The Happy Hour

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

As he left the bustling cheerfulness of the park behind, bypassing the centre of Greenwich with its beeping horns and narrow pavements in favour of the leafier, quieter streets, Ash didn’t know what to think. Had it been a good idea, meeting up with Jess? Had his original instinct, to miss their coffee date altogether, been the right one?

If he’d been rating his own performance at being an approachable, warm human being, then he would have given himself six out of ten, and that was only because he had a tendency to be generous. What idiot put their hands over the eyes of a woman they’d only met the week before and asked them to recall every aspect of the view? He was lucky she hadn’t walked away, or threatened to put her ex-policeman friend Roger on to him.

It wasn’t fair of him. He’d known that last week when he’d approached her, leaving Roger to take charge of the young guy who’d stolen the watch. He should have just left, not let himself be pulled into her orbit. She’d looked so strong and open, though, and beautiful, with those clear, dark eyes and wavy brown hair to match, and the thought of leaving right then and going where he needed to – with adrenaline still in his veins from chasing the thief, mingling with shame at the way he’d frozen – felt impossible.

So instead he’d gone up to her, spoken to her, found himself laughing, feeling lighter than he had done in a long while. Then she’d surprised him by agreeing to go for coffee, and after they’d sat opposite each other at that intimate table, andshe’d laughed at his pigeon story, which had been almost worth the abject humiliation for the way it had broken through any awkwardness between them, the idea that he could spend more time with her had been too much to resist. They’d hatched another plan – he’d suggested it, even though he couldn’t be the best company right now.

He stepped off the pavement, looking up and then swiftly moving back when a taxi rounded the corner, golden light glowing, offering him an exit. But he couldn’t: he had made promises. He was already an hour late; he couldn’t bail altogether. So he crossed the road and walked up the hill, uneven paving stones beneath his feet, a row of tall trees in full spring foliage shielding the park from view.

His palms felt dusty from the muffin, and beneath that was the usual prickle of sweat he got every time he came here, no matter how much he rationalised with himself.

The white door was unassuming, a brass plaque announcing its name on the brick wall next to the frame, which was surrounded by a climbing rose that, Peggy had told him last week, was due to flower any day. The thought of her small talk and her humour, her way of making everything seem less monumental, was the one thing that made him feel calmer.

He didn’t need to knock, so he just pushed open the door and walked into the airy reception space, with its curved white desk and a slight smell of antiseptic in the air.

He was told to take a seat, that Peggy would be along any moment, so he sat on one of the white leather benches. The magazines splayed out on the glass coffee table were the current editions which, more than anything else, told him this place was expensive; that it had the funds to keep its distractions up-to-date.

He took out his phone, expecting a notification, some indication that he hadn’t invented the last hour. There was a message, but it wasn’t from Jess – they hadn’t even exchanged numbers. It was from Mack, his neighbour:

Supplement missing in today’s paper. That newsagent is getting sloppy. M.

Ash rolled his eyes. He mostly got on with the older man and didn’t begrudge their Sunday mornings, although, if he dropped off the paper and didn’t stay for coffee, he could be with Jess earlier next week – earlier even than midday. Would she be able to get away for longer? What had started as a favour for the man who lived opposite him had become something of a burden, and wasn’t that the story of his life at the moment?

‘Ash Faulkner, as I live and breathe.’

Ash looked up, his smile automatic.

Peggy was, he thought, around the same age as him – late twenties or early thirties – with reddish-gold hair held back in a ponytail, blue eyes, and the air of someone who was born to look after other people. It didn’t say Peggy on her name badge, but that’s how she’d introduced herself, and how he thought of her. The first time they’d met he’d found her concern stifling, but at week four it was a comfort to know that she’d be here, a gatekeeper between him and what he had to face.

‘Peggy.’ He shoved his phone in his pocket. ‘How are you?’

‘Can’t complain with this weather.’ She pulled a stool across and sat opposite him. ‘I’m glad you’re here. After you called earlier, I thought “late” meant you weren’t coming at all.’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘It was tempting, but I... I had something to do. Before this. Thanks for letting me come now.’

She nodded. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, it’s good.’

‘You were seeing Jess again. The woman from last week?’

‘That’s right.’ He couldn’t remember what he’d told Peggy about their coffee, how much of his feelings had spilled out. His thoughts always felt scrambled after leaving here, and last week had been no different.

‘You like her.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I’m going to be here every Sunday for the foreseeable, so it made sense to find some kind of... connection, instead of just drifting about.’ He thought of what Jess had said about him greeting everyone at the market. It was second nature to him – talking to people, finding out the reason behind their stall, how long it had taken them to turn a passion project into a business.

‘And how was it?’ Peggy turned when there were voices down the corridor, then, as if realising they weren’t for her, gave him her full attention.

‘I like being with her,’ he admitted. ‘I was late because I’d convinced myself I shouldn’t see her, then I changed my mind and it was rushed... awkward. She wasn’t happy with me to begin with, understandably. But I don’t know if I should force her to spend time with me right now.’ He gestured to the neat waiting area.

‘You’re forcing her, are you? Snuck some handcuffs out of your pocket? Put a gun to her head? She has no agency in your meetings at all, then?’

‘You know what I mean. I haven’t told her about this.’

‘You’ve known her a week.’ Peggy’s voice was softer. ‘Life stories can come further down the line.’

‘You think it’s OK, then?’ He hadn’t expected her to condone it, and he hadn’t expected to care so much about her opinion. He’d only known her a couple of weeks longer than he’d known Jess.

‘This is a hard time for you,’ Peggy said. ‘Whatever you need to do to get you through, as long as it’s not harmful to you or anyone else, you should do it. I can’t see how a drink in the sunshine can be hurting her, even if it is with you.’ She smiled, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. ‘Do you want a coffee now?’

‘I’d love one,’ Ash said. ‘Thanks, Peggy.’

‘All part of the service.’ She disappeared through a door, leaving him with a copy of Country Life to flick through, the bold headlines reminding him of Jess’s side gig. Could he ask her to make him a print, something related to this situation, to give him the courage that he couldn’t dredge up from anywhere? Before you can embrace the future, you have to face down your past. Or: The hardest journey starts with a single step. That one was a classic, but saying it silently to himself didn’t make him feel any better.

Peggy came back with a porcelain mug, the cappuccino froth visible above the rim. ‘I told John I had a real-life occupational psychologist coming in today,’ she said. John, Ash knew from his first visit, was Peggy’s husband.

‘Did you also tell him that I can barely sort through my own thoughts right now, let alone anyone else’s?’ His smile was wry, but he worried that he’d sounded self-pitying. And he did feel sorry for himself, alongside knowing that he needed to man up and get on with it. ‘Sorry, Peg.’

‘No apology needed.’ She flapped her hand dismissively. ‘John said, and I think you’ll like this, “it’s much easier to make sense of other people’s shit than your own.” That’s pretty much a universal statement, don’t you think?’

Ash laughed. ‘I do. Jess would love it, too.’

‘Would she now?’ Peggy raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you seeing her again, then?’

‘Next Sunday.’ He felt a spark of something pure and bright as he admitted it. It cut through the murkiness he’d been drowning in since stepping through the white door. ‘We’re going to have another hour together.’

‘Another hour,’ Peggy mused. ‘Must be serious, then.’

‘It feels good,’ Ash said simply.

Peggy looked at him, and the dread started to creep in. The mug felt unsafe in his sweaty grip. ‘Are you going in, then?’ she asked gently.

‘In a minute.’ His voice came out gravelly. It was the fourth week, and so far he hadn’t made it beyond reception, despite psyching himself up. Last week he’d told himself it was because of what had happened with Braden and Roger, Jess and the stolen watch. This week, he had zero excuses.

‘Take your time.’ Peggy patted his knee, then got up. ‘You have all the time in the world.’ She told him she’d be back, then walked away down the corridor.

Ash stayed seated, clutching his mug like a lifeline, the heat of the coffee spreading through the porcelain and into his hands. The problem was, they both knew that he didn’t have all the time in the world. In fact, he didn’t think he had much time at all, and every moment he sat here was another moment that slipped away, where he wasn’t facing down his past or embracing his future. He was stuck in limbo, dealing with absolutely nothing at all.