Your Red Always (18 page)

My phone illuminates on the bedside table. I spring up like every other time it’s gone off, expecting some form of belated apology. Right now, if he were to text me a smiley face I’d forgive him. 

I’ve not heard a word from him since Monday when he told me to be quiet on that plane. Two days living with this obscure wall around me; not knowing where I stand or if I’ll see him again, is killing me. Two days without his touch has been hell. 

Am I the one being stubborn? I could easily pick up the phone and call. Tell him I have no feelings for him, and if he wants to use my body for sex, then he’s more than welcome to. But I won’t. It would be no better than prostituting myself to ease my suffering.

I push the backlight on my mobile phone. It’s a message from Shell at work, asking me if I’ll be able to cover the last couple of hours of her shift this afternoon. 

Aroma re-opened on Saturday when I was in Killiecrankie. I’ve not heard from new owner yet. Not even been given a rota for what shifts I’m supposed to be working. To be frank, the new owners seems to be letting the shop run itself. Not very professional for some big fancy chain. 

Cate went in on Sunday morning. Apparently, it’s all been modernised and decked out with new high-tech equipment. The coffee wasn’t as good she said. And now, instead of the muffins she used to love, they stock a variety of foreign pastries.   

I reply yes. I have nothing better to do on this shitty Christmas Eve. Apart from packing an overnight bag for when I go home to sunny Richmond tomorrow. I need to get out of this bed and venture back into the world of the living. Otherwise, I might go into self-destruct mode, and drink that bottle of Disaronno Cate brought home yesterday.

In the shower, I lather my hair with shampoo. I haven’t washed it since I got back. I’m ashamed to say the reason is, I’ve been clinging onto the remnants of him on my skin. But now it’s time. It’s not very hygienic to serve customers with filthy hair, stuck to one’s head. 

I fasten my dressing gown then flick the switch up on the kettle in the kitchen. As I spoon a heap of coffee into my mug, Cate arrives back from Pete’s. The sight of her makes me smile. She has tinsel around her neck, mistletoe earrings dangling halfway down her face, and a chimney with Santa’s boots protruding from her head. Typical garish festive display from her. 

She blows out, slamming a handful of Christmas cards, along with two white A4 size envelopes on the worktop. She pulls the Disaronno out of the cupboard with two glasses, and pours. I have to put my hand over the second glass, to stop her making one for me.

“I’m working,” I say. “Thought you had your last shift this afternoon anyhow,” I ask, concerned about her recent excessive alcohol intake.

She sips from her glass. “I do,” she grumbles. “I need this. Just got a call from my mum, she’s on her way here,” she gripes. “She’s cancelled Christmas at hers; caught Dad in bed with the next door neighbour.”

“Wow… you okay?”

“I always knew that slag was after him, money grabbing bitch.” She downs what’s left in her glass. “So now I have to play mediator all Christmas, with my mum crying on my shoulder.” She pours another drink. “That’s my crimbo well and truly stuffed.” 

What is it about this time of year, the season of love and goodwill? It wouldn’t bother me one bit, if Christmas were to suddenly vanish. No carols, no lights, or people pretending to be happy. It brings the worst out in everyone. Now I’m beginning to regret agreeing to work, because that Disaronno is looking mighty tempting. Joyful faces, arguing drunks, and Christmas cheer, is not what I need right now.
Why Liz, why?

“Sorry chick.” She nudges my arm. “You don’t need to hear my shit right now.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Tell you what, why don’t we get the next few days out of the way with, and book for sunny Rome again,” she smiles. “We’ll soak up the sun, dance all night, and maybe meet some handsome hot guys who’ll cater to our every whim, eh?”

I don’t even want to even think about men at the moment. The male of the species and I right now, are done with.

“I’ll think about it.” I fill my mug with hot water and stir.

“Oh.” She sifts through the mail and holds out the two big envelopes, topped with a smaller one. “These are for you.”

I glance down at the postage marks. PG Publishing, Lawson and Sons Write House, and a small tabloid magazine called Hearsay. These are things I cannot even think about at the moment. Placements to apply for, sent to me by my lecturer. 

“You not even going to look?” She asks.

“Later.”

“Anyway, if I don’t see you tonight, I’ll see you in the morning before you leave.” She walks through the lounge. “Wish I was coming with you.” She sighs, closing her bedroom door.

                                                        ***

I make my way by Finley’s in my old Aroma uniform, which I’m assuming I’m supposed to wear, because I’ve not been told otherwise. The streets are busy with last minute shoppers, and flustered people rushing home from work. Never mind road rage, it is the season of walk rage.

Aroma comes into sight. The outside has a new green canopy above a seating area, with mosaic table tops, and chrome chairs. There’s a brand new sign. A scrolled white neon lit Aroma, with a steaming cup underneath. It’s very professional looking. Like some swanky café on Bond Street.

I open the newly painted door to hear the same bell overhead. All the walls have been papered in a cream striped paper. There’s a reading area at the back with a tall mahogany bookshelf, filled with books and newspapers. I like it. It’s cosy. 

Near the reading area, there is a snug couch and big chair covered in a brown tartan. Also an internet area, with two top of the range dell laptops for customers to use. The counter is still in the same spot, facing the door. And the new equipment behind, consists of four machines with a variety of different beans in large glass grinders. Each one has different levers and switches. My faithful stainless steel giant has now been replaced.  

I shimmy by several customers waiting to be served, and open the hatch. Shell gives change to a lady in a big woolly as I hang up my coat, and study the compact coffeemakers. Each one is labelled, which is good. But I’m still unsure about what nobs to twist to add foam, cream, and sweetener.

“Shell.” I frown. “Do you want to give me a demo before you leave?”  She’s in such a rush. She has her coat on and is nearing the door already.

“It’s easy, everything is labelled. Just push the green switch and it pours just the right amount in each cup. Foam is the yellow,” she yells. “Racheal’s in at four, so you only have an hour to cover.” She looks at her watch. “Oh, and your new uniform is under the counter.”

I take a sneak peek at the clear plastic bag containing my new attire. Hmm, brown, and not the most flattering shade. The bell sounds. My head shoots up to see Shell is halfway outside. 

“What about the filters,” I call after her. “Have they been changed?”

“They don’t need one,” she shrugs. “Just don’t use spout four for foam, it’s broken. See you after the holidays.” She’s gone.

Okay, the whole point of a newer model is to make it easier. Let’s give it a whirl. I approach the cash register, all smiles, with my pleased to meet you face displayed. A girl waits, chewing gum like a grazing cow. She’s only young; I’d say seventeen. She looks at the menu and sighs a, ‘I can’t be bothered to talk breath.’

“I’ll have a latte, one pump of cream,” she orders, with no please or thank you.

“In or out?”

“Out.” Her eyes spin rudely.

I turn and pull a card cup from the stack. As I approach the machines I study, so I don’t waste time. I set the cup down onto the spill tray, while hovering my finger over the buttons. Got it. I flick the green button, and pull down once on the cream lever, successfully making my first coffee.

I’ve served a total of nine customers. It’s been much busier than I’m used to. And now, I’m wiping down the counters, making sure it’s clean for when Racheal starts her shift. I’m kind of glad I’ve worked now. It’s took my mind off him. He’s not been up in there for nearly half an hour, which is good progress to say he’s usually swimming my thoughts every two minutes.

I check my phone while it’s quiet. No calls, or messages. I place it back in my bag, when the bell chimes above the door. Crap. It’s Nathan in his grey duffle coat, with a black scarf wrapped across his chin. Last time I saw him, I chose to get in Adrien’s car, so this is going to be difficult. I blow out. 

“Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re not happy to see me,” he says, warming his hands with his breath.

“The usual?” I ask, knowing he’s partial to a cappuccino, extra cream with sprinkles.

“Do you know what, I think I might try something a little different.” Oh great, he’s drawing this out on purpose. “How about a spicy hot choc… and why don’t you get yourself one, might warm-up your icy temperament.”  

“I’m fine thanks.”

I look at the machines. I’ve not made a single one of these today, and it’s taking me a few moments to find the right beans. I spot them, and pop the cup on the tray.

“Anyway, heard Mr Prick took you away for a romantic trip… how did that go?”

I hiss, “Idiot,” under my breath.

He’s being such a jerk. Though, he’s not to know the whole thing ended in disaster, and my heart is in bits over it. I inhale and concentrate on the task at hand.

“Oh, went well then,” he says, smirking.

I pull down the lever. The machine suddenly starts to make loud popping noises then erupts, splattering my arm with boiling froth. Shit. That’s it. I was fine until he came in.

“Bloody hell Liz.” Nathan rushes to my aid.

He switches off the spitting machine cautiously, and turns on the cold faucet beneath the counter. I’m flustered with annoyance and my eyes glaze over. The last thing I need is to cry in front of him. 

He pulls my arm under the freezing water, while wetting a towel at the same time.

“Shit… where there’s blame there’s a claim,” he jokes.

I can’t pretend to be okay any longer. I sniff as the tears leak out. The suffering I’ve been bottling up all week comes out of me like Mentos in soda. Similar to that broken machine. I’ll explode if the right nerve is touched.

“Liz, what is it?” He turns off the tap, just as Racheal comes in to start of her shift.

I can’t speak, I know if I do I’ll weep out for all to hear. Nathan grabs my bag and coat, and takes me to the back end of the counter to check my arm.

“Racheal,” he says. “Don’t use that.” He points to the beans in machine four. “Death trap.”

He turns back to me and takes the cold towel off my arm. There’s a surface burn the size of fifty pence piece. It stings, but it isn’t as painful as this god awful emptiness inside of me.

“Come on, trip to A and E for you.” He holds the hatch open, carrying my coat and bag.

“Please Nathan… it’s nothing,” I grumble, wiping my cheek.

“It needs to be checked out,” he insists. “You up to date with your tetanus?”

“Of course I am.” He’s overreacting; it’s just a small superficial burn. “Nathan, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. You’re going to sit down and talk to me,” he says. “Racheal, two lattes… bring them over please.” He walks over to the tartan couch and pesters me to follow.

God. He’s so pushy. Always has this need to make things better using wisecracks and jokes. I know he means well. I know he only cares. But I don’t want to tell him about Killiecrankie. I won’t.

He sits down on the sofa as Racheal moves by me with our coffees. I drop down into the chair opposite, slouching right back.

“I’m your friend right, and you can talk to me about anything, you know that.” He’s not going to stop is he? “I’m a guy, and I know how they work.”

“Nathan, shut up now. You really don’t need to do this. Just… just drink your coffee.”

“No, hear me out,” he says. “Since you and I… well, you know.” He blinks slow and sly. “You’ve kind of put men on the back burner.”

“Nathan, are you saying that no one will ever compare to you?” I can’t help but laugh. “Because you’re very much mistaken there.” I’m still chuckling, and he doesn’t like it at all.

“I’m just saying, by all means date, but don’t give all your eggs to Mr Prick.” He’s being very serious. “Hold some back and have fun. I work for men like Mr Prick and....”

“Will you stop calling him that,” I snap, even though I shouldn’t really be defending him.

“No, like I said, it’s stuck,” he huffs. “Men like him require a trophy type. Girls they can show-off. You’re a liberated young women Liz, with a brain. Don’t let guys like him take advantage of you.”

“Stop now, you know I can look after myself.” He’s annoying the hell out of me.

Adrien didn’t require me as a trophy. Though, I’m unsure now what his requirements of me actually were. I would never be some bimbo on a man’s arm, do as I’m told, or get Botox when my skin starts sagging to keep up appearances. Not even for Adrien.

“Well, just take heed of my wise words,” he smiles.