Page 5 of The Happy Hour
She patted the teenager’s shoulder as they passed, and wondered how much smaller her hand was than Ash’s. She glanced at him, but he was waiting patiently, his hands in his jeans pockets so she couldn’t see. Nerves and excitement bubbled up inside her.
‘Ready to go and have a drink in a dingy little café?’ he asked.
Jess laughed. ‘That’s not how I described it.’
‘I was reading between the lines. And, honestly, I don’t mind where we go. Sitting cross-legged on the pavement would be fine with me.’
‘But not with all the people who were trying to get past you.’ She could picture him sitting nonchalantly on the dirty ground while tourists and locals threw him angry looks, and her smile was back. ‘Let me show you hownotdingy this café is.’ As she brushed past him to head away from the market and onto Greenwich’s busy streets, she couldn’t help noticing that Ash was smiling too.
Chapter Two
What are you killing time until, then?’ Jess asked, once they had found a table in her chosen café, The Tea Chest, albeit a tiny one crammed into the back corner, away from the glare of the windows. There was a tomato-shaped ketchup bottle on the scuffed wood next to a plastic cutlery holder, a pink sparkly pen with a fluffy top nestled alongside the knives and forks. The chatter of voices and clink of crockery was loud over the background hum of a radio playing chart songs. When Ash didn’t answer, she leaned forward, ready to repeat the question.
‘Just a thing I have to get to,’ he said, his eyes shifting to take in the rest of the café. ‘This place is great, even if we’ve been relegated to the naughty corner. Your local?’
‘One of them,’ Jess said. ‘I’m spoilt for choice, working in Greenwich.’
‘Those food stalls.’ Ash shook his head. ‘If I worked here I’d be eating constantly, picking something different each time, hiding food under the counter when customers came in.’
‘You’re not far off the truth,’ Jess said. Her favourite was Kirsty Connor’s Moreish Muffins, which offered a large range of sweet and savoury treats, something for every occasion and mood. She would have saved a lot more money by now without the temptation of Moreish Muffins so close by. ‘This might be my favourite coffee, though.’
Ash’s long fingers wrapped around the plain white porcelain of his mug. ‘It’s good.’
‘I like that it has a lot of crema,’ Jess added. ‘It’s not too thin.’
‘Slight butterscotch taste.’ Ash closed his eyes. ‘A hint of smoke.’ He hummed, and Jess’s stomach flipped even as she laughed.
‘A coffee connoisseur, I see. Glad you approve of my café choice.’ She waited for him to open his eyes, then added, ‘So your thing you’re going to. Is it for work? Do you work on Sundays too?’
‘No,’ Ash said. ‘I’m mostly a nine-to-five guy. Not as blond as Dolly Parton, though.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up in the front. ‘I work for a bank.’
‘Oh?’ That surprised her. ‘A bank teller, processing cheques for people who still use them – do they even exist any more? Or are you a City Fat Cat?’
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I’m not actually a banker. I’m an occupational psychologist, working in the City.’ He plucked a teaspoon out of the cutlery stand and stirred his coffee.
‘That sounds fancy. What does it involve?’
He looked up from his stirring. ‘Being an investment banker is a stressful, high-powered job, so I’m there to help with that. To ensure their working conditions are top-notch, and to try and get them to make sense of the volumes of money they’re dealing with, and the responsibility that comes with it.’
‘You’re the person on the payroll the CEO can point to and say he’s making sure his staff don’t turn into greedy, selfish wankers?’ She had meant it as a joke, mostly, but it sounded harsh spoken out loud.
Ash’s lips kicked up at the side, but she couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or displeasure. ‘I’m not a box-ticking exercise,’ he said gently. ‘And I do think I actually help people, sometimes. The industry hasn’t got a good reputation, andsome of them are, undoubtedly, awful people, but there are some really good people, too. And that’s the same everywhere, hey? Not everyone who works at the market will be a saint. You’ve probably got fraudsters, embezzlers, serial killers.’ He picked up the fluffy pink pen. ‘Whoever owned this, for example. They’re clearly unhinged.’
‘Hey,’ Jess said, laughing, ‘I like that pen. And I don’tlike the idea that I’m surrounded by serial killers every day.’
‘There are no serial killers,’ Ash said. ‘Probably.’
Jess shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘For calling your colleagues wankers. It’s easy to be judgemental when all you’ve heard is the stories in the press. I don’t know anyone who works in the City.’
‘I get it.’ He sipped his coffee and sat back in his chair. He’d taken off his jacket, and was wearing a forest-green, long-sleeved T-shirt, three tiny buttons dancing down his sternum. ‘And you do, now.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know me,’ he said. ‘In the City.’
