Another Cup of Coffee
Read Another Cup of Coffee Online
Authors: Jenny Kane
ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE
Jenny Kane
Thirteen years ago Amy Crane ran away from everyone and everything she knew, ending up in an unfamiliar city with no obvious past and no idea of her future. Now, though, that past has just arrived on her doorstep, in the shape of an old music cassette that Amy hasn't seen since she was at university.
Digging out her long-neglected Walkman, Amy listens to the lyrics that soundtracked her student days. As long-buried memories are wrenched from the places in her mind where she's kept them safely locked away for over a decade, Amy is suddenly tired of hiding.
It's time to confront everything about her life. Time to find all the friends she left behind in England, when her heart got broken and the life she was building for herself got completely shattered. Time to make sense of all the feelings she's been bottling up for all this time.
And most of all, it's time to discover
why
Jack has sent her tape back to her now, after all these yearsâ¦
With her mantra,
New job, New home
,
New life,
playing on a continuous loop in her head, Amy gears herself up with yet another a bucket-sized cup of coffee, as she goes forth to lay the ghost of first love to rest ...
Acknowledgements
This novel is dedicated to Steve, with love.
Special thanks must go to KD Grace, Lucy Felthouse, Hazel Cushion, and all my friends in the world of erotic writing, who have been as supportive as ever while I've been dipping my toe into the contemporary romance genre.
To Greg Rees for his wonderful editorial support, to Anneke for her proofreading skills and encouragement, and to Debs for her frequently proffered cups of coffee.
A big hug must also go to Alan, Dave, Bec, Bren and Pete â just for being who they are.
Finally, thanks to Sue and Dave, the regulars at the Madhatter Tearoom, and the staff of my local Costa. Without you, your coffee, and your happy banter, there would be no words.
Jenny Kane, 2013
Contents
JULY
In which Amy Crane finally finds out whyâ¦
One
July 2006
Shrugging off her khaki jacket, Amy bent to pick up the pile of post that lay waiting on her doormat. As her hand reached to retrieve the small brown package half-buried beneath some junk mail, Amy froze. She knew that handwriting. She also had a funny feeling that she knew what was going to be inside.
But why return it now, after all these years?
The poorly-wrapped parcel broke open as her fingers fumbled at the sticky tape, and a music cassette fell into her hands. The cover was unmarked, just as it had been when he'd taken it from her. Amy stared, disbelieving, the blood draining from her already pale face. She remembered recording at least two tracks onto it herself. Maybe there were more now.
Amy's brother had given her the blank tape as she'd been climbing into their parents' car, about to be driven away to start her new life as a student. âTo record your musical memories along the way,' he'd said with a grin. Back then Amy had had every intention to fill her gift with each musical memory associated with her student life, but the reality of actually living through those experiences had left her with little time to record more than a couple of tracks.
Flustered, Amy shook the torn packaging in her hunt for a note of explanation. A small white envelope fell to the floor. Jack's familiar spidery scrawl stretched across its front.
Dearest Amy. Please listen to the tape BEFORE you open this. The letter will explain afterwards. J x
With a feeling that she was outside of what was happening, detached, as if she was a spectre floating above herself, Amy walked into her tiny living room and put the tape down on her coffee table, as gingerly as if it was an unexploded bomb.
What was on it now?
She knew she couldn't avoid this unexpected intrusion for long â but, on the other hand, a brief delay in order to clear her head suddenly felt essential.
Taking refuge in the kitchen, Amy placed her palms firmly onto the cool, tiled work surface, and took a couple of deep yet shaky breaths. Forcing her brain to slip back into action, she retrieved a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured a large glassful and, squaring her shoulders, carried it through to the living room.
Perching on the edge of her sofa, her throat dry, Amy stared suspiciously at the tape for a second, before daring to pick it up and click open its stiff plastic box. Two minutes later, her hands still shaking, she closed it again with a sharp bang, and drank some wine. It took a further five minutes to gather the courage to re-open the case and place the tape into the dusty cassette compartment of her ancient stereo system. It must have been years since she'd seen a cassette, she thought, let alone listened to one. She wasn't even sure the stereo still worked â¦
Swallowing another great gulp of alcohol, Amy closed her eyes and pressed
Play
, not at all sure she wanted to take this trip back in time â¦
The sheer busy-ness and bustle of the place had hit Amy instantly. Being brought up by parents with a serious café habit, the energy buzzing around the student coffee shop had felt both newly exhilarating and yet comfortably familiar. She'd instantly enjoyed walking anonymously through the crowds with her plastic mug and a soggy salad roll.
Sitting in the coffee shop one day during the second week of her first term as a student archaeologist, Amy noticed two lads, whom she'd seen in her Prehistory lecture only ten minutes before, struggling to find seats. Surprising herself by inviting them to share her wobbly plastic table, Amy recalled how she'd been even more surprised when they'd accepted her offer.
With that one uncharacteristically impulsive gesture, Amy had met Paul and Rob. Those cups of strong black coffee in the overcrowded student café were only the first of many coffee stops they shared over the next three years ...
The first track, which Amy remembered recording herself, was only halfway through, but her wine glass was already empty. With closed eyes Amy thought of them now. Rob was married with three small children. Paul was travelling the world, his archaeological trowel still in hand. Both were miles away. Their friendships remained, but were rather neglected on her side, she thought sadly. The sigh which escaped Amy's lips was a resigned one, as the sound of Bryan Adams' âSummer of â69' continued to fill the room.
Amy sighed again, but couldn't help the hint of a smile as she remembered how the student coffee shop had only appeared to own one CD, which it had played monotonously on a continuous loop. It had quickly become traditional for Amy, Paul, and Rob to time their departure to the sound of Adams' belting out the last lines of his song.
As track one of her tape died away, and the second began, Amy realised she'd been holding her breath. Expelling air slowly as the first notes hit her ears, Amy's racing pulse was calmed by the recollection of a happy memory that had led her to record the song fifteen years ago â¦
The rain was thudding down so violently that it seemed to be angling for status as a monsoon. The trainee archaeologists were still hard at it, though, stoically ignoring their soaking backs as drips ran down their necks, crept inside their T-shirts, and even permeated their underwear. Nobody knew that it was Amy's nineteenth birthday as she stood, waist-deep in mud, in a Roman drain in South Wales during one of the wettest summers ever, soaked to the skin with her blonde ponytail plastered to the back of her neck. In the few months they'd known each other, Amy, Rob and Paul had discussed everything from their favourite curries to their preferred sexual positions, but somehow dates of birth had never come up.
Despite the appalling conditions, it had been a considerable surprise to everyone when the site supervisor had called a halt to their labours and announced they could all have the afternoon off. Heaved bodily out of the hole by two of her fellow diggers, Amy had struggled her way through the thick, squelching mud to a sad-looking group of tents huddled together at the edge of the field. Almost pointlessly, she'd replaced the day's soaking clothes with yesterday's damp ones, before joining her waiting colleagues and climbing into the site minibus.
As soon the bus had reached the town centre, Paul and Rob had tugged a confused Amy out, and waved goodbye to the other passengers. Bewildered, Amy had been led by the boys into a blissfully warm tearoom. Paul had spoken to the owner, explaining and apologising for their bedraggled appearance, while Rob had manoeuvred Amy to a table, complete with a green tablecloth and dainty, but rather clashing, Spode china.
When the pot of beautifully strong jet-black coffee had arrived, Amy had felt a huge surge of love for her friends â but when the plate of cupcakes arrived, each with a small pink candle glowing on top, she'd been forced to bite back tears.
As they hungrily bit into the birthday treats, Paul had told Amy that the site supervisor had discovered it was her birthday when he'd been tackling the overdue student insurance forms. He'd told the lads, and they'd hit upon the perfect birthday treat, and an excuse to escape the rain.
The music in the teashop had been gently lilting classical, but it wasn't the calming strains of Vivaldi's
Summer
which Amy had recorded onto her tape once she had returned to dry living. Having taken pity on her soggy customers for having to live without running water or proper toilets for two weeks, the kindly café proprietor had given Amy the best present she'd ever had: a hot shower and freshly tumble-dried clothes.
The neat, white-tiled bathroom in the compact flat above the café was filled with the sound of the owner's radio. Standing in a spotless cubicle, washing the mud off and getting the tension out of her aching muscles, Amy had sung along as âHere Comes the Rain Again' by the Eurythmics blared out with well-timed irony.
Amy pressed
Stop
. The remaining wine wouldn't last the length of the cassette if she carried on like this. She was hungry too, after a day of dishing out tedious advice to various dull clients from various boring businesses. Without changing from her work-suit into her beloved jeans and a chunky jumper, Amy put her coat back on.
Grabbing her long-abandoned Walkman from a kitchen drawer, and thankful that the batteries miraculously worked, she slid the tape in and stuffed the unopened envelope into her pocket. Rejecting her hated court shoes, she slid on her cosy brown Hush Puppies, barely registering the sartorial clash with her smart navy trousers, and hit the road in search of supper.
With the cool evening air of Aberdeen blowing against her face, Amy walked from the granite-grey terrace that she called home towards the even greyer Union Street and its array of restaurants. Selecting an Italian that was just busy enough for her to hide in and think, while not sticking out as a single woman dining alone, Amy opted for a calzone and a fresh orange juice to counteract the wine sloshing around her empty insides. Her order was taken by a young, olive-skinned guy, who stared at her as if she might be genuinely insane when she started fiddling with her museum-piece technology.
