‘Old people aren’t forced to talk about rising prices,’ I said. ‘There’s the weather too, and baseball, don’t forget.’
‘Not sure I know you well enough to have a conversation about somethin’ as serious as baseball,’ said the man. I smiled over at him. He reached a bony hand across, squeezed my shoulder. I put my hand on top of his and sighed.
Looking back out to sea, I wondered. Where did I go? The day Mr and Mrs Delaney married, I disappeared. But where to? Did he hide me behind his ear like a silver coin in a cheap magic trick you show your cousin? Or maybe I was banished to his back trouser pocket, folded up somewhere in the hoard of expense receipts for black cabs and Japanese restaurants in Soho. All I know is for seven years I checked out. My body repossessed by his new wife. And now they were dead. And I had my life back. But even in death, his steel grip strangled.
The old man was right.
What good was a life you were too afraid to live?
It was 11:50pm, ten minutes till closing, and I was sweeping the diner floor when the bell hanging over the doorway chimed. I sighed, propped the broom up against the counter and turned to see him: Jack Faber. It was raining outside and he was soaked. Breathing heavy. Staring hard.
I stared straight back at him. At this time of night there was no escape. No diversion. No distraction. Besides Lucia, who was out back clearing the mess Bernie had made during his shift on the grill earlier that day, the place was deserted.
‘Can I…help you, sir?’ I heard a waver in my voice I tried hard to correct. Under no circumstances must he guess he’d been in my thoughts for a considerable chunk of the day.
‘Yes.’ He took a couple of steps towards me, casting a long shadow across the shiny lino. ‘You can call me Jack rather than sir.’
‘Alright.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Can I help you, Jack?’
‘I think…I need some coffee.’ He shuffled closer.
‘Take a seat. I’ll bring some over.’ I gestured to a table but he disregarded this and sat in the same stool he’d taken at the counter the previous morning. I glared at him behind his back. Why was he making this so difficult? He was going to force another conversation even though I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested. I walked over to the coffee machine, pushed at the thin, black frames on my glasses, nudging them a little further up the bridge of my nose, poured his drink and delivered it as quick as possible.
My plan was to hide out in the kitchen with Lucia until he got bored and went home but as I was setting down the cup his hand brushed against the back of mine. This time, to my surprise, I didn’t recoil like the other day. Like every other time anyone who might be considered an eligible boyfriend came within reach. Instead, I looked down at our hands sitting on the counter, just an inch apart. His fingers drew nearer and touched the tips of mine. Keeping my hand still, neither accepting nor spurning his advance, I looked back up at him.
With the exception of my friend Ryan back in England, who didn’t really count, the actor was the first man to touch me in two years. I’d forgotten what it felt like: the spark that shoots through your body when someone you want makes it clear they want you back. His touch was softer than the last I’d known. A warm dream rather than the clinical stranglehold I’d learnt to pretend to adore.
‘That’s enough,’ I said, snatching back my hand, trying to work out if that was longing surging through me, or panic. He eyed me for a moment, taking in the effect he’d had on me. I took a pointed step backward.
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ he asked with a noticeable slur.
‘Are you drunk?’ I looked harder at him and tilted my head to one side.
‘Pffft,’ he almost snorted. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘The stench of whiskey is a bit of a clue.’
At this, his eyes fell to the counter. He sat up straighter in his chair and ran a hand through his hair which was still damp from the rain.
‘I might have had one or two glasses with a friend. But drunk? Of course not.’ He gave me an oversized smile in an attempt to make a joke of the fact that he was somewhat squiffy.
‘Is that the truth or are you just acting sober?’
He smiled. ‘Oh, so you know who I am now?’
‘Not remotely –’ I leant back on the work surface behind me, crossing my arms ‘– but my colleagues tell me you are some form of minor celebrity.’
‘Minor?’ The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed them.
‘Yep. Minor.’ If I was borderline obnoxious to him for long enough maybe he’d take the hint and give up this unwelcome plight to get to know me. He sat there with his mouth half-open. Groping for his next words.
‘Well, your colleagues are an informative bunch. Especially Mona. When I came in this morning she told me you were working later tonight.’
‘Did she? How helpful of her.’ I made a mental note to spend a good ten minutes giving Mona my Death Look the following morning. ‘Well, she further informed me you’re starring in some sappy-sounding movie about a girl with amnesia.’
‘It’s not sappy. It’s a very heartfelt script.’ He paused to stir a fifth consecutive sugar packet into his coffee. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me that romance isn’t your favourite genre.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah. You seem a touch too level-headed for that.’ He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.
‘I see. Any other dazzling insights? I mean, please, therapy is expensive over here so do go on.’
‘You pretend to be angrier than you really are.’ He pointed a playful finger as he spoke but I wasn’t to be drawn. Turning to the shelves behind me, I started stacking side plates.
‘Well, sorry you get that impression but you don’t know a thing about me.’ I could feel his eyes permeating, even with my back turned. The idea of him looking my body up and down should’ve made me shrivel. But instead, something stirred. An unusual twinge. Desire, simmering just beneath the skin.
‘Maybe that’s true but I’m a fast learner. And you never answered my question, by the way.’
‘Which one?’ I turned to face him. ‘You seem to be full of them.’
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ As he repeated his question the kitchen door creaked open ajar. Lucia had heard his voice from out back and was now, no doubt, enjoying the show.
‘No. It’s impossible for strangers to offend me. Their behaviour has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, wondering yet again what had caused the weird, wall-punching episode.
‘Strangers?’
‘Yeah. Strangers. People who don’t know you. At all.’
‘Well, I must’ve done something. Didn’t see you being so icy with Walt.’ He leant forward as he spoke.
‘Icy?’
‘Icy.’ He took a confident mouthful of coffee, clearly elated that he’d struck a nerve.
‘Do you wish to make a complaint about the service, sir? I can pass your number onto my boss in the morning?’ His eyes darted up and down as he looked at me. Was that aggravation or attraction?
‘Are you asking for my number?’ He leaned forward even further than before and looked,