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CHAPTER ONE
Carly
Coffee Republic is packed to the rafters. For a split-second, I stall by the entrance doors, drawing the shop’s familiar air into my lungs. My head’s telling me to turn back, that it’s too crowded, that I’ll never find a free table, but I’m a slave to my routine. Plus it’s a Tuesday, and Tuesdays are always busy, especially at lunchtime in Central London. Forcing my feet to move, I enter the shop and shed the ice from my limbs like an unwanted coat. Delicious smells tease my nostrils: fresh bread, newly ground coffee.
It feels so good to be out of the cold.
Cheerfully, I approach the long serving counter and nod to the waitress. She flashes a warm smile.
“Hello, darling,” I say. “A blueberry muffin—”
“… and a large white coffee in a takeout cup,” she finishes.
We both laugh.
It’s an old joke between us. I come here every day for lunch, and every day I ask for the same thing. By now, this lady knows my order like the back of her hand.
“Okay, one coffee and a blueberry muffin coming up.” She picks up a tong from the counter and moves toward the glass pastry case. My mouth waters as I watch her place the muffin on a plate. I imagine biting into it, the sponge soft and crumbly on my lips. I’m supposed to be on a diet, but I simply can’t resist a sweet treat every now and then.
“Do you have your loyalty card with you?” she asks.
“Oh, yes.” I fumble through my pockets. “Mustn’t forget that.”
I flip open my wallet and slide the loyalty card across the counter. She brands it with the company logo and hands it back to me.
“Thanks.” I’m now just two stamps away from a free beverage.
She turns away and begins drawing water from the coffee machine. I scan the shop for somewhere to sit. Finding a seat in this place is always a nightmare, but eventually, I spy a free table.
Hastily, I pay for my stuff and carry my tray through swathes of bodies to stake my claim before anyone else does. Once seated, I unbutton my coat and cast a critical eye over my surroundings. I see an old man arguing with his wife; two mums with their children, discussing life; a dark-haired student tapping away on his laptop. I am surrounded by people, yet for some reason I feel strangely cut off from everything.
I take a sip of my coffee and wince.Hot, hot, hot. Cringing, I put down the cup and glance at myKermit the Frogwristwatch.
One twenty-five.
Jesus, I still have thirty minutes to kill.
Tucking my hands under my elbows, I gaze out the window with a bemused expression. Fog as grey as slushy snow clings to Charlotte Street, and all of the buildings look as if they’ve been filtered through frosted glass. Even for early November, the weather’s pretty grim. It’s been like this all week: fog so thick you can barely see more than a few feet in front of you. Even so, I love the West End in winter. Charlotte Street is just a stone’s throw from the bright lights of Soho,London's buzzing theatre district, and a mere five minutes from Oxford Street. Perfect if you fancy a spot of retail therapy after work (which I nearly always do).
Moistening my lips, I reach inside my bag and pull out a little compact mirror. I grimace at my reflection. Somehow, I’ve managed to get lipstick on my teeth (again), and my short, blonde hair is completely windswept. Goddammit, I look so washed out.
I really need to start going to bed earlier.
Closing the mirror, I peruse my bag in search of my phone. Obsessively, I study the battered handset like it’s some sort of holy icon. To everyone else, it’s nothing but a scuffed old Nokia, but to me it’s a time capsule, a gift to be cherished.
For five years, I’ve nursed a broken heart. For five long years, I’ve studiously avoided an upgrade from the phone company and sacrificed all the perks of modern technology in the process. Old as this phone is, I can never part with it because it contains messages from Andrew, my ex-boyfriend. Sweet nothings. Little love notes. With painful tenderness, I scroll through his five-year-old messages, each word a dagger to my heart:Morning angel, how R U today? I miss U so much. Remember I love you.
Liar, liar, liar.
Loosening a great breath, I put the phone away and tell myself to fix up and get a grip. I switch on my iPod and listen to “A Whole New World” from Disney’sAladdin. Bathed in a symphony of enchantment, I imagine myself as Princess Jasmine, flying on a magic carpet through Agrabah—lost in a world of make-believe, so far removed from my reality. Most of the music on my iPod is from my childhood: songs from 80s movies and Disney films. Whenever I’m down, I find solace in the memories these soundtracks invoke. They take me back to a more innocent time, a time before the harsh realities of adulthood descended.
I peer down at my thirty-six-year-old hands and wonder where my life has gone. When did I stop being a child? When had the safety net been pulled so cruelly from under me? I ponder the speediness of our lives; how fast the months now seem to fly by. When I was a kid, I swear the days were longer than this, the summer holidays never-ending. If only time stood still. If only I could freeze this moment in a snow globe and stay forever in the present, with no past or future to worry about.
TheAladdinsoundtrack comes to an end and fades into “Colours of the Wind” fromPocahontas. I blink a couple of times, realising I’ve been daydreaming for ages. Panicking, I check my watch and see that lunch ended five minutes ago. Hurriedly, I wolf down the rest of my muffin, take a few sips of coffee and make a swift exit.
As Istep into the street, aharsh breeze stings my cheeks and I shiver despite my many layers of clothing. It’s bitingly cold and I curse myself for leaving my gloves at home. Glancing left and right, I wait for the traffic lights to change, then scurry across the street toward my workplace. Based overfive floors of a white Georgianbuilding, Midas Media is a prestigious design company whose diverse client base includes the BBC and other prominent, multi-national organisations. I’ve worked there as receptionist for almost ten years and despite it not being my dream job, I’ve grown quite attached to it.
At first, it had just started out as something to do, a stopgap between temping jobs before I embarked on what my mother called a ‘proper’ career. After leaving university, I’d initially toyed with the idea of working with children, maybe become a teaching assistant or something, but somehow this never happened and I ended up spending most of my twenties behind a reception desk. Not that I mind. Working gives me a reason to wake up in the mornings, and as far as jobs go, I could do a lot worse. Despite my cheerful exterior, I’ve always been a self-contained sort of person, happy in my own company, so being a receptionist suits me just fine. I mean sure, most mornings I’m constantly buzzing people in and out of the building, saying hi and handing out passes, but in the afternoon, there are great periods of solitude that I cherish. Periods that allow me time alone with my thoughts. I’m sociable enough when I want to be, but sometimes I just need silence.
