One Small Mistake(2)
Please, please be gone.
Relief washes through me like sunlight; he isn’t here.
‘If you’re going to disappear, you could at least give me a heads-up first,’ says Hannah with barely contained hostility. ‘It’s been really busy out here.’
It hasn’t. It never is during the strange limbo that falls between the weekday lunch rush and closing time. There are only a few occupied tables: an older gentleman, George, who always sits by the window doing the crossword; a gaggle of mothers bouncing babies on their knees and gossiping over skinny lattes; a college student plugged into her laptop, fingers flying across her keyboard.
‘Yeah,’ I say, making a show of scanning the mostly empty coffee shop. ‘Manic.’
The bell above the door rings. It’s Richard. Great. I busy myself, cleaning out the coffee grinder. He makes his way around the counter and, as usual, he stands too close – I can smell his cheap aftershave – but he’s my boss so it’s awkward to remind him of personal space. I glance up. ‘Everything okay, Richard?’
‘You’re switching shifts with Hannah tomorrow. You’re on an early.’
‘But I’m on a late tonight, and I’ve opened and closed every day this week.’
He shrugs. ‘Hannah needs to study for an exam.’
I glance at Hannah who is de-crumbing the muffin display and pretending not to eavesdrop on this exchange. ‘It’s summer. She doesn’t have any exams.’
As he helps himself to a lemonade from the fridge, I catch a glimpse of the sweat patches around his armpits. ‘Well, she’s got studying to do and she asked very nicely.’
I bet she did. Studying? It’s student night at Fleets and I’d put this week’s wages on her wanting to come in late tomorrow so she can go out and drink her body weight in tequila tonight. If Richard realises, he doesn’t care.
‘Fine,’ I say because I’m not going to win this – not unless I’m willing to flirt for it, but one look at his lip sweat and I know I can’t.
The gaggle of mothers depart and I clear their table. God, working here is like being stuck in an unrelenting Groundhog Day of serving coffee, wiping down tables, and loading the dishwasher. If Darcy offers a book deal, it’ll have been worth it.
As I pass Richard, he says, ‘You’re a stunner, Elodie, you should smile more often.’
I bite back the ‘I do, just not at you’ and beam because that’s what nice girls who want to keep their jobs have to do.
He and Hannah flirt back and forth for the next half an hour and only a few minutes after Richard slopes off, Hannah says, ‘I’m going on a break.’
When I’m sure she’s gone, I sneak a biscotti from the display and wander over to George. He’s nursing a cup of coffee and working on his crossword. Before he retired, he was a cobbler, but now he spends his afternoons at the same window table, pencil in hand. Deftly, I slide the liberated biscotti beside his mug. He looks up, blue eyes twinkling. ‘You’ll get in trouble,’ he warns.
I grin. ‘Only if you tell.’
George is our kindest, most loyal customer, and, despite being a pensioner fast approaching eighty, he always leaves a tip. He glances down at his puzzle. ‘Do you know a ten-letter word for a sense of impending misfortune?’
I pause, seeing the letters take shape in my mind. ‘Foreboding.’
He nods slowly, exchanging his pencil for his biro and carefully writing the letters in his shaky script.
‘George,’ I coo, ‘you’re being bold – you know you can’t erase biro.’
He smiles, unwrapping the biscotti and breaking it in half. ‘You’re my partner in crime.’ He hands me a piece. ‘I trust you implicitly.’
I lock up by myself. It’s still light out, but I do it quickly anyway, wanting to go for a run around the park before dark. As I turn to leave, I get the feeling I’m being watched; despite the heat, icy prickles drip down my spine. When I turn around, my stomach drops. It’s him. He’s barely fifty yards away, wearing the same dark jacket and jeans. The sun reflects off his glasses, making him look inhuman.
We’re the last coffee shop to close and the street is empty. My heart hammers. He starts walking towards me and for a second, I’m frozen, rooted to the pavement as though I were built into it. His stride is determined, purposeful, and the reality that I’m alone with a man who weighs twice as much as me propels me into action. I start walking in the opposite direction, glad I changed into my trainers before leaving.
I live a fifteen-minute walk from town. Usually I cut through Memorial Gardens, but I veer off, taking the long way back across residential streets. He’s still behind me. I can feel it.
Up ahead, a group of people wander slowly down the street on the opposite side. I cross the road, hoping if I stay close to other pedestrians, he’ll back off. Once I’m through the group, I do a quick check over my shoulder and it’s worked – he’s dropped back a little. I dig around in my bag and pull out my phone and house keys. Pinching my key between two fingers, I’m poised to use it as a weapon if needed. My phone is gripped tightly in my other hand. Maybe I should call someone. Like Jack. Or the police. But what would I say? This man hasn’t hurt me. Can I get in trouble for wasting police time? I won’t call. Once I get home, once I reach my front door, I’ll be fine.