think I forced you into this. That you’re still absolutely sure this is what you want.’

  With all his strength, Joe forces himself to look up. His eyes meet Haziq’s and as he looks at him he feels that same rush he felt when he first met him years ago. In Haziq’s dark eyes he sees the sacrifices they have both made to get to this point. He sees a life woven together despite the odds and the life that he hopes lies ahead of them.

  Haziq reaches out a hand and places it on Joe’s cheek.

  ‘It’s what I want,’ he says firmly, his fingers soft against Joe’s face, ‘You, Joe Walsh, are what I want.’

  And he leans forwards and kisses his fiancé firmly on the mouth.

  Dan

  He knew immediately that the woman at the table in the corner was one of the old waitresses. She is hard to miss, with her bright red hair that nearly reaches her waist. She sits alone, drinking her cappuccino and glancing up at the door every now and then. Perhaps he will say something later, he thinks, or perhaps he will leave her to her thoughts.