Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite! (28 page)

'I thought that was why you came?'

She looked at me, a slight concern in her eyes at the idea that I had just introduced a little candour into the usual sophistry of one of our conversations.

'Yes,' she said, 'well I can only stand it for so long. How about you? Keeping yourself busy? Thought I might see you around the hotel.'

I ignored that line.

'Looking for the Jigsaw Man,' I said.

'You think he might be in Seattle?' she asked.

'There's something,' I said. 'I'm going to Pike Place Market to poke around.'

'The Jigsaw Man works at Pike Place Market?'

'Just following the coffee,' I said.

'Hmm,' she said. 'Might work. He used to sit in our coffee shop the whole time, didn't he?'

I nodded, although she wasn't looking at me.

'Mind if I join you?' she said.

I'd spent two days battling my Jones addiction, battling the anger and the despair, trying to think of other things, and now here she was, in her usual way, walking back into my life for who knew how fleeting a time.

'Course not,' I said.

What else was I going to say?

'Come on, then,' she said. 'I've only got a couple of hours before I need to lie naked once more before my master.'

She delivered the line with true thespian flourish.

'What's the part you're up for?' I asked, as we began to head away from the water.

'Hero in
Much Ado
...,' she said, words accompanied by a slight shake of the head, as though the part was completely wrong for her.

'Oh, you'll be perfect,' I said.

'You think so?'

'Sure.'

We walked on in silence. Not being anything like the actor that Jones was, she probably recognised that I had no idea who Hero was and what part she played in
Much Ado About Nothing
.

––––––––

W
e stood at the entrance beneath the large, neon Public Market sign, side by side, both looking up at it as if expecting to find inspiration there. At least, that's how I felt. As if I was standing in a cathedral, staring at the fabulous stained glass window behind the altar. I think Jones was just vaguely looking up, her hair moving slightly in the wind, because the director in her head had told her that's what she had to do.

I'd intended going into the market to walk around. Stop at every stall, go into every store. It's a large market. Eventually something would come up. Or I'd go up the stairs into one of the buildings and the answer would be waiting for me behind a door. That was the plan. Wander aimlessly through a market until it came to me, as though there was going to be a stall selling fresh, newly caught answers, and the one I was searching for would be right there, on sale for 99c.

I think it was having Jones with me that changed my mind. I'd been comfortable wandering around the last couple of days, and felt that I had been making progress of sorts. On my own, I felt able to drift in and out of cafés, following whatever whim grabbed me next. However, even though I was accompanied by the most whimsical person I would ever know, I didn't feel I could just wander around, waiting to see what happened. I felt as though I needed a more constructive plan.

She stood beside me, a song lightly on her lips. With the noise of the traffic and the sounds of the city, I only occasionally caught the mellow hum. I glanced at her, and then looked around. We were right beside the Starbucks at the Market Place entrance, the café that had been decked out in leather and walnut to give it a feeling of heritage, to make the casual coffee drinker believe that it'd been there since the market first opened in 1907, rather than for less than five years.

Although the café was obviously busy, there was a small, unoccupied table in the window. Two seats, waiting for us.

'Come on,' I said suddenly, 'let's go in here. I'll buy you a coffee.'

She glanced at me, and did not even bother looking at where we were going.

'Sure,' she said.

*

W
e sat in silence. One caffé Americano, one espresso macchiato. Nothing to eat. I felt a little uncomfortable at the quiet, but for once I wasn't scrambling around for something to talk about.

I'd almost finished my coffee. Jones had barely touched hers.

The day moved around and by us, people came and went, cars passed us by. The noise of the city rose and fell. There was something out there waiting for me, but I couldn't see it. Not yet.

'Is everything all right for you today?'

We looked round at the waitress. Jones smiled. As usual, the question had been addressed to her.

'Of course,' she said.

'Thanks,' I said.

'It's a beautiful day,' said the waitress.

Jones smiled and nodded and then turned away.

'What brings you to Seattle?' asked the waitress. Jones glanced at me, by way of letting me know that she was expecting me to answer, then looked once more out of the window. The waitress automatically switched her attention and her smile from Jones to me.

'We're just taking a look,' I said. 'You worked at Starbucks long?'

'Six months,' she said. 'My name's Carly. I'm Vice-President in Charge of Front Of House Salutation Procedures.'

We stared at each other for a moment. It was impossible to tell whether or not she was joking, then she smiled and shook her head.

'That's not really a job,' she said. 'You're English.'

'Scottish,' I said.

'Cool. My family are from Scotland but we left like ages ago.'

'I'm the manager of a Starbucks branch in England,' I said, words that once more just appeared from nowhere. Why was I telling her that?

'Wow, cool!' she gushed. 'London, England?'

'Bristol, England, as a matter of fact...'

'That's awesome.'

She looked really impressed, but did not say anything further. Now what? We stared at each other, and there was an awkward silence that we both waited for the other to fill. What exactly was I going to say next?
Yes, I'm a manager of a Starbucks branch in England and I demand to see the manager of this fine branch, so that we can compare strategic objectives!

'I'm Jane Francis,' said Jones suddenly, turning back into the conversation. Carly switched her gaze from me to Jones, while her smile remained intact. 'We were wondering if we might be able to meet with the branch manager of this iconic store, so that we could discuss global initiatives in trans-continental cooperation and corporate bonding.'

Carly nodded, as though this was the kind of thing that her customers usually requested.

'Do you have an appointment today?' she asked through the smile.

'No, we don't, Carly,' said Jones, 'but we've come all the way from Bristol, England, and we were wondering if the manager might be able to find a few minutes. Perhaps half an hour. That would be really rather splendid.'

Carly smiled. To be honest, she hadn't stopped.

'I will try my best for you. I'm not sure what the chief executive of the branch is doing right at this moment, but I'll go and speak to my supervisor and see what I can do for you. In the meantime, if you'd like to wait here in our lugzhury window-side seating area, I'll be right back.'

'Thank you,' said Jones.

Carly embraced us both once more with the smile, and then left. Jones and I watched her for a moment and then looked at each other.

'Nice,' I said.

'Thank you,' said Jones. 'Twenty years of improv. Knew it would come in handy one day.'

'What are we going to say to the branch chief executive? Can we rely on your improv a bit more?'

'What are you looking for exactly?' she asked, although the question was delivered in that flighty way of hers, indicating she would be barely listening to the answer, never mind actually caring what had been said.

I didn't answer, and turned away to look back out through the window. The café looked out onto Pike Street, with a regular row of shops and cafés across the road, a few people around, a few trees just starting to show some life.

I was drawn to read each sign on each store front, although my eyesight wasn't good enough to read some of the smaller writing from across the road.

A regular row of business outlets on a regular street, yet something stood out about them. What that was, was not immediately obvious. I looked along the row, a door and window at a time, and tried to work out what it was that was attracting me.

Glass door. Shop window. Sign. Sign. Shop window. Door. Road. Window. Entrance. Door. Window. A sign for a coffee shop. I wondered if Starbuck's owned the coffee shop, or whether someone had had the balls to go into competition right across the road from Mordor.

There was something going on in that row of low-level buildings that I was meant to see, but which my eyes kept skipping over.

I retraced my gaze, going over every window and every front door in turn, slowing right down. Muttering to myself.

'What are you doing?' asked Jones.

'I'm missing something,' I said.

'Yes,' said Jones.

She followed my gaze and stared across the road. Naturally, she spotted it immediately. Why do I think it was natural? I'm not sure.

'The old battered red door in between the two shops to the right of the road. Have you seen that?'

Old battered red door. I hadn't seen that. I looked where she'd said, and now that I knew what I was looking for it was obvious. I'd missed a door. That seemed odd in itself.

'Why couldn't I see that?' I asked.

'Maybe because it's what you're looking for,' she said. 'Some part of your mind obviously didn't want you to find it.'

I gave her a quick glance then looked back across the road. Now I had to struggle to find the door again – even though it was right where I'd left it – but once I had, I kept my eyes on it.

'You need to go over there,' she said.

'Yes.'

'Looks like the coffee thing, the Starbucks thing, was just a conduit of some sort.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Are you coming?'

I don't know why I asked. She wasn't coming, and I had neither the expectation nor the desire that she would.

'I'm going to stay here and have some fun with the chief executive.'

'They're not going to have any record of you,' I said, my eyes trained on the red door in case it chose to vanish on me. 'Have you ever even been in a Starbucks?'

'For sure,' she said. 'You better go or you'll end up getting sucked into a meeting you don't want to have.'

I stood, almost glanced at her, but decided on balance that I should keep my eyes on the red door, said, 'See you,' and walked out of the café.

Behind me Jones sat and waited for her appointment, and another opportunity for improvisation. She probably didn't watch me go.

It was the last time I saw her, and I didn't even look at her. Now, when I think about it, I can't remember the last, precise moment that I looked at her face. There are lots of moments with Jones burned into my head, but not that one. Not the last one.

I didn't hesitate outside, not now that the next thing had been presented to me, the next step on the journey. I walked across the road to the red door without taking my eyes from it.

Up close the door looked even more worn and old and battered. There was a Yale lock and a handle. Nothing else adorned the door, not even a random poster stuck up for a forthcoming indie band event. It didn't look as though any poster had ever been stuck on there.

I stood looking at it, poised to knock or try the door handle, whichever seemed right. I glanced along the street in either direction. Pedestrians were passing both ways, but no one was looking at me. I was as invisible as the door. I felt the same as I had when I'd followed Jones into the hotel, and wondered if standing there long enough would make me vanish completely and people would start walking through me.

I tried the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside. There wasn't a great deal of light coming in from outside, and I'd entered a long windowless corridor.

I stopped for a second, wondering whether I should close the door behind me. There was one dim red light above a door at the far end of the corridor. The sign next to the red light indicated that the door led to a flight of stairs. There were no other doors off the passageway, which seemed strange.

I closed the door, walked into the darkness and kept my eyes on the dim red light. Despite the curiousness of it all, I felt no threat. I didn't know what I was going to find up the stairs at the far end, but it wasn't going to hurt me or even scare me.

It seemed to take a long time to reach the red light, but I closed upon it step by step, and eventually I was by the door to the stairs. Glanced over my shoulder, back into the darkness. There was nothing to see, not even the outline of the door through which I'd entered.

I thought of Jones briefly, wondering what she would be saying to the Starbucks store manager. I had no reason to worry. She had her improvisation skills and she would be playing him perfectly. If she wanted to leave the shop with the job title Vice President In Charge Of New Types of Macchiato then she probably could.

I tried the door. It opened easily and light poured in. I didn't look back over my shoulder. I walked through onto a concrete staircase which only led up. There were a couple of windows at ground floor level, looking out onto the next street, more windows on the first floor.

I walked up the staircase, no concern about what I was going to say should anyone challenge me on what I was doing there.

On the first floor there was a single white door leading back into the building. Beside the door, on the wall, was a notice board. Down one side was a list of drinks. Drinks that were instantly recognisable as having been taken from the Starbucks menu.

Caffé Misto. Pike Place Roast. Vanilla Spice Latte. Caffé Americano. Flat White. Caffé Latte. Caffé Mocha. Cappuccino. Caramel Macchiato. Espresso. Espresso Con Panna. Espresso Machiato. Flavoured Latte.

On the other side of the board, next to each name, there were the words IN/OUT, with a little wooden block which could be slid from side to side, depending on whether or not the relevant drink was in or out.