Pulling up outside Coffee and Cake, I can’t help asking myself the same thing.
Katherine and Natalya are at our usual table when I enter, their appearances at odds with the overly floral decor.
Katherine is a tweed-jacket wearing ex-economics lecturer in her mid-fifties. Sporting wild grey hair and carrying dreams of writing the next great love story, she’s spent her life trying to hone her craft amidst work and family responsibilities. With a string of rejections behind her, it hasn’t been easy, but when her husband Eddie passed away in March last year, Katherine left her job to chase her dream.
A twenty-year-old goth, Natalya’s heavily studded outfits make her stand out in the pared-back simplicity of Bramblethorpe, although I quickly learned that standing out is not something Natalya is comfortable with. She has a habit of hiding behind a curtain of long black hair, but nothing about her should be hidden. She is beautiful inside and out, and very talented. It will only be a matter of time before we’re attending the launch of her debut.
As I move towards our table, I catch the eye of the café owner, Margie. She must have been eligible for retirement twenty years ago, but Margie’s always here. She’s also the most inappropriate person I’ve ever met. The first time I spoke to her, she asked if I had children. When I said no, her response was, ‘Tick tock.’
‘The usual?’ Margie calls, holding a teapot in the air.
‘Please,’ I reply, before taking a seat. ‘Sorry I’m late. I would say there was heavy traffic, but you’d know that was a lie.’
‘You never know, Gerald’s sheep could have blocked the road again,’ Katherine jokes.
Laughing, I slip my coat from my shoulders. ‘How are you both?’
‘I’ve been better,’ Katherine admits.
‘Because of the rejection?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I reply.
Katherine offers me a sad, acknowledging smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘What was the reason this time?’ Natalya asks, oblivious to how the phrasethis timemakes Katherine bristle.
‘Apparently, my idea isn’t strong enough to sustain a novel. That old chestnut. I’ve now had over four hundred rejections, can you believe it?’ Shaking her head, Katherine grips her coffee cup. ‘I hate being made to feel so useless. Eddie’s not here, yet I’m still failing him.’
‘You’re not failing him!’ Natalya cries. ‘You’ve done what you set out to do. You’ve written books! So what if a publisher doesn’t want them? Do you know how many people say they want to write but never do? You’ve done more than most. You don’t need external validation to prove that.’
Natalya’s speech shines with passion, but the look on Katherine’s face says, actually, she does need the validation.
A beat rings out in the conversation, one I know I should fill. As the only published writer here, my words carry a weight that I’m not always comfortable with. But life has taught me better than to make empty promises, and the world of publishing is notoriously unfair. I don’t want to be the one to say that sometimes, some dreams are just for dreaming.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, standing abruptly. ‘I need the bathroom.’
Katherine’s eyes bore into me as I leave the table. She expected better from me, I know that without looking at her. I expected better from myself, too, but it’s like there’s a block inside me, preventing me from being the supportive person I once was.
In the bathroom, I splash my face with water, only now noticing the sleep crusting my eyes. Once upon a time, I’d have been mortified at leaving the house looking like this.
Gripping the sink, I glare at my reflection. ‘Come on,’ I hiss. ‘Do better.’
Commanding myself to be present, I plaster on a smile and push my body away from the sink.
When I re-enter the café, I plan to go back to the table, but a tall, imposing man enters Coffee and Cake. The fraught, frazzled energy he radiates stops me in my tracks.
I don’t need to hear him speak to know that what happens next will change everything.
CHAPTER 2
My focus glues itself to the man as he goes straight to Margie. The tension he rattles with seems at odds with the smart clothes he wears. I imagine usually, he walks into a room and commands it with his aura alone. Now, the only thing filling the air is his nerves.
‘Margie, can I have a word?’ he says. His voice is stripped so bare by raw emotion that my skin prickles.
Glancing up from the coffee machine, Margie nods. ‘What’s wrong?’