Happy To Talk
Can a meeting at a cafe mean new love?
Serums and face scrubs. Stuff to remove dark circles under your eyes. To lift your sagging jawline, to energise... I contemplate with mild interest the huge range of products on the shelves, but don’t get beyond that.
I suspect it may be an age thing. Now in my “early middle years” – as my sister describes us – I don’t think my generation of men buy skincare products. I never have, anyway.
I’m in the supermarket near where I work. It’s the first time I’ve been in it, as my usual one is closed for refurbishment.
“There’s a good one just down the road, Michael. Just turn left at the bridge,” Karen in my office told me.
I complete my shopping and am on my way back out to the car park when I see there’s a café. I’ve got time because I’m only doing a half day today and I decide to have a coffee.
I’ve nothing else planned for the afternoon. It’s self-service so I get a cappuccino and take it to a nice big, unoccupied table by the window.
Then I retrieve my mobile from my pocket and check it for messages.
There’s nothing from Naomi. Not that I really expected there would be and, to be honest, I think that’s as well. It was clear from the pizza we had together last night that there’s not much potential for anything special to grow between us. Pretty well the story of my life, really.
I scold myself for exaggerating. Jo and I were together for several years, after all. We broke up when she met someone else. I wasn’t expecting it and it quite floored me. But I accepted that she’d met him by accident and it had been “like the sun coming out”.
Of course I was hurt by that, and the implication that I’d never brought the sun out for her. But when I thought about it properly, I saw that maybe it was the same for both of us. I could see something about, say, my sister and brother-in-law’s relationship that Jo and I never really had. In all the time we’d been together, we’d never got round to naming the day or even seriously talked about it, which itself perhaps said something. People say it’s hard to part as friends, but we genuinely did.
There was no deception involved. Jo was straight with me from the start, and doubtless that helped. Maybe friends was all we’d ever been, in any event. I don’t know. I look out of the café window. It’s a less than inspiring view of the car park, but there are trees all round it, and these are starting to bud and will soon be in full leaf.
New beginnings.
One thing I do know from the past few months is that I’m the kind of guy who likes to be part of a couple. Likes to have someone to share life with.
So, with new starts in mind, I’ve done all the recommended things to meet someone else. I’ve joined groups and societies and tried internet dating, the lot. I met Naomi on an art appreciation course – 19th Century French painters.
It was a pleasant enough evening we had, but clearly she isn’t bothered about repeating it and, in truth, I’m not, either. Nonetheless, I think it would be nice if someone did seem a bit more interested in me. It was, after all, Jo who left me and that can kind of dent your confidence. It did mine, and to improve my self-image I’ve lost weight and smartened myself up. A rumour started at work, when my colleagues noted all my new suits and shirts, that I must be seeking promotion.
So I’m sitting wondering whether maybe I should try some of the serums and scrubs I was looking at earlier, too, when someone – a woman with a bag of shopping – comes towards the table.
I’m expecting the usual “Is this chair free?” but she just sits herself down beside me. “Hi!” she says, smiling at me. “Hello.” I smile back at her.
She has brown hair with just a touch of grey, and is wearing a red scarf and longish coat, unbuttoned to reveal a fairly standard office-type dress beneath it. Her handbag is of the sort designed so you can fit a laptop into it.
There is definitely something very organised and efficient-looking about her. “Lovely coffee,” she says, then laughs. “I sound like an advert, don’t I?”
I laugh, too, and agree with her about the coffee. This leads to a discussion about how much the quality of easily obtainable coffee has improved lately.
“Even instant coffee,” I say. “There are some excellent ones on the market now. You don’t need to buy a complicated machine to get a good cup at home.” “It’s true.” She nods.
On top of her shopping bag she has a little tray of spring bedding plants.
I remark on them, saying I hope we have a good summer ahead of us.
“I’ve just moved into a new flat with a balcony,” she explains. “It’s a very small balcony, but it’s just for me and there’s plenty of space for me to take out a chair and relax with a book.
“I can probably squeeze in a few pots of greenery as well.”
This leads to talk about books. Then we get on to walking – as in walking in the countryside rather than along city streets. One of the activities I’ve signed up for recently, while trying to kickstart my social life, is a weekend walking group. Lucia – that’s her name – says she likes to get out into the open, too, and appreciates the health benefits.
“Maybe I should join something like that,” she says. “I think I’d rather be with other people tramping up hill and down dale than on my own.”
I get out my phone again to look for the e-mail about our next walk so I can pass the details on to her. I hadn’t intended to go, to be honest – it’s eight miles and I prefer them nearer four – but if she says she’ll try it, I’ll be there.
I’m busy with this and don’t notice someone else sitting down beside us until I hear a voice.
“I used to have a phone like that one.” I look up.
“Oh, hi,” Lucia says, also looking up and smiling – but not at me this time.
“I ditched it,” the guy who’s come and joined us continues, nodding – rather sneeringly, to my mind – at my phone.
“The spec’s rubbish. Things have come on.”
I don’t think he’s much younger than me, but I suspect he’s “cool”.
He has a bit of a beard, is in a bikerstyle jacket and a denim shirt which no real biker would ever wear.
And he looks as though he could use all that face-firming stuff.
I make some polite reply and turn back to Lucia to resume what we were saying. But he’s still going on about my
Lucia – that’s her name – says she likes to get out into the open, too, and appreciates the health benefits
phone. “You should get an upgrade. What kind of contract are you on?”
I’m about to tell him that my phone does everything I want it to do, thank you all the same, and I’m perfectly satisfied with it. But Lucia is now asking him about some problem with her own phone – presumably since he seems to be an expert on such matters.
I could strangle him. We were getting on so well, Lucia and me.
Whilst I’d accepted what Jo had said about meeting someone and feeling like the sun had come out, I hadn’t properly understood her description.
But then he came along, just plonking down beside us and barging his way into our conversation!
He’s got no manners, I think indignantly.
Lucia suddenly looks at her watch. “Goodness, I’m going to be late.” She grabs her bags.
“Nice to talk to both of you,” she says, then goes rushing off.
The techno whizz then turns back to me and starts on about laptops.
To be honest, with the less-thanfriendly vibe I’m certain I must be giving off, I’m surprised he’s bothering. He finishes his coffee and departs. In the process of swinging his bag on to his shoulder, he knocks over several advertising leaflets out on display.
Of course, he doesn’t stop to pick them up again. I told you – no manners. I bend down to get them, and am soon feeling as foolish as I ever have in my whole life.
Two of the three pieces of paper I pick up are what you’d expect, but promoting cakes rather than soup.
But the third...
It seems the table where I am sitting is set aside for customers who fancy a chat with others over their coffee.
I think I’d heard about the scheme, and I can see it’s a good idea.
But it means the bloke with the phone wasn’t actually being rude.
He was simply taking up the invitation on the card on the table.
More importantly, nor is it the case that it was because Lucia liked me that she seemed so happy to talk.
I sigh. I had hopes. I really did.
I go and get myself another coffee and am sitting, staring miserably ahead of me, when a voice speaks.
“May I join you? Or perhaps I should say, do you mind if I join you again,” Lucia continues as she sits opposite me.
“I had to dash off earlier because I had a dental appointment round the corner. But for once they were on schedule, so I thought I’d come back, just in case.”
She doesn’t finish what she was going to say. But something in her eyes has me daring to hope again.
I feel sudden panic. She is now smiling, but I feel myself tense.
While she breaks off an end of the flapjack she’s bought with her coffee, I surreptitiously scour all the notices on and around the table.
We’re at the opposite side of the café to the one we were at earlier – someone bagged that when I went back to the counter – but you never know.
I sigh again, with relief this time, and return Lucia’s smile.
There is no doubt about it – we are not at another chattering table.