A bell chimes softly as you enter the coffee shop on Kingsland Road. On the wall hangs a sign you've seen countless times before—a dancing bean that says 'Welcome to the Happy Bean.'
The girl with dreadlocks behind the counter smiles at you. 'Heya! Flat white for you?' she asks, already preparing the coffee.
'Cheers, Kate.' You walk to your regular table, next to the window.
You open your laptop and start checking your emails. There's one from the garage, one about a book Liz needs to return to the library, and one from your new client. You open the last one and sigh. Complaints about the latest implementation, something about things being discussed otherwise. Clients are the worst, you think; they'll say one thing one day and completely forget it the next. It's Monday morning, and you already feel exhausted.
Your iPhone rings. It's Liz.
'Hey love,' you say overly cheerful.
'Where are you?' She sounds nervous.
'What's wrong?'
'I'm fine. Where are you?'
'At the coffee shop.'
'Which one?'
You flick your nails, mildly annoyed. 'You know which one.' After sixteen years, you still have an appropriate level of affection for her, but her increasing surveillance is suffocating you.
'Please, honey, just tell me.'
'The one on Kingsland Road, the uhm... with that silly logo.'
'The Happy Bean?'
'Exactly.'
There's a short pause before she says, 'Are you coming with me later?'
You feel something inside you firmly stepping away from this idea. 'I've got work to do.'
'He's still your father...'
'Well, he doesn't know that anymore.' Anger at him for being an absent father and at yourself for being a resentful child collide, cancelling each other out and leaving you with nothing.
'This isn’t his fault. It’s this dreadful-'
'Sorry, but I can't,' you interrupt her, annoyed about her call, about reminding you. You don't care if it's his fault or not; you can't stand to see him. Not right now. 'I'll see you later, okay?'
You say goodbye and, as you lay your phone on the table, you see a missed call below the bold white time display stating 8:47. A second later, a message from your voicemail appears. As you call it, there's nothing to hear. You shake your head and try to focus on your work.
You jump as Kate suddenly appears in front of you.
'Sorry, didn't mean to spook you. Here you go.'
'No worries, I'm a bit distracted today,' you say and position the flat white next to your phone.
Kate vanishes, and you open your project files. Absent-mindedly, you reach for your cup. You grimace as cold, bitter coffee mixed with claggy milk fills your mouth. You get up and walk to the counter.
'Could I get a new one, please? This one's gone cold.'
A confused look slips into Kate's eyes, but she immediately gets to it while you wait. There's the soft chime as two blokes enter the coffee shop. They look to be in their mid-thirties. A good age, you remember fondly. Your forties are much more disenchanting.
'That makes seven pounds in total,' Kate says as she puts the flat white on the counter.
'Come on, Kate, are you serious? I've to pay for both?' Back in your day, customer service still meant something, and not for the first time, you wish you could live in the past again.
'I'm so sorry, but I can't give you a free coffee if you don't drink yours in time.'
'What do you mean 'in time'? You just brought it.'
'Uhm,' Kate starts chewing her lip, indicating the clock on the wall behind her. 'Actually, that was two hours ago...'
You blink hard, staring at the clock. The hands are both standing a hair short of 11. You shake your head, apologise to her, pay, and grab your coffee. On the way back to your table, you rack your brain about how you could have gotten so engrossed in your work that you didn’t notice the time running away. You also wonder if she might have fiddled with the clock to make you pay for her shoddy work.
At your table, you check your phone. The display says 10:56, which clears Kate but not your troubled mind. And there's another missed call from the same strange number. As you call your voicemail, again nothing. You decide to get annoyed, which is better than the undercurrent of anxiety the calls are inciting in you.
The place is nearly empty, but the men decide to take the table right next to you. Twats, you think, as they get into a boisterous discussion about films. Maybe you should let work rest for today and get home. But then, Liz would want you to come with her to visit your dad. You are pondering taking a stroll in Haggerston Park—watching the donkeys always calms your nerves—when a new email pops up in your inbox. The subject line informs you it's about your recent test results.
Your heart rate kicks up, your palms get sweaty. Your senses merge with each other as the words you read on the screen intertwine with the words you hear drifting over from the neighbouring table:...never seen such an awesome film...trying to reach you about the genetic screenings...need to check the reviews for neurological findings...you kidding me? Hugh Jackman will discuss this in person at your earliest convenience...
You start to feel sick. You slam your laptop shut, and the blokes glance at you as you swiftly stand up and march to the loo. As you pass the counter, the girl behind it catches your gaze and there’s a flicker of unease in her eyes. Or is it concern? You falter in your steps, bewildered about why this stranger is looking at you like that. Then she smiles, and it's the open smile you recognise, the pretty face framed by dark dreadlocks. Kate. You return her smile awkwardly and continue walking, distressed and deeply confused.
Your heart is pounding in your chest as you reach the toilet, the sickening feeling in your stomach is propelling you into one of the cubicles. After you’ve emptied yourself you stumble to the sink, splashing your face with cold water. You find your reflection in the mirror above the sink, pale skin, sunken cheeks. You can see your dad in the weary lines of your face. With each passing day you become more and more like him, in every godforsaken way. Hopelessness is weighing you down, you have to hold on to the sink to keep yourself upright.
A single drop is running down your cheek. You avert your gaze from the mirror and wipe it away.
