Page 7 of The Happy Hour
‘You just come here for your... thing. Every Sunday.’
‘Right.’ He sighed the word, then glanced at his wrist. His watch was classic, with a white, analogue face, a gold case on a brown leather strap. Some of the lightness left his eyes. ‘I’ll need to go soon.’
‘Sure,’ Jess said. ‘Do you want me to... walk you?’ It sounded ridiculous. Old-fashioned and entirely unnecessary.
Ash squinted at her, his lips kicking up at the corner. ‘I’ll be OK, but thank you. Next week, I was thinking we could go to the park, but not if I’m at risk of another pigeon ambush.’
‘Next week?’ Jess almost squeaked the words. ‘You want to do this again?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I mean...’
‘I have coffee with my neighbour, Mack, first thing every Sunday. I get his paper from the local shop, then he keeps me captive for at least an hour, and by the time I get down here—’
‘From Holborn,’ Jess added.
‘Right. I get the Clipper, usually. If Mack has got one of his lunch dates – which he takes an inordinate amount of time to get ready for, considering he’s had seventy-five years to perfect his look – then I’m released a bit early, so I take the scenic route.’
The Thames Clippers were the London Transport boats that deposited people between Barking and Putney, and sailed tourists and commuters past some of London’s riverside landmarks, including theCutty Sark– another clipper that hadn’t felt water against its hull for seventy years, which was stationed only feet from where Jess and Ash were now.
‘But you’ll still have time before your appointment?’ she asked.
‘An hour. I like to make it down here with an hour to spare.’
‘And it’s every Sunday?’
‘At the moment.’
Jess felt the twin sparks of intrigue and frustration. ‘And you really want to meet up again?’
He held her gaze, his grey eyes suddenly sombre, contrasting with his smile. ‘I have time to kill, you don’t take enough breaks. I figure we could help each other out.’
‘Help each other by spending time together?’
Ash laughed. ‘It could work, couldn’t it? This hasn’t been too much of a disaster, I don’t think.’ He sounded nervous, and Jess’s incredulity made way for something softer.
‘It’s been fun,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’m never going to forget your pigeon story as long as I live.’
His smile widened. ‘Good. Great. So, I’ll come and find you, then? No Vase Like Home.’ He pronounced it in an American accent, so that Wendy’s ill-advised pun worked, and Jess knew she’d have to tell her boss about him. ‘I’ll get to yours for midday, and we can spend an hour together.’
‘For coffee?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, frowning. ‘Maybe something else. I’ll think about it.’
‘I can’t wait.’ She had meant to be flippant, a bit sarcastic, but it just sounded eager. She drained the dregs of her coffee, and when she’d put her mug down, Ash held out his hand.
Jess stared at it. She wasn’t sure if he was helping her up, or asking for her empty mug. She reached over and, before she could spend any more time analysing it, grasped his hand. It was warm, his fingers wrapping easily around hers, but he looked surprised too, as if he hadn’t expected her to take it, or he hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Her hand was tingling, a mini-shockwave, and she wondered if it was the same for him.
Jess stood up, and for a moment they stayed linked together. Then she dropped her hand, and Ash went to put the pink fluffy pen back in the cutlery stand.
He paused. ‘Do you want this?’
Jess thought of her tiny, neat desk in the flat she shared with the landlord, Terence. The workstation where she created her Etsy prints, the pen pot with the colourful sharpies that she used for the handwritten notes she included with each order. The pen would match the overly fluffy Yeti cushions she had on her bed. But.But.
‘You think I’m unhinged?’ she asked him.
Ash grinned. ‘I don’t know, yet. Definitely no more than me.’
