‘Meet me at Gloria’s for coffee and comfort food. Please I’m begging you,’ she writes back, and without even thinking twice, I pull on my jacket, scarf and boots and make my way to my favourite little corner café where I know I’ll instantly feel better as the memories of happy times gone by wrap around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket on this bitter cold day.
Gloria’s has always been my safe haven. It’s where I used to run with my problems when my dad needed a break from teenage girls and hormones and I’d go there for some warmth and comfort, always knowing he’d be here when I’d get back with some unconditional love. Just remembering those days is enough to set me off again. This has got to stop. I need to move on.
Molly Flowers
Molly Flowers hadn’t had a drink in three days.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want a drink, it was that she simply couldn’t afford a bottle of wine this week and every time she thought of how she was going to find the money for some Christmas shopping she felt a lump in her throat the size of a tennis ball and had to remind herself to breathe before a panic attack set in and ruined everyone’s day again.
It was happening so many times since Jack’s redundancy, but what did she expect when she was carrying all this worry on her shoulders and Jack didn’t seem to get the big picture, believing that some big magic puff of luck would descend on them like a lottery win (he spent almost ten quid a week on tickets) or that his mum or dad would miraculously wire them through enough to get a turkey and some Santa treats for Marcus, who, at just two years old, thankfully didn’t know the difference?
She stared into her back garden which was covered in a blanket of snow and watched a robin search for titbits on the bird table until he gave up and flew away. Molly wished that she could fly away too. Somewhere away from all this pressure and pretending, far from financial strain and struggling to make ends meet.
No, no she didn’t wish that at all. How could she even let such a thought cross her mind? She had a great husband – he was just going through a rough patch but he’d find another job soon. He said he would. She had a healthy son, something to be hugely thankful for. She enjoyed her job at the beauty salon, even if she felt like an alien to the younger girls who had no kids and no responsibilities and who lived for the weekend where they’d go partying with their latest squeeze, a world away from her life with bills and a mortgage that was like a noose around her neck.
They all looked up to Molly. ‘Hashtag, relationship goals,’ they’d say, referring to her marriage to Jack and gorgeous baby Marcus. If only they knew how much she was feeling like such an imposter inside.
Today, her day off, was Christmas party time at the mother and toddler morning, but she couldn’t face all that smiling and false pretence to the other mummies that everything was fine. That she was just as excited about Christmas in her house as they were and that, like them, she had nothing else to worry about other than what they might wear to the Christmas party or what little Johnny was getting from Santa.
Poor Marcus. She lifted her toddler boy and snuggled into the safety of his soft, pudgy skin and downy hair, holding him so closely and wishing that things would change soon.
‘Next year will be better, I promise you, baby,’ she said to him. His baby teeth smiled back at her, oblivious to the pain and worry that was engulfing her every move these days. Jack would be back from his morning walk soon and would be hungry again. She’d try to talk to him about her fears but he’d change the subject as he always did, and she’d go to the bathroom like she always did and cry it out behind closed doors until Marcus needed her attention again and she’d promise herself that things were going to change very soon. They had to. They just had to.
At least the wine numbed the pain, even if it only did so temporarily. She knew it wasn’t good for her and that it certainly wasn’t a solution, but when you’ve no one else to talk to or turn to, Molly couldn’t think of what else she could do to get her through the day.
Ruth
Nora is already sitting in my favourite snug at Gloria’s Café, the one with the deep-purple, crushed velvet sofa by the window with its street view, and waiting on me is a steaming mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, just perfect for this cold, miserable weather. I take off my gloves and rub my hands together to try and defrost.
‘Hey, Ruth,’ says Michael, the new head waiter and I raise my hand in a hello to him, where he stands behind a puff of steam at the counter. I can just about make out a shy smile from beneath his navy baseball cap. Michael may not say much, but I know that Gloria trusts him deeply as she rents out the apartment above the café to him and when she talks about him she positively glows. Gloria adores all her staff, come to think of it, and she loves to give people a chance. There’s Suzi, the law student from New York who is wiping down tables and who also shouts her greeting as does Gloria’s husband, Richard, as he kisses her cheek before racing out the door, back to his office now that he’s fed and watered.
Old Archie, the former postman, stares out the window over what might be his fourth cup of tea of the morning, Bertie the barrister and his charming wife Majella are discussing what to order in the far corner and a few other familiar faces sit around in bunches, discussing the news of the day or barely speaking at all and just scrolling through smartphones or typing on their laptops.
The mood of the café is as homely as ever, but even cosier than usual with the hundreds of twinkling fairy lights around the ceiling and bushy Christmas trees, decorated in pinks and purples, that glow in every possible spare space. A few men and women sit scattered around one of the larger tables, chatting across to each other, and a young mum with a baby on her hip joins in on a conversation which I overhear is based on whether Gloria’s famous hotpot is better than her new, freshly baked gingerbread men. There’s a sense of warmth about this place that is almost tangible, and everyone who comes here, no matter from what corner of the city – or further beyond – will always feel like they belong.
One of the revellers catches me looking and they do a double-take and then whisper to each other.
‘That’s her from the newspaper,’ one says to the other. ‘You know, the girl who solves the problems.’
‘Is it? Are you sure?’
‘It looks like her. Ask her.’
‘It’s definitely her. Dare you to ask for a selfie!’ says another.
They indulge in their playful banter and I bow my head, feeling totally undeserving of their attention, and then snuggle into the familiarity of the velvet-cushioned booth by the window, across from Nora who looks a bit like death warmed up in her fingerless gloves and beanie hat.
‘When will I ever learn, Ruth?’ she whispers to me. Her pale face and dark eyes look pathetic even in the warm glow of the café and I shake my head. ‘I got home at 2.00 a.m. and my Phil went bananas. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what to order for you to drink so I just got some hot chocolate, is that okay? I don’t even know if you like hot chocolate. I don’t know anything today.’
‘It’s perfect, thank you,’ I tell her. ‘I love hot chocolate, especially when it’s snowing. Who doesn’t?’
Nora rubs her forehead. The stress of her marriage problems is starting to take its toll but I don’t want to push her to say any more about it than she wants to.
‘I’m so sorry for being such a wuss last night and avoiding the night out that we’d planned,’ I tell her, trying to divert her from her own misery.