The Happy Hour

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

What are you killing time until, then?’ Jess asked, once they had found a table in her chosen café, The Tea Chest, albeit a tiny one crammed into the back corner, away from the glare of the windows. There was a tomato-shaped ketchup bottle on the scuffed wood next to a plastic cutlery holder, a pink sparkly pen with a fluffy top nestled alongside the knives and forks. The chatter of voices and clink of crockery was loud over the background hum of a radio playing chart songs. When Ash didn’t answer, she leaned forward, ready to repeat the question.

‘Just a thing I have to get to,’ he said, his eyes shifting to take in the rest of the café. ‘This place is great, even if we’ve been relegated to the naughty corner. Your local?’

‘One of them,’ Jess said. ‘I’m spoilt for choice, working in Greenwich.’

‘Those food stalls.’ Ash shook his head. ‘If I worked here I’d be eating constantly, picking something different each time, hiding food under the counter when customers came in.’

‘You’re not far off the truth,’ Jess said. Her favourite was Kirsty Connor’s Moreish Muffins, which offered a large range of sweet and savoury treats, something for every occasion and mood. She would have saved a lot more money by now without the temptation of Moreish Muffins so close by. ‘This might be my favourite coffee, though.’

Ash’s long fingers wrapped around the plain white porcelain of his mug. ‘It’s good.’

‘I like that it has a lot of crema,’ Jess added. ‘It’s not too thin.’

‘Slight butterscotch taste.’ Ash closed his eyes. ‘A hint of smoke.’ He hummed, and Jess’s stomach flipped even as she laughed.

‘A coffee connoisseur, I see. Glad you approve of my café choice.’ She waited for him to open his eyes, then added, ‘So your thing you’re going to. Is it for work? Do you work on Sundays too?’

‘No,’ Ash said. ‘I’m mostly a nine-to-five guy. Not as blond as Dolly Parton, though.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up in the front. ‘I work for a bank.’

‘Oh?’ That surprised her. ‘A bank teller, processing cheques for people who still use them – do they even exist any more? Or are you a City Fat Cat?’

‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I’m not actually a banker. I’m an occupational psychologist, working in the City.’ He plucked a teaspoon out of the cutlery stand and stirred his coffee.

‘That sounds fancy. What does it involve?’

He looked up from his stirring. ‘Being an investment banker is a stressful, high-powered job, so I’m there to help with that. To ensure their working conditions are top-notch, and to try and get them to make sense of the volumes of money they’re dealing with, and the responsibility that comes with it.’

‘You’re the person on the payroll the CEO can point to and say he’s making sure his staff don’t turn into greedy, selfish wankers?’ She had meant it as a joke, mostly, but it sounded harsh spoken out loud.

Ash’s lips kicked up at the side, but she couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or displeasure. ‘I’m not a box-ticking exercise,’ he said gently. ‘And I do think I actually help people, sometimes. The industry hasn’t got a good reputation, andsome of them are, undoubtedly, awful people, but there are some really good people, too. And that’s the same everywhere, hey? Not everyone who works at the market will be a saint. You’ve probably got fraudsters, embezzlers, serial killers.’ He picked up the fluffy pink pen. ‘Whoever owned this, for example. They’re clearly unhinged.’

‘Hey,’ Jess said, laughing, ‘I like that pen. And I don’tlike the idea that I’m surrounded by serial killers every day.’

‘There are no serial killers,’ Ash said. ‘Probably.’

Jess shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘For calling your colleagues wankers. It’s easy to be judgemental when all you’ve heard is the stories in the press. I don’t know anyone who works in the City.’

‘I get it.’ He sipped his coffee and sat back in his chair. He’d taken off his jacket, and was wearing a forest-green, long-sleeved T-shirt, three tiny buttons dancing down his sternum. ‘And you do, now.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You know me,’ he said. ‘In the City.’

‘I have known you for twenty minutes,’ Jess pointed out. ‘And I bet you’re not the same there. Strutting about in a suit inside your glass-walled office, asking people about their moral compass. Do you have a clipboard? I bet you don’t wear a red felt hat.’

She was gratified when he laughed, her inner panic fading. She so often managed to say the wrong thing, and was relieved he hadn’t held it against her.

‘It’s better than not asking,’ he said. ‘Letting them get away with not thinking about it. Maybe wearing an elaborate hat would help them put things in perspective?’

‘Perhaps one with a pigeon on it,’ Jess said.

Ash’s brows drew together.

‘Didn’t you see them?’ she went on. ‘Olga has these hats with felt pigeons on the brim. They’re like something out of Mary Poppins. I’ve never seen anyone buy one, but she insists they’re her most popular design.’

Ash shuddered. ‘It would bring back too many bad memories.’

‘Why? Were you the bird woman in an am-dram production of Mary Poppins?’

‘No.’ Ash did a good job of looking affronted. ‘Are you a fan?’

‘Of Mary Poppins? I like the kite-flying scene best. What’s this with you and pigeons?’

Ash sighed. ‘One landed on my head once, during an interview.’

Jess thought she’d misheard. ‘What did? A pigeon?’

‘Yup.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘It was just after my degree. I was going for a role at a college, and they were giving me a tour of the site. I was talking to these two intimidating interviewers and then I just... I felt it land on my head. It made that cooing noise, and I—’

‘Oh my God!’ Jess laughed. ‘You shook it off?’

‘No.’ Ash’s smile was wry. ‘I moved my head slightly and it held on tight. I could feel it scratching my scalp, so I just – I stood there.’

‘You stood there,’ Jess repeated. ‘With a pigeon on your head. Still answering questions? What did your interviewers do?’

‘They stared at me as if I’d sprouted wings, which I suppose I had.’

‘It – I...’ She couldn’t say anything else.

‘I was sure it was going to shit on my head. Can you imagine? “How did your interview go, Ash?” “Oh, it was fine, other than a bird literally did a shit on my head. I was a bird toilet.”’ A laugh sputtered out of him. ‘Not my finest moment.’

‘You can’t end it there!’ Jess squealed. ‘What happened? How did you get rid of it? Did you even get the job?’ A couple of people at the next table turned at her raised voice. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘You have to tell me.’

‘Glad you came for coffee with me now?’ He raised an eyebrow, then sighed. ‘A minute after it landed, the pigeon took off again and my tour resumed. My inquisitioners didn’t mention it and, unsurprisingly, I was less focused after that. They didn’t offer me the job, and I had to Dettol my head because the pigeon’s claws had broken the skin.’

‘The pigeon wasn’t your fault,’ Jess said solemnly. ‘And I would have definitely mentioned it. I would have said, “Hey, Ash, did you know there’s a fucking pigeon on your head?”’ She dissolved into laughter again. ‘I can picture you, standing there...’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Wearing this pigeon as a hat. I’m going to get you one of Olga’s hats. A fond memento.’

‘The pigeon interview.’ He sighed again, then his smile broke through. ‘It’s a reminder that, however bad things get, they’re very rarely as humiliating as that afternoon.’

Jess grinned at him, and the silence held between them, their shaded corner of the café suddenly a soft, intimate space. Ash was absent-mindedly twirling the fluffy pen, and the strong coffee was bitter and satisfying on Jess’s tongue. It seemed unbelievable that she was here, with this man, and that he’d told her such an embarrassing story after only minutes of knowing her. She couldn’t imagine admitting something like that to anyone, not even her best friend Lola. His openness felt like a special, rare thing.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘In Greenwich Park, the pigeons are so used to being fed they’ll land on your hand without any encouragement. Head too, I’m sure, though I can’t remember seeing it. If the students at this college had been feeding the pigeons, then maybe it wasn’t that unusual.’

‘You realise you’re making it worse?’ Ash said. ‘After all that, you’re suggesting I wasn’t even special? That I was just one of many resting posts the pigeon had?’

Jess held her mug in front of her smile. ‘Of course you were chosen specifically.’

Ash narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Are the pigeons like that all over the park?’

Jess sat up straighter. ‘So you’re not from Greenwich, then? I mean, none of this is local to you?’

He shook his head. ‘I live in Holborn.’

‘You just come here for your... thing. Every Sunday.’

‘Right.’ He sighed the word, then glanced at his wrist. His watch was classic, with a white, analogue face, a gold case on a brown leather strap. Some of the lightness left his eyes. ‘I’ll need to go soon.’

‘Sure,’ Jess said. ‘Do you want me to... walk you?’ It sounded ridiculous. Old-fashioned and entirely unnecessary.

Ash squinted at her, his lips kicking up at the corner. ‘I’ll be OK, but thank you. Next week, I was thinking we could go to the park, but not if I’m at risk of another pigeon ambush.’

‘Next week?’ Jess almost squeaked the words. ‘You want to do this again?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I mean...’

‘I have coffee with my neighbour, Mack, first thing every Sunday. I get his paper from the local shop, then he keeps me captive for at least an hour, and by the time I get down here—’

‘From Holborn,’ Jess added.

‘Right. I get the Clipper, usually. If Mack has got one of his lunch dates – which he takes an inordinate amount of time to get ready for, considering he’s had seventy-five years to perfect his look – then I’m released a bit early, so I take the scenic route.’

The Thames Clippers were the London Transport boats that deposited people between Barking and Putney, and sailed tourists and commuters past some of London’s riverside landmarks, including the Cutty Sark – another clipper that hadn’t felt water against its hull for seventy years, which was stationed only feet from where Jess and Ash were now.

‘But you’ll still have time before your appointment?’ she asked.

‘An hour. I like to make it down here with an hour to spare.’

‘And it’s every Sunday?’

‘At the moment.’

Jess felt the twin sparks of intrigue and frustration. ‘And you really want to meet up again?’

He held her gaze, his grey eyes suddenly sombre, contrasting with his smile. ‘I have time to kill, you don’t take enough breaks. I figure we could help each other out.’

‘Help each other by spending time together?’

Ash laughed. ‘It could work, couldn’t it? This hasn’t been too much of a disaster, I don’t think.’ He sounded nervous, and Jess’s incredulity made way for something softer.

‘It’s been fun,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’m never going to forget your pigeon story as long as I live.’

His smile widened. ‘Good. Great. So, I’ll come and find you, then? No Vase Like Home.’ He pronounced it in an American accent, so that Wendy’s ill-advised pun worked, and Jess knew she’d have to tell her boss about him. ‘I’ll get to yours for midday, and we can spend an hour together.’

‘For coffee?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, frowning. ‘Maybe something else. I’ll think about it.’

‘I can’t wait.’ She had meant to be flippant, a bit sarcastic, but it just sounded eager. She drained the dregs of her coffee, and when she’d put her mug down, Ash held out his hand.

Jess stared at it. She wasn’t sure if he was helping her up, or asking for her empty mug. She reached over and, before she could spend any more time analysing it, grasped his hand. It was warm, his fingers wrapping easily around hers, but he looked surprised too, as if he hadn’t expected her to take it, or he hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Her hand was tingling, a mini-shockwave, and she wondered if it was the same for him.

Jess stood up, and for a moment they stayed linked together. Then she dropped her hand, and Ash went to put the pink fluffy pen back in the cutlery stand.

He paused. ‘Do you want this?’

Jess thought of her tiny, neat desk in the flat she shared with the landlord, Terence. The workstation where she created her Etsy prints, the pen pot with the colourful sharpies that she used for the handwritten notes she included with each order. The pen would match the overly fluffy Yeti cushions she had on her bed. But. But.

‘You think I’m unhinged?’ she asked him.

Ash grinned. ‘I don’t know, yet. Definitely no more than me.’

‘The real owner might come back for it.’

‘Good point.’ He put it in the cutlery stand. ‘After you.’

Jess wove through the tables and pushed open the café door, stepping out into the sunshine, Ash close behind her. They stood on the pavement facing each other, even though it was narrow and busy, and she heard at least one person make a pointed comment about people being aware of what’s around them.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Next Sunday.’

‘Next Sunday,’ Ash repeated. ‘Midday at No Vase Like Home.’

She nodded. ‘Thanks for coffee.’

‘You’re welcome.’ His hand hovered for a second, then he squeezed her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of her dress. ‘Thanks for agreeing to it.’

‘I hardly ever turn down coffee,’ she said, then winced. ‘I didn’t mean that – that I only agreed because—’

‘I know,’ Ash said gently. Another glance at his watch, and he clenched his jaw. ‘I need to go.’

‘OK.’ Jess wouldn’t ask again where he was going. He might tell her next week, anyway. Next week. She had agreed to this stranger absorbing another hour of her time with hardly any protest, with so few questions to herself about whether it was a good idea. ‘See you Sunday.’

‘I’m already looking forward to it.’ He gave her a final smile, and she watched him weave through the crowd for a moment, then turned in the direction of the market, hunching slightly against the wind. She wasn’t quite sure what had happened. She didn’t accept coffee with strangers; she had more than enough people in her life to be going on with. But Ash Faulkner, good citizen, pigeon magnet and all-round charmer, had woven some kind of spell around her, and now she knew how much bigger his hand was than hers because, for a few tingling seconds, she’d had it wrapped around her own. Already, she knew she wouldn’t mind it happening again.