‘You’ve changed, Lauren.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No,’ said Rob. ‘You’ve changed.’
Lauren turned to the café’s window to follow those striding towards Liverpool Street station, shifting forms amidst the framed intensity of the city’s lights. Another working day completed. Gone. Friday. Week one, 2024.
‘It’s something,’ he said as two customers loped in, the door left to slam shut behind them.
‘The crowd you mean?’
‘About you. By the way, my hair, Lauren.’
‘Today?’
‘Lunchtime. Taper.’
‘So you’ve changed, too.’
‘Not what I had in mind.’
‘You need to make it clear what you, yourself, want. From the outset.’
‘Young Irish guy – he pointed to a mounted photograph to the left of his mirror, a front page of some fashion magazine. There he was, photoshopped obviously, brandishing his scissors.’
‘I fear for him.’ Lauren played with the bitterness of the coffee in her mouth.
‘The way he angled my head. It wasn’t where I wanted my head to be. Lauren, listen to me.’
‘We’re doing well what with paying attention to each other. We sit here at times and hardly converse at all. But, hey, we shouldn’t give ourselves a hard time about it. You’re tired. I’m tired.’
Rob looked at his coffee. ‘This tastes different, somehow or other.’
A young girl in school uniform, smart maroon blazer, maroon short socks, entered. She stood by the door carrying a Tesco bag and looked around, holding back her tangled, fair hair with her free hand. Most tables were occupied. She squinted, thin-lipped in the direction of the counter, closed her eyes, said something or other, sighed and stomped out.
‘I’m committed, Rob. You need to know that. We all have our little worries. They enter; they exit…’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘…the moments of unease. Arthur? Put him down? Is that your worry right now? I’ve checked out costs. It’s more for a cremation with the option of having the remains returned in a special wooden box.’
‘I meant I have things…’
‘My father. He doesn’t know who I am, not always, not anymore. Doctor Harrison sent me a message last weekend, eventually. She suggested I take in photos, say one of me as a child, another in my teens, something recent, wear familiar clothes, the same perfume. Tomorrow, I’m going to do all of that. Your sister? Is she actually moving out of your place or what?’
‘Our place. Amy’s and mine. That’s the point.’
‘But you pay for everything.’
‘No date fixed, not as yet.’
‘My rent contract – it runs out in five weeks. The money we’d save.’ He’d have to let her open the windows more: the bedroom, the kitchen. She had to have air, breathe.
‘Lauren, are you paying attention? Like right now? I have things to think about, too.’
‘Of course.’ She could have helped that girl in the school clothes, at the very least asked if she needed any help.
‘Decisions at work. Far-reaching. Progressively.’
‘Best team leader they’ve had, so I hear. Tianna, one of your graphic designers?’ They sat there silent for a few minutes, strangely so, phones untouched. ‘Tianna Gomes? That’s what she told me at that pub evening.’
‘I know who Tianna Gomes is. I don’t know how to snap you out of this.’
‘Snap?’
‘The negativity.’
‘Negativity?’ She instantly regretted the repetitions, shut one eye tight and turned her head to one side, so much so she felt a twinge in her neck. ‘Say that again, please. Did I hear you right?’
‘I won’t have it – not in the workplace, in my team. Muffin? Blueberry muffin – fancy one?’
‘I’m ok.’
‘You want to keep doing this?’ he asked.
‘All of it?’
‘Coming here after work.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Same café, every day.’
‘It’s somewhere. Where’s Ken? Not seen him around.’
‘Ken?’
Lauren sighed. ‘Ken who normally makes your Americanos, week in week out.’
‘It was someone new today, a woman. Thus the different taste, a touch acrid maybe.’
‘He wasn’t here yesterday either. Ken’s always here. I’m going to ask. Check he’s all right.’
‘Finished your coffee? Want another?’
Rob shook his head.
Lauren smiled at the new barista. ‘Hi, is Ken around? Ken?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Back soon, maybe never. Not been told. He returns, I’ll be gone.’
Lauren glanced at the Sanremo Zoe machine, its red panels so shiny. She had a sudden yearning to stroke it, the shape of it. Ken kept it alive: the hissing and whistling, the tapping, locking the portafilter. Rob was texting as she returned to the table. ‘I think Ken’s left,’ she said.
The new woman came up to their table, clearly agitated. ‘A young girl, did she come in here – in uniform – then go away? Twenty minutes ago, more? Her phone is off. It’s never off. I don’t know where she can be.’
‘Yes,’ said Lauren. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘Maroon …’
‘Together we will find her, very soon. She may well have confused this café with one further down.’
‘We’ll check out all the cafés, find out if they’ve seen her – if so, when.’
‘My daughter: Agata, Agata Nowak.’
‘I’ll tell the manager what’s happening. I’m Lauren.’
‘Lena.’
They found her – Lauren found her – in a newsagent on the far side of the street. The young girl collapsed into her mother’s arms. Lauren reached forward to save them from falling.
‘Lauren,’ said Lena. ‘Thank you, thank so much.’ Lauren looked into Agata’s wet eyes and smiled and Agata smiled back and Lauren felt weightless, standing alone, essential, vital.
Rob hadn’t moved from the table. Maybe his messages back and forth were of importance. Lauren left him where he was.
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