* * *
• • •
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, Hazard was looking for a pen in his jacket and found the book again. It took him a while to remember how it had gotten there. His brain was a fog. He had a crashing headache, and although he was more tired than he could ever remember, sleep was elusive. He lay down on his bed, a tangle of musty, clammy bedsheets and duvet, clutching the book and started to read.
How well do you know the people who live near you? How well do they know you? Do you even know the names of your neighbors? Would you realize if they were in trouble, or hadn’t left their house for days?
Hazard smiled to himself. He was a cokehead. The only person he was interested in was himself.
What would happen if you shared the truth instead?
Ha! He’d probably be arrested. Certainly fired. Although it was a bit too late to fire him now.
Hazard read on. He rather liked Julian. If he’d been born forty years or so earlier, or Julian forty years later, he could imagine they’d have been friends—out on the town together, making out with a procession of eager girls, and raising merry hell. But he wasn’t at all sure about the idea of telling his story (he didn’t want to tell it to himself, let alone anyone else). Authenticity was something he could do without. He’d been hiding from it for years. He turned the page. Who, he wondered, had picked up the book before him?
My name is Monica, and I found this book in my café.
Having read Julian’s story about feeling invisible, you’re probably imagining a stereotypical pensioner, all dressed in beige, with elasticated waists and orthopedic shoes. Well, I have to tell you, that’s not Julian. I saw him writing in this book before he abandoned it, and he’s the least invisible septuagenarian I’ve ever come across. He looks like Gandalf (but without the beard) and dresses like Rupert the Bear, in a mustard yellow velvet smoking jacket and checked trousers. He’s right about having been gorgeous though. Check out his self-portrait. It was in the National Portrait Gallery for a while.
Hazard reached over for his mobile, so that he could google Julian’s portrait, before remembering that it was still submerged in the flush mechanism of the local wine bar’s loo. Why had he thought that was a good idea?
I’m afraid I am far less interesting than Julian.
Hazard didn’t doubt it. He could tell just from her cautious, precise handwriting that she was an uptight nightmare. Still, at least she wasn’t the sort of woman who drew smiley faces inside all her o’s.
Here is my truth, horribly predictable, and boringly biological: I really want a baby. And a husband. Perhaps a dog and a Volvo, too. The whole, stereotypical nuclear family thing, in actual fact.
Hazard noted Monica’s use of a colon. It looked a little incongruous. He didn’t think people did grammar anymore. They barely did writing. Just texts, and emojis.
Oh God, that looks so terrible written down. After all, I’m a feminist. I totally reject the notion that I need a man to complete me, support me, or to do the DIY even. I’m a businesswoman and, between us, a bit of a control freak. I’d probably be a terrible mother. But however hard I try to think rationally about the whole thing, I still feel like there’s an ever-expanding vacuum inside me that one day is going to totally swallow me up.
Hazard stopped reading while he knocked back another two paracetamol. He wasn’t sure that he could handle all this hormonal angst right now. One of the pills caught in the back of his throat, making him gag. He spotted a single strand of long, blond hair resting on the pillow next to him, the reminder of another lifetime. He flicked it on to the floor.
I used to be a solicitor, in a big, prestigious City firm. They paid me a small fortune, in exchange for making their gender equality numbers look good, and swapping my life for billable hours. I worked every moment I could, including much of the weekend. If I had any spare time, I’d head to the gym to run off the stress. The only social life I had revolved around work parties and client entertaining. I felt like I was still in touch with my school and university friends because I saw their status updates on Facebook, but I hadn’t actually seen many of them in real life for years.
My life might have carried on like this forever, nose to the grindstone, doing what was expected, achieving promotions and meaningless accolades, had it not been for something my mum said, and a girl called Tanya.
I never met Tanya, or at least I don’t think I did, but her life was much like mine—another high-achieving City solicitor, but ten years older than me. One Sunday she went into the office, as usual. Her boss was there. He told her that she shouldn’t be at work every weekend, that she should have a life outside. He meant it kindly, but that conversation must have triggered something, made Tanya realize how empty it all was, because the next Sunday she came into the office, as usual, took the elevator to the top floor, and jumped off the roof. The papers ran a photo of her on her graduation day, standing between her proud parents, eyes filled with hope and expectation.
I didn’t want to be Tanya, but I could see that was where my life was heading. I was thirty-five years old, single, and had nothing in my life except for work. So when my great-aunt Lettice died and left me a small legacy, I added it to the fairly large pot of money I’d managed to save up over the years and did the first, and only, surprising thing in my life: I quit. I took over the lease on a derelict sweet shop on the Fulham Road, turned it into a café, and called it Monica’s.
Monica’s Café. Hazard knew it. It was just opposite the bar where he’d found the book. He’d never been in there himself. He preferred the more anonymous coffee shops, where the ever-changing gang of baristas were unlikely to notice how many mornings he staggered in, hungover, or that he often had to unroll a banknote before he handed it to them. Monica’s always appeared terribly cozy. Wholesome. All organic and granny’s favorite recipe. Places like that made Hazard feel a bit grubby. The name put him off too. Monica’s. It was the sort of name you’d expect a teacher to have. Or a fortune-teller. Even a brothel keeper. Madame Monica, massage with happy endings. Not a good name for a café. He carried on reading.
Being my own boss, instead of a name in a box of a complicated organizational hierarchy, is still a thrill (as well as a huge learning curve; let’s just say that Benji is not my first barista). But there’s a huge void. I know how old-fashioned it sounds, but I really do want the fairy tale. I want the handsome prince, and to live happily ever after.
I’ve done Tinder. I’ve been on endless dates. I try not to be too fussy, to ignore the fact that they haven’t read any Dickens, have dirty fingernails, or talk with their mouth full. I’ve had a number of relationships, and one or two that I honestly thought were going somewhere. But, eventually, I end up hearing the same old excuses, the “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not ready to settle down . . . ” yada, yada, yada. Then, six months later I get a Facebook notification saying their relationship status has changed to “engaged,” and I know that it WAS just me, but I don’t know why.