Novel In Progress...

Q - Part 1

The clear knock of wood on wood cut through the noise, and silence took hold of the room. I became aware of hundreds of pairs of eyes set upon me; some filled with pity, others cold and accusing, but I was indifferent to what they thought of me. I’d committed the crime, that wasn’t under any scrutiny, and as I held the gaze of Cleo’s mother I felt no shame in telling the truth.

It’s strange really, to think that this whole debacle arose from one piece of paper found in a girl’s room. A plain piece of white A5, no doodles or patterns, just ten lines scribbled in black Bic on a dull morning in May. If Cleo had stopped to think before slotting it inside her book as her mother walked into her bedroom, perhaps she may have remembered to take it with her when she left the house. But then, she had no idea that she would not be returning to complete the eleventh line of writing after her usual coffee at 3pm.

I’ll always remember the first time she came in. Bang on 3pm, the little bell above the door had tinkled as it did each time a customer entered. I had been clock watching; a habit I had started slipping into during the quiet periods at work, when the business men were back walking the streets with their briefcases, and the students returned to their lessons. It was a Monday, the rest of my week looming in a predictable cloud above my head, so it was nice to see someone looking so fiercely alive. She wasn’t overly attractive; she had mid-length brown hair, skinny lips and a slender figure; but her eyes were much bigger than average, to such an extent that I looked away at first, as it felt like I was violating her in some way, as though I was being given access to too much of her for a first meeting. She cleared her throat with a subtle cough, and I realised I had probably left her waiting a bit too long.

“What can I get you?” I said, moving my gaze back onto her.

“Just a regular coffee please. Black, no sugar.”

“Any sandwiches, cakes or biscuits?”

“No thanks, just the coffee’s fine.” She gave a small smile. Despite being in retail, I hated having to try and force things onto people, as the answer was invariably no.

“Quiet in here, isn’t it?” she said, blowing steam off the coffee I had set down on the counter. “I thought quirky-looking cafés down side streets were always busy?”

“It’s the mid-afternoon lull.” I took the crisp twenty pound note from the purse she offered me.

“Besides, I think they tend to be the cafés where they sell mocha lattes with caramel sauce and cupcakes with glittery icing. The most adventurous thing we do here is probably putting whipped cream on top of the hot chocolate.”

“Your carrot cake looks pretty good though,” she offered, clearly feeling sorry for my lack of custom.

“It’s Betty Crocker.” I shrugged and went to clean up the coffee machine.