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Starlight in New York
Helen Cox
Everyone has a story to tell…‘With its shades of light and dark, this delicious debut is a page-turner you’d be mad to miss’ SAMANTHA TONGEBroken-hearted Esther Knight has swapped the old streets of London for the bright lights of New York. When she starts waitressing at the Starlight Diner, she realises it’s the perfect place to lie-low and lick her wounds.That is until their newest regular, actor Jack Faber, decides to take an interest in Esther. But her past is holding her back and she’s not ready to fall in love again. Is she?Desperate to start a new life, Esther begins to wonder if she can ever learn to let go. Could New York be just the place to set her free?



Starlight in New York
HELEN COX


Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Helen Cox 2016
Cover design © Becky Glibbery 2018
Cover illustration © Shutterstock (http://www.shutterstock.com)
Helen Cox asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008191832
Version: 2018-03-15
For all the waitresses.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3eb1e650-c719-51b3-aba4-f4bb448ad6b0)
Title Page (#u39852df8-d8a8-5817-a74c-729f03e92e4e)
Copyright (#u596d3b8c-f56f-59fe-a995-c539cb40c18c)
Dedication (#u5041ba4f-732f-5ca5-ad21-f087795729b2)
Prologue (#u9d6829f2-d2f6-56e4-9ed0-f23f1d9ca6d1)
Chapter One (#ubacdf699-89a5-5710-9fac-9cbbcfa44a43)
Chapter Two (#u381caf8a-1f0b-5542-9c8c-35167141709c)
Chapter Three (#u3ef48b08-6ec3-5734-bbd3-652d517f01ca)
Chapter Four (#u747d0161-50ec-5776-9e3b-1ef512a2dd05)

Chapter Five (#u9b3634c4-b541-5fcb-b91e-9cef90c0c430)

Chapter Six (#u6a86ae6e-7183-5bad-8155-2e50c7158573)

Chapter Seven (#u07ff4884-44dd-5e87-b27d-2b6da941c6c6)

Chapter Eight (#ue73d7cb9-6bf2-5b1e-b654-7bbf1003b06f)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Advert (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
Next time you’re in New York, take a turn off Broadway onto East Houston. Walk on past 2
Avenue subway station. Past Russ & Daughters fish shop and Katz’s Delicatessen. Beyond these local landmarks of the East Village, just a skip from where East Houston meets Clinton Street, you’ll see it: The Starlight Diner. A fifties throwback joint serving burgers and breakfast foods long into the night.
There’s no missing the blare of its blue neon sign. Even from a block away, you can hear the songs of Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran and, house favourites, Marvin and the Starlighters spewing out of the jukebox. Step closer, and you’ll note the modest claim inscribed just above its glass frontage: Best Diner In Town.
Press your hands against the window. Peer in at the long procession of red leather booths, at the aging signs, hanging all around, for vintage sodas, malts and ice-cream floats. There’s a refrigerator stacked with vanilla cheesecake and blueberry pie, and the waitresses wear candy pink uniforms with black kitten heels.
Bernie Castillo was just twenty-two when he opened The Starlight Diner. A business decision he made about a week after John Kennedy was shot. Like many others he knew, he wanted nothing more than to return to a time before anyone understood what it meant to see a president gunned down. To a time in which rock ’n’ roll reigned supreme and gas-guzzling Cadillacs clogged up the highways. A time when America ‘stood at the summit of the world’. So, the 1950s is still in full swing at The Starlight Diner, and they serve the tastiest milkshakes in the five boroughs.
If there’s one thing Bernie’s learned in his time managing a diner, it’s that you never can tell just who’s going to walk through the doorway. But no matter who they are, no matter where they come from – whether they’re a tourist with a tripod or a local who’s ordered the same breakfast there for twenty years – they’ve all got one thing in common.
All of them, every last one, has a story to tell.

Chapter One (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
New York, 1990
That airless, August day I hobbled into The Starlight Diner like an extra from a low-rent zombie movie. A bloody cut oozed across my forehead while ‘Rock Around The Clock’blasted out of the jukebox. Right then, the last thing in the world I needed was Bill Haley singing about an all-night party I wasn’t even invited to.
‘Oh my Gawd, Esther!’ Mona, who’d waitressed at the diner for some thirteen years, had a habit of shrieking in a crisis. A habit even less endearing after a hard knock to the head. ‘What happened?’ She stopped pouring a coffee mid-cup, tottered over in her kitten heels and shook her head at the tear in my pink diner uniform.
‘I got mugged,’ I said, slumping into a nearby stool. At this, a man in one of the counter seats lifted his head and frowned. He was one of several customers gawking at the disturbance but his stare was more intense than any of the others.
Mona put an arm around me. ‘Aw honey, now you’re a real New Yorker. They take anything valuable?’
‘Luckily I don’t own anything valuable. I was mostly concerned they’d smash my glasses – my spare pair make me look like Annie Potts in Ghostbusters.’
‘Well, they seem to be in one piece, and so do you.’
‘Yeah, they were only after my wallet.’ I dabbed my cut with a red napkin, then checked how much blood it’d absorbed. A dark, diagonal line slashed across the paper square.
You deserve this, Esther. You do. And more.
‘You want me to tell Alan you was mugged? He’ll probably want you to report it.’ Alan, Mona’s husband, was a New York cop.
‘No, no, no,’ I said. Mona jerked her head to her left and shot me a quizzical look. ‘I mean, it was silly. Just kids. No need to make a fuss. Is Bernie here yet?’
Bernie owned The Starlight Diner, a retro eatery on East Houston Street curious enough to delight tourists and locals alike. It was Bernie who’d decided on the repellent mustard seat coverings for the counter stools. It was he who ensured that the saddest song from the fifties – ‘The End of the World’ by Skeeter Davis – made it into the selection of tracks on the Wurlitzer jukebox alongside up-beat classics like ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’ and ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’. It was also Bernie’s idea to emblazon the words ‘Good Times’ across the back of the uniform, a slogan that felt extra ironic post-mugging.
‘No. He’s running later than you this mornin’,’ Mona chuckled. She turned to the reflective surface of the coffee machine and scrunched up some of the shorter layers of her dark, unruly hair. It was the one thing about Mona that wasn’t neat but only because she was growing out a mullet. Her face was a perfect oval and her faultless, black skin was interrupted only by preened eyebrows and a shock of red lip gloss that, she claimed, boosted her tips. ‘You’ve got time to clean up,’ she said, turning back to me. ‘I won’t tell Bernie you was bleedin’ all over the customers and puttin’ ’em off their pancakes.’
Twenty minutes later you wouldn’t have guessed I’d been mugged – unless you looked too close at my safety-pinned uniform or spotted the electric blue plaster peeping out from under my fringe. Ever-willing to prove myself the mistress of covering things up, I poured out morning coffee like it was any other day. Flitting across the red and white chequered lino, I delivered slices of blueberry pie and stacks of waffles with extra syrup.
‘The frowner at the counter wants his cheque; it’s number twenty-seven. I gotta get four breakfasts to fourteen. Can you sort that for me, honey?’ Mona asked, juggling many more plates than she had hands.
‘Sure,’ I said, picking up the correct cheque off the pinboard.
‘Here’s your cheque, sir. Hope everything was OK.’ I recited the standard line and offered a measured smile.
‘It was just what I needed, thanks,’ the frowner said in a familiar accent. He’d clocked my accent too: there was an expectant sparkle in his blue eyes.
Further diluting my smile, I turned to walk away before anything concerning – like a conversation – could take place.
‘You’re from England, aren’t you?’ he asked.
I dropped my shoulders and turned back to face him.
‘Yes,’ I replied in the most monotone manner I could muster. My absolute lack of interest would surely signal I didn’t want to spew my origin story over the counter to some stranger in a theatrical downtown diner.
‘I’m from Putney, in West London. You?’
‘London too.’ Insert awkward pause. This was the point in the exchange where I was supposed to ask him something. What brought him to New York? How long would he be staying? Etcetera. But he was a ghost from a past life. A patriot of a place I’d done all I could to distance myself from. Inviting though his smile was, I wouldn’t go back. For anyone.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman much younger than the frowner and I, sporting a cropped, neon-yellow blazer, stepped forward. ‘Could I get your autograph?’ I looked at the bronzed beauty holding out a napkin and a biro, skewing her head to one side the way exotic birds do when they’re trying to make sense of the world, and then looked again at the man. He nodded at her request and pushed a hand through his thick, black hair which fell long around the ears but showed signs of receding at the hairline. On closer inspection, his face did look sort of familiar. I thought I’d seen it on a billboard in Times Square but minus the beard, which was peppered with grey at the edges.
‘You could add your number, if you wanted.’ The woman put a hand on his shoulder now. Her long hair, crimped from root to tip, spilled over him as she leaned in close. I rolled my eyes, took the opportunity to exit the conversation and went to speak to Walt, a man of seventy-seven who ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with us every day.
‘You want your usual or do you feel like a change this morning?’ Walt spent most mornings engrossed in his paper but, as had become the daily ritual between us, cast a stern look at me over his glasses.
‘You only ask me that to torment me, don’t ya?’ His freckled face scrunched in irritation.
‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, Walt.’ I grinned.
‘Be as presumptuous as you like. Whaddo I care? It’s only food.’ He waved a hand in my direction as though he were shooing a pigeon.
‘The way you embrace life so whole-heartedly is an inspiration to us all.’ Walt put down his paper and his face scrunched even tighter. ‘Alright, alright,’ I said. ‘Mushroom omelette it is.’
‘Excuse me?’
Oh great, the frowner had returned. He stood right in my way. Blocking my route to the kitchen.
‘Yes sir, is there a problem?’
‘Er. No, of course not. I … we were just interrupted.’ Though his arms were folded loose across his body, the skin around his eyes was taut with confusion. What did this guy want from me? He’d already picked up a brunette this morning. Did he really need to add a blonde to his collection?
‘Oh, I have to get Walt’s breakfast now,’ I said.
‘I can wait.’ Walt again waved his hand. I glared at him. He smirked, lowering his eyes back to the paper. Sighing, I turned to the frowner; I raised both eyebrows and tilted my head, signposting to this socially blunt individual that if he had something to say, he should say it now.
‘I just wondered what brought you to New York?’ His tone was airy and he leaned in close as he spoke, the way an old friend might. The scent of bergamot emanated from his body. It was distracting.
‘The affordable housing and the predictable weather,’ I replied. He laughed. I didn’t. ‘Look, I’m busy, OK?’
Busy trying to hide. Busy trying to breathe and smile and forget.
‘Oh. OK. Suppose I might see you tomorrow.’ His gaze was steady but at these words my eyes flared wide.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, this is my new local place,’ the frowner explained. ‘I just moved in on Ludlow Street.’
‘Well, the restaurant where they shot the orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally is just a few doors down. Maybe that should be your new local place.’ I gave him a patronising pat on the arm. He looked down at my hand which sat content just below his elbow. I followed his gaze and then snatched my hand away. Making physical contact. How could I be so stupid?
The frowner smiled. ‘Actually, I think I’m going to stick with the diner where the waitresses feel comfortable saying the word “orgasm” to a total stranger.’
‘Well,’ I said, collecting empty glasses off the counter, ‘I think that says a lot more about you than it does the waitresses.’
He rubbed the side of his jaw, no doubt trying to think of some dazzling retort.
‘Hey Esther,’ Walt butted in, ‘here’s one for you.’ He looked down at The Times crossword and read, ‘Generally accepted as Shakespeare’s longest play.’
‘Hamlet,’ I replied without a blink. Walt checked the paper and then pointed his pen at me.
‘How’d you know that?’ He looked at me sidelong.
‘It’s a very well-known fact,’ I said. ‘Probably helps I’m from the same country as Shakespeare. It’s the sort of thing that seeps in through the amniotic fluid.’
‘Ugh.’ Walt grunted. ‘Do you have to talk about all that woman crap when I’m about to eat?’
‘All part of the service.’ I smiled. The frowner chuckled, joining in the joke. I’d almost forgotten he was there. My smile faded and I tried to dodge around him. I moved left and so did he. I stepped right and still he was in my way. After a few moments of this uneasy dance he placed both hands on my arms and lifted me clean off the ground. There wasn’t time to shrink away or sidestep. My whole body stiffened in the time it took him to plant me on the other side of where he was standing.
‘That is the weirdest thing anybody has ever done to me,’ I said, breathing harder than I’d like and adjusting my glasses back into their usual resting place.
‘Well, you haven’t been in New York very long.’ Walt cackled. His laugh had a sort of clatter to it, like an old, broken washing machine on full spin.
‘Can’t be any weirder than getting mugged. Are you OK?’ asked the frowner.
At his question, I once again felt the sickening lurch of being shoved to the ground. The knife, pointing at my throat. I should’ve been scared. Should’ve cried. Should’ve begged. But instead, I just remembered… Would I ever forget? The things he did to her. Rubbing at the small, white notch she’d worn into my ring finger, I thought again about Mrs Delaney. Hours she’d stood, in the doorway of their living room, twisting the gold around and around. Whilst he’d slouched in his armchair, watching Saturday afternoon darts on TV, she’d pictured the miraculous day when she’d slip her twenty-two carat collar.
I glanced into the frowner’s eyes. There was a velvet softness to the blue of them I’d been doing my best to ignore.
My hands were shaking.
I looked down at them and his eyes lowered too, watching them jitter.
‘I’m sorry, I…’ he began.
‘I’m fine,’ I snapped.
‘You’re not fine.’ His voice was firm but there was no mistaking his concern. ‘You’ve been mugged and you haven’t so much as sat down. You need help. You’re shaking…’
He thought it was because of the mugging. Well, what else would he think? I let my eyes stray once again into his.
‘Order up!’ Lucia, our grill girl, shouted.
‘I’ve got to get on. I’m busy.’ I turned and walked away.
‘Hey!’ The frowner called after me, and I sighed. ‘I’m Jack by the way.’
I nodded and pointed to my name badge in response.
‘So I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Oh-kay.’ I whirled into the kitchen, safe in the knowledge I was working the late shift, rather than breakfast, the next day.
‘Walt wants his usual,’ I called over to Lucia, who was a big, square block of a woman. She was fiddling with a small transistor radio which, in a fifties-themed diner, was our only portal to modern-day chart music. Bernie only permitted it if we kept the volume low so as not to ruin the ‘illusion of stepping back in time’. Lucia clapped and giggled to herself when she found a station playing New Kids on the Block. Not my favourite but preferable to hearing Sinead O’Connor warble out ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’, yet again. It had to be one of the most depressing songs ever written and radio stations loved it. Especially early on a Monday when they knew you’d already be in the depths of misery.
Mona pushed through the swing doors with a knowing look on her face.
‘What?’ I asked. I knew what and so did she. Nothing got past Mona.
‘You don’t know who that was, do ya?’ Though she was only three years my senior, Mona had a way of standing that made me feel like she was my mother. A hand on her hip and a slouch in one leg.
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’ She leaned against the work surface and folded her arms. ‘That dreamboat who was trying to talk to you and who you was bein’ rude to. Didn’t recognise him myself at first, on account of that beard he was wearing.’
‘I was not rude,’ I said, playing with the strings on my apron. ‘I was…curt. Maybe.’
‘Well, you was just curt to Jack Faber.’
‘Is that name supposed to connote something to me?’
‘Connote?’ Mona shook her head. ‘That’s another one for the chart, Lu.’
When I started at The Starlight Diner five months ago, ‘Esther’s Fancy Word Chart’ was imaginary. A joke between Mona and Lu about the snobbish English woman Bernie had hired. Over the months, however, the chart had evolved into a real thing. Or, at least, into the back of an old bakery invoice tacked to the wall.
‘This Faber guy famous?’ Lucia asked once she’d scrawled the latest ‘fancy word’ on the chart. ‘Knew I shoulda put make-up on this morning.’
‘No make-up required, Lu. Our Esther don’t wear even a lick of mascara. She got his attention alright.’ Mona grinned but I refused to rise to her teasing.
‘Connote has two Ns,’ I said to Lucia. She grunted and made the correction.
‘He’s an actor,’ Mona said, trying to re-establish my attention. ‘Got his first big movie out soon, read about it in New York Magazine, it’s called…Without You.’
‘Ugh,’ I groaned, ‘that sounds terminally sappy. Anyway, he’s out of luck. I don’t fraternise with actors. It’s unsavoury. Pretending to be somebody you’re not. Wanting other people to look at you all the time.’
‘What do you mean, actors? You don’t fraternise with anybody,’ said Lucia, she and Mona looked at each other and twittered.
‘I’m a busy woman,’ I said, glaring.
‘You’re a waitress,’ Mona replied. I half-smiled and looked at the floor. I didn’t have an answer to that. They didn’t know what was really going on, deep down.
Never could.
I was about to pick up Walt’s omelette when, just beyond the kitchen door, a man started shouting. Mona and I grimaced, edging closer to see what the ruckus was. Lucia sidled up behind us and, together, we peeped through the small circular windows. It was the frowner.
‘I don’t care…’ he growled at whoever was on the other end of the call he was making on the payphone we had out back. ‘I won’t be held hostage. This is it!’
There was a short passage between the diner and the kitchen only just shielding the customers from his rage. ‘That’s insane!’ he shouted, his face red and contorted.
‘What’s this guy’s deal?’ Mona hissed. I shrugged and shook my head.
‘No. No. No. What the hell?’ He paced and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘No. You end this. You do what you said you would, and don’t bother calling till you do.’
Faber slammed down the phone. He pressed his hands flat against the wall and bowed his head between them. I looked at Mona and Lucia. Should we do something? Say something? Before we had a chance, he raised his head and looked at the wall. Narrowing his eyes, he dealt a single, thunderous punch to the red paint, which was already flaking. It crumbled further at the point of impact. I raised both hands to my face, gasping at the blunt thud. Jack wrung his hand for a few moments, shook his head in what seemed like despair and stalked back out into the diner.
I didn’t let on that my heart was racing as Mona and Lucia spent the next fifteen minutes dissecting this event. That something buried deep was surfacing.
By the time I escaped the kitchen to deliver Walt’s omelette, the actor was gone.

Chapter Two (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
After the jolt of the mugging, and the sheer weirdness of the Jack episode, clearing my head was at the top of my to-do list. And so, the following day, I hopped on a subway to Coney Island, New York City’s own Avalon. My diner shift didn’t start till four which meant I’d time aplenty to relax at the edge of the Atlantic. To gaze out at the indigo horizon and listen to the jolly screams of visitors braving the Cyclone: an aged, wooden rollercoaster which rattled around a precarious track. Maybe I’d even have my fortune told on the Zoltar machine, if I was feeling adventurous and had a dollar to spare. Yes, Zoltar was a nodding puppet in a turban but I’d wager even he had a better idea about what was good for me than I did just then.
The hard stare of the Manhattan streets faded the second the salt air hit my lungs, even if it was somewhat fouled by the sweaty scent of grilled hot dogs, and before long I was strolling the length of the promenade. All around, folks made the most of the blossoming weather: some lazed out, priming their already medium-rare skin with tanning lotion. Others queued for The Wonder Wheel to the soundtrack of cawing gulls.
Nobody else was here alone.
They’d all come in family groups or in couples. Most were too caught up in their own frolics to take note of a lone, unkempt woman slobbing around in a T-shirt and a frayed pair of Jordache jeans. But those who did notice, looked at me a moment longer than I’d like. Were they wondering why I had no companion? Staring at them, staring at me, I speculated what they’d say if I told them the answer.
Further along the boardwalk, tight clusters of tourists dotted the shoreline. A bronzed, bare-chested twenty-something lifted his girlfriend in a way not dissimilar to how Jack had, without any effort, lifted me the day before. I sighed. Despite my efforts to shut him out, the actor had sauntered into my thoughts. And not for the first time. Watching those young lovers, I felt again his hands, firm and secure around my waist, and an unfamiliar warmth stirred just beneath the skin.
Oh Esther, don’t be drawn. How could you so soon forget what men do?
No. I hadn’t forgotten. Jack was just the first handsome face to take an interest since… since…
I shook my head. That’s all these thoughts were. A raw, physical reaction to the tone of his arms.
What rippled beneath that smooth surface, Esther?
More than just muscle. A savage. Unless he had a medical note for that weird, wall-punching tic. A brute. Another one.
Overcome by both the heat and the odd cocktail of emotions, I sheltered in the shadow cast by a billboard for Nathan’s hot dogs. The beach stretched out along the peninsula as far as I could make out. Sandwiched between the blue waters of the Atlantic and the jubilant roar of the amusements. Looming tall above all else was the derelict Parachute Jump ride: a fearsome, steel skeleton that mushroomed into the sky. The fact people once thought it prudent to launch themselves off the top of it was incredible. Even more incredible was that it’d achieved status as a New York City landmark, preventing developers from demolishing it and building condos. The only other obelisks on the skyline were apartment blocks, which stood in military procession beyond multi-coloured parasols and rows of refreshment bars. They’d been built in a brick that was meant to be in sympathy with the sand but were too muddy a brown and thus looked as awkward as I felt against the otherwise jaunty palate of the sea front.
Recovered from the heat, and more than aware that a two-minute stint in the shade wouldn’t cure my permanent sense of being somehow dislodged, I ambled out along the pier. There, I planned to sit out and read the copy of Homage to Catalonia I had stowed in my satchel. Though my life had taken a disturbing turn in the last few years, I clung to the comfort I found in books. Orwell, in particular, was an author who set me at ease. He wrote like he was speaking just to me, as though he was sitting in some nearby corner recounting his many philosophies and adventures, and there was an intimacy about that I found solace in. I felt close to this man I’d never known. It was the sole intimacy I allowed myself.
Spare seats on the pier were scarce but after a minute I clocked one on a wooden bench next to an old black man with long, curly hair. He sang to himself. A huge golden Labrador sat at his side. His singing ceased as I settled onto the bench. We remained in silence for a few minutes before the dog edged towards me for some fuss. I obliged, rubbing him behind the ears.
‘He botherin’ you?’ the man asked, looking first at the dog and then at me.
‘Not at all. I love dogs. In fact, I’m quite suspicious of people who don’t.’ I smiled at him before returning my attentions to the mutt.
‘I hear ya.’ At this, the man started singing again. I nodded my head in time and he noticed my approval.
‘That’s a good song,’ he said, still tapping one foot to the rhythm floating around in his head.
I nodded, patting the dog. ‘It is. It’s Wilson Pickett, isn’t it? Or were you singing the Tina Turner version?’
‘Right first time.’ He looked surprised and then a little closer at me. ‘You’re a bit young to know ’bout Wilson Pickett, ain’t you?’
‘Ha. Well, I’m not that young but thank you,’ I said, a touch of shyness creeping in at the compliment.
‘You can’t be older than thirty.’ He stared harder, trying to gauge my age.
‘I’m thirty-three.’ I gave him a flimsy smile. ‘But my Dad liked those songs. They were a big part of my childhood.’
‘Your Dad has good taste.’ The man gave a weighty nod, and pressed his lips together.
‘I always thought so,’ I said. ‘At least when it came to music.’
The man chuckled. ‘Well, daughters and fathers need only see eye to eye on the things that matter, and to my mind music comes somewhere near the top of that list.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, stroking the dog’s ears and massaging his neck under the collar. ‘It’s of little relevance now though, Dad died when I was eleven.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times from a hundred different people. Nobody knows how to deal with the topic of mortality. The old man’s tack was to sidestep the subject: ‘You got kids yourself?’
‘No.’ My gaze drifted out to sea and I locked my expression in a state of indifference which I could only hope looked casual. It was the threat of bearing a child, his child, that’d created this whole predicament.
‘Well, you got time for that yet.’
‘Mmm. Relationships are…they’re complex.’ I shrugged. Complex. Is there anything so complex about doing everything you’re told? That was always Mrs Delaney’smethod. ‘How about you? Do you have family?’
‘Three girls, but they’re pretty much grown up. There’s just me and the wife now. Lived in Brooklyn our whole lives and not really been much further than Coney.’ He fumbled in his wallet and produced a picture. Three little girls grinned back at me, stood in a row according to height like real-life Russian dolls. Behind them stood their mother. She had her arms draped around the kids and wore what I’m sure had once been a vibrant red dress. The photo had faded however, making it more of a soft rose colour.
‘They’re beautiful. All that time together.’ I forced my mouth to turn up at the corners.
‘Yes. I’m a lucky man, it’s true. Didn’t always feel like it; raising three women ain’t what you call inexpensive. But I’ve always tried to remember how fortunate I am at the end of the day.’ He looked over at me. ‘You got family back home?’
‘Just my mother. Back in England. I write to her when I can but it’s a long way to go and visit all the time.’ I thought about how long it’d been since I’d written Mum a letter and dipped my head in shame once I’d done the sums. God. Poor Mum. Back in England by herself. I meant to write more often but sometimes it was hard. So hard to remember, everything.
‘Yep. Sure is a long distance to put between yourself and home.’ The man gazed out at the view in front of him.
‘I suppose it is.’ I looked at the ground. If only he knew that in so many respects it didn’t feel far enough away from all that had happened. That sometimes the smell of tea brewing at the diner or the twinkling of the city lights at night made it seem like I was back there again. Back in London, living with the ghost of the man and wife I never talked about.
‘Do you miss it?’
‘What? Who?’ My breath quickened.
‘Home…’ My companion raised the eyebrow nearest me but didn’t look in my direction.
‘Oh, yes. Sometimes but it’s…it’s…’
‘Let me guess: it’s complicated,’ he said.
‘You could say that.’
‘Hmmm.’ The man joined me in stroking the dog, who was revelling in the extra affection. Pawing at our knees for more whenever we paused for thought. ‘Well, I don’t know you of course. And you can tell me to mind my business. But if you’ll let me, can I tell you something?’
‘Please, do.’ At a guess all the Zoltar machine would tell me was that I’d meet a tall, handsome stranger. As I’d already had that encounter yesterday I wasn’t willing to count that as a psychic prediction. If this old man had any advice on stepping out from the shadowland I’d been living in, it was prudent to at least hear him out.
‘When you get older, old as me, which you will do one day, what you appreciate more than anything else is time with the people you love.’ He looked out over the water. His voice deepened. ‘You see, it’s not like when you’re a kid, when you’ve got an eternity stretching out before you. Time is limited. You know you’ve only got so many more times to see the people who mean the world to you.’ I took a deep breath. Time was limited. But in moments of suffering time was elastic. In the company of Mr Delaney, seven years seemed like seventy.
‘What if…’ I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. Somehow, the man’s lack of connection with my life made it easier. ‘What if you’re frightened?’ The dog, sensing my distress, nuzzled his head into my leg.
‘Frightened of what?’
‘That someone will hurt you. I mean, really hurt you …’ I trailed off not knowing what else to say without saying too much.
‘Well –’ the man rubbed his stubbly beard ‘– in my experience there’s nothing scarier in this world than being all alone.’
I stared at my feet. Was that true? Was being lonely worse than an iron hand clamped around your neck? Worse than his body, greased with last night’s sweat, slithering against yours?
‘I don’t know,’ I said, answering my own questions out loud.
‘Listen. I don’t pretend to know everything, although I’m sure my daughters would tell you otherwise, but I do know this: if you close yourself off to people, take yourself out of their equation, it’s true they can’t hurt you,’ he hesitated, weighing up if he should say what he was about to say next, ‘but they can’t love you either. Not if you won’t let them.’ We both took a deep breath of the salt air which was fresher at the end of the pier.
A familiar twinge strained in my chest. The force of everything I held back every day rammed against my ribcage, clawing through my membrane. Trying to break through. Keen to shake the feeling that I was acting out some grisly, cut scene from a David Cronenberg movie, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath, exhaling in the hope of relieving tension.
It didn’t work.
I wanted to tell this man more but dared not. What could he say, anyway? About that woman. Mrs Delaney, that spineless, friendless tramp who learnt how to nod too often. His whore.
‘This is… pretty heavy for seaside chat,’ I said, trying hard to fight back tears that, despite my best efforts, still threatened to fall.
‘Well, I hate small talk, and I refuse to become one of those old people who spends all their time telling young people how much better and cheaper things used to be. What do you care if the subway used to cost five cents? It don’t anymore.’ The man shook his head. I managed to laugh.
‘Old people aren’t forced to talk about rising prices,’ I said. ‘There’s the weather too, and baseball, don’t forget.’
‘Not sure I know you well enough to have a conversation about somethin’ as serious as baseball,’ said the man. I smiled over at him. He reached a bony hand across, squeezed my shoulder. I put my hand on top of his and sighed.
Looking back out to sea, I wondered. Where did I go? The day Mr and Mrs Delaney married, I disappeared. But where to? Did he hide me behind his ear like a silver coin in a cheap magic trick you show your cousin? Or maybe I was banished to his back trouser pocket, folded up somewhere in the hoard of expense receipts for black cabs and Japanese restaurants in Soho. All I know is for seven years I checked out. My body repossessed by his new wife. And now they were dead. And I had my life back. But even in death, his steel grip strangled.
The old man was right.
What good was a life you were too afraid to live?

Chapter Three (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
It was 11:50pm, ten minutes till closing, and I was sweeping the diner floor when the bell hanging over the doorway chimed. I sighed, propped the broom up against the counter and turned to see him: Jack Faber. It was raining outside and he was soaked. Breathing heavy. Staring hard.
I stared straight back at him. At this time of night there was no escape. No diversion. No distraction. Besides Lucia, who was out back clearing the mess Bernie had made during his shift on the grill earlier that day, the place was deserted.
‘Can I…help you, sir?’ I heard a waver in my voice I tried hard to correct. Under no circumstances must he guess he’d been in my thoughts for a considerable chunk of the day.
‘Yes.’ He took a couple of steps towards me, casting a long shadow across the shiny lino. ‘You can call me Jack rather than sir.’
‘Alright.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Can I help you, Jack?’
‘I think…I need some coffee.’ He shuffled closer.
‘Take a seat. I’ll bring some over.’ I gestured to a table but he disregarded this and sat in the same stool he’d taken at the counter the previous morning. I glared at him behind his back. Why was he making this so difficult? He was going to force another conversation even though I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested. I walked over to the coffee machine, pushed at the thin, black frames on my glasses, nudging them a little further up the bridge of my nose, poured his drink and delivered it as quick as possible.
My plan was to hide out in the kitchen with Lucia until he got bored and went home but as I was setting down the cup his hand brushed against the back of mine. This time, to my surprise, I didn’t recoil like the other day. Like every other time anyone who might be considered an eligible boyfriend came within reach. Instead, I looked down at our hands sitting on the counter, just an inch apart. His fingers drew nearer and touched the tips of mine. Keeping my hand still, neither accepting nor spurning his advance, I looked back up at him.
With the exception of my friend Ryan back in England, who didn’t really count, the actor was the first man to touch me in two years. I’d forgotten what it felt like: the spark that shoots through your body when someone you want makes it clear they want you back. His touch was softer than the last I’d known. A warm dream rather than the clinical stranglehold I’d learnt to pretend to adore.
‘That’s enough,’ I said, snatching back my hand, trying to work out if that was longing surging through me, or panic. He eyed me for a moment, taking in the effect he’d had on me. I took a pointed step backward.
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ he asked with a noticeable slur.
‘Are you drunk?’ I looked harder at him and tilted my head to one side.
‘Pffft,’ he almost snorted. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘The stench of whiskey is a bit of a clue.’
At this, his eyes fell to the counter. He sat up straighter in his chair and ran a hand through his hair which was still damp from the rain.
‘I might have had one or two glasses with a friend. But drunk? Of course not.’ He gave me an oversized smile in an attempt to make a joke of the fact that he was somewhat squiffy.
‘Is that the truth or are you just acting sober?’
He smiled. ‘Oh, so you know who I am now?’
‘Not remotely –’ I leant back on the work surface behind me, crossing my arms ‘– but my colleagues tell me you are some form of minor celebrity.’
‘Minor?’ The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed them.
‘Yep. Minor.’ If I was borderline obnoxious to him for long enough maybe he’d take the hint and give up this unwelcome plight to get to know me. He sat there with his mouth half-open. Groping for his next words.
‘Well, your colleagues are an informative bunch. Especially Mona. When I came in this morning she told me you were working later tonight.’
‘Did she? How helpful of her.’ I made a mental note to spend a good ten minutes giving Mona my Death Look the following morning. ‘Well, she further informed me you’re starring in some sappy-sounding movie about a girl with amnesia.’
‘It’s not sappy. It’s a very heartfelt script.’ He paused to stir a fifth consecutive sugar packet into his coffee. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me that romance isn’t your favourite genre.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah. You seem a touch too level-headed for that.’ He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.
‘I see. Any other dazzling insights? I mean, please, therapy is expensive over here so do go on.’
‘You pretend to be angrier than you really are.’ He pointed a playful finger as he spoke but I wasn’t to be drawn. Turning to the shelves behind me, I started stacking side plates.
‘Well, sorry you get that impression but you don’t know a thing about me.’ I could feel his eyes permeating, even with my back turned. The idea of him looking my body up and down should’ve made me shrivel. But instead, something stirred. An unusual twinge. Desire, simmering just beneath the skin.
‘Maybe that’s true but I’m a fast learner. And you never answered my question, by the way.’
‘Which one?’ I turned to face him. ‘You seem to be full of them.’
‘Did I do something to offend you?’ As he repeated his question the kitchen door creaked open ajar. Lucia had heard his voice from out back and was now, no doubt, enjoying the show.
‘No. It’s impossible for strangers to offend me. Their behaviour has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, wondering yet again what had caused the weird, wall-punching episode.
‘Strangers?’
‘Yeah. Strangers. People who don’t know you. At all.’
‘Well, I must’ve done something. Didn’t see you being so icy with Walt.’ He leant forward as he spoke.
‘Icy?’
‘Icy.’ He took a confident mouthful of coffee, clearly elated that he’d struck a nerve.
‘Do you wish to make a complaint about the service, sir? I can pass your number onto my boss in the morning?’ His eyes darted up and down as he looked at me. Was that aggravation or attraction?
‘Are you asking for my number?’ He leaned forward even further than before and looked, unblinking, into my eyes.
‘In your dreams,’ said my mouth but my face, against my will, moved closer to his. ‘I recommend you find yourself one of those polished and prim girls. You know, the type who think Pretty Woman is a genuinely romantic movie, and have time for manicures and will sit on a bar stool for hours laughing at your jokes. Go find one of them. I’m not about to become a founding member of the Jack Faber fan club.’
‘A woman who likes her movies but hates actors. That’s…that’s novel.’ He looked into my eyes and then down at my lips.
Lucia poked her head further round the kitchen door. ‘Hey Esther, it’s almost twelve. You locked up?’
‘Uh, just about to, Lu.’ I looked at Jack. He had the start of some wrinkles on his forehead that knitted together when there was something he didn’t understand. Attractive and on the brink of movie stardom, I reasoned he was unused to women showing any reluctance. But I was sure the curiosity my foot-dragging had sparked in him was only temporary.
‘Alright. I suppose I’m finished.’ Jack stood and pulled on his sodden suede jacket. Something about the way his hair hung forward as he did so roused an emptiness inside me. Maybe it was his accent reminding me of home or maybe I still had the words from the old man at Coney echoing in my ears but in that moment I wanted to be close to him. If only for one evanescent night. No consequences. No conversations. Just skin against skin. Of course, when I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out.
Jack noticed my attempt and seized on it anyway. ‘Do you want me to wait while you shut up shop and I’ll walk you home?’ His eyes were wider than before. Perhaps with hope or maybe he was just starting to sober.
‘No, but thanks,’ I said in a gentler tone. ‘It wouldn’t be worth your time. I just live around the corner. So…’
‘You say that but you managed to get mugged between here and there in broad daylight.’ He rested his hands on the counter, and flashed his roguish smile at me.
‘I’m not sure I have a sense of humour about that yet.’ I hung my head to one side and pursed my lips.
‘Wait, you have a sense of humour?’
I let out a quiet laugh in spite of myself.
‘So whereabouts do you live?’ he asked, edging towards me with the same caution an animal-control officer might exhibit whilst entrapping a mad dog.
‘If you must know, on Clinton Street.’ I took off my apron and folded it up on the counter. ‘The rent is so pricey I live largely on leftovers from this place but I wanted to be on that street. It’s mentioned in this Leonard Cohen record I’ve always loved.’
‘Oh. “Famous Blue Raincoat”.’
At this, I looked at him and now it was my turn to frown.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’
‘It’s a powerful song.’ He smiled – not his charming, glitzy smile but a softer, subtler version that was somehow more appealing.
‘Yes. It, it is. I went through this phase when I was a teenager of listening to it every day. It’s sort of hauntingly beautiful for reasons I’ve never been able to articulate.’ He nodded as though he understood. ‘Anyway…’ I said, remembering myself, and Jack’s fist crashing at the wall just yesterday.
‘You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?’ he asked, and his hands, still resting on the counter, moved closer to mine. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’
‘Look. I … it’s kind of you to offer. But I’m fine.’
‘I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Just to make sure you get home alright.’
My eyes widened.
He froze, understanding he’d said something he shouldn’t have – though he couldn’t have known what. In a split second the raw throb of all I wanted to forget came screaming back to me and, as a result, I all but screamed at him.
‘I don’t need your help, OK?’ My face had reddened. ‘I don’t need you to be nice to me or walk me home. Allow me to quench your unsolicited curiosity: I’m ordinary, alright? I’m nobody. I just want to do my job and live quietly. That’s all I want. So just… just sod off and leave me alone.’
Jack’s frown evolved into a scowl. He shook his head before pushing an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Psycho,’ he muttered, his voice glacial. Something dark and unspoken weighed heavy across his brow. Creasing the skin.
I swallowed hard. Psycho was a bit unfair. I wasn’t running the Motel o’ Death, I just couldn’t be entrapped once again by a beautiful face. For all her mistakes, that one was mine. My weakness for a strong jawline was the lightning bolt that had birthed the late Mrs Delaney. I was her Frankenstein; she was my creature.
I opened my mouth to ask if he thought all the women uninterested in dating him were psychos but shame over my outburst kept me quiet. Jack fixed his eyes on the counter, laying down ten dollars in a slow, deliberate manner.
‘Keep the change,’ he said, not even looking at me before storming out into the rain.

Chapter Four (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
‘See you’re all sunshine and light this mornin’,’ Mona had the audacity to say as she tied her apron strings. I glowered, dolloping vanilla ice cream into the blender to make some kid a milkshake. All night, I’d replayed my clash with Jack, resulting in little shuteye.
‘Well,’ I said, sticking my chin out, ‘I had a certain unwanted customer last night.’
‘Who?’ Mona knew who.
‘Patrick Swayze.’
Mona shrugged as though she still had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Jack. Jack Faber,’ I said, louder than I meant to. A woman in the corner wearing a red, hooded sweater looked over. Even from a distance, her green eyes pierced through me.
Mental note, Esther: lower your voice when ranting about budding actors who won’t take no for an answer.
‘So?’
‘So why’d you tell him I was working the late shift?’
‘All I said is that you was on later. He was a customer and he asked me a question. What you makin’ a big deal outta this for?’ Mona, put a hand on her hip.
‘A big deal? I –’
‘And I didn’t tell him anything,’ Walt piped up out of nowhere.
Turning, I scowled at the old man. ‘Walt? What did you say about me?’ I said, wishing I had something sharper than an ice cream scoop to shake at him.
‘Nothin’…’ He continued to cut his omelette into small pieces, looking at me over the top of his glasses.
I pressed my lips together and switched on the blender. The blades clattered and churned. Once pulverised, I delivered the milkshake to a sulky kid who didn’t even have the manners to say ‘thank you’.
‘Might’ve told him you like books but he could have guessed that for himself,’ Walt admitted once I was back behind the counter.
‘Look, I don’t interfere in your personal lives so I’d appreciate you paying me the same courtesy.’ I glanced between him and Mona.
‘Well, excuse us.’ Mona put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake from side to side. ‘We were just concerned that if we didn’t interfere you might never have a personal life.’
I looked at her, fighting a smile. ‘The wall-punching egotist with no understanding of personal space, that’s your idea of boyfriend material?’
‘What makes you think he’s an egotist?’ said Mona.
‘All actors are egotists.’ Our resident lady in red glanced over again from her corner. She had the hood pulled up on her sweater but I could still see her face was drawn, like she’d been fretting over something for a long, long time. As soon as she realised I’d noticed her, she again lowered those deep, green eyes and stared into her coffee. She wasn’t a regular. Knowing my luck she was also an actress and I’d just lost my tip.
‘Really? You’re protestin’ an awful lot,’ said Mona, drawing my attention away from the stranger.
‘Mona, come on… I’m serious.’
‘Hey Esther. Here’s one for you.’ Walt scanned along the crossword clues with the nib of his pen. The tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he did so.
‘You think after you gave sensitive information to the enemy I’m going to give you crossword answers?’ Quite a cruel thing to say to a Vietnam veteran, I admit, but a point had to be made. Hard as it was being alone, my life was complicated enough without these two stirring things up. ‘He didn’t even torture it out of you,’ I added.
Walt’s face contorted. ‘No. He gave me twenty bucks,’ he admitted.
‘What?’
‘He gave me twenty bucks to tell him what I knew about you. And I don’t know that much so, if you think about it, I played your enemy for a fool.’
He tried to snigger but I wasn’t amused. What kind of person paid an old man to get information about somebody they’d just met? Nice try, Faber. The drawbridge was up so you went in search of a rope to throw over the wall. Of course, I was already hiding behind the parapet, poised to cut you down with my sharp tongue. ‘Alright,’ I said, as Walt was starting to pout. ‘What’s the clue?’
‘Novel. 1938. First line: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ The conspiratorial smile returned to the old man’s face.
‘Oh, come on, Walt. You must know that one,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you watched any Hitchcock films in your time?’
‘Too busy watching baseball. You know it, don’t ya?’ He pointed his pen at me.
‘Rebecca.’ Walt checked the spacing in his puzzle and nodded.
‘What’s your story, kid? One day you gotta tell me.’
‘Once upon a time I lived in England.’ I replenished the napkin holders along the counter as I spoke. ‘Then I got a job cooking omelettes in an all-you-can-eat-buffet in Atlantic City. Then I became a waitress in New York. The end.’
‘Gotta be more to it than that.’ He squinted, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Well, knowing how cheap it is to buy information off you it’s best I keep the rest to myself.’
Walt grunted and returned to his crossword.
‘What’s with you?’ said Mona. ‘Why you so cagey ’bout everything? Particularly round fellas. You haven’t had one date since you moved here.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘Yeah, I’m listening.’ Mona stared at me hard. Waiting.
‘I’ve seen what men can do. That’s all.’ Mona raised an eyebrow, and my shoulders tensed. I knew that look. That eyebrow wouldn’t budge till I spoke again. ‘I knew someone, alright? Back in England. A woman. And her husband hurt her, really bad.’
‘Gawd, what he do to her?’ said Mona.
‘She died because of him.’ I folded my arms. Something about that last sentence wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t true. But it felt it. Deep down.
‘That’s awful.’ Mona shook her head. The lie scuttled down the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end.
‘Yeah. She should’ve got out. I mean, she tried but she should’ve tried harder. Sooner.’ In fairness to Mrs Delaney, she did struggle the first time. But never again. Never again until the day she died.
‘That’s real sad, it is,’ said Mona, ‘but honey, not all men are like that, y’know?’
‘Why risk it?’ I said, catching sight of Walt’s paper. The city murder rate hit its peak that year and the headlines grieved the dead in black, dismal ink. Most of us had learnt to numb out the latest atrocity but that day’s story wasn’t the kind you just shrug off. Printed on the front page of The Times was a picture of a little girl. Back then we knew her only as Baby Hope. The image was a reconstruction of what experts thought she looked like. No one could tell from the corpse alone. It’d been a month since the police found her body decomposing in a cooler. They still hadn’t identified her. I read her story. Each word, a punch in the gut. Before her murder, the four year-old had been tortured, and raped.
I scrunched my eyes shut and leant on the counter. Blistering tears burned behind my eye sockets, and for a moment the world seemed darker and far away.
‘Er, Esther? You alright?’ I heard Mona say. I nodded. The bell above the doorway chimed. Only then did I risk opening my eyes, swivelling to see who it was. My shoulders relaxed when I realised it was just Julie-Ann, a wannabe writer in her forties who, thanks to three separate alimony pots, was a self-made lady of leisure. She came to the diner a few times a week to gossip and to work on her novel. In my limited experience gossip always took precedence. According to Mona, she’d been working on her book for over six years. The consensus was she’d never finish it.
‘Hi Julie-Ann,’ I called over trying to blot out what I’d just read, and felt. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Oh, yes please. Definitely need a caffeine hit this morning. Had a late night – if you know what I mean.’ She took a seat and toyed with the ends of her hair which was permed into corkscrew tendrils and dyed with a colour she called ‘Deadly Nightshade’. To me, it just looked black. She was somewhat dishevelled which was unusual for her. The silk of her purple jumpsuit was creased. Her thick eyeliner blurred at the edges.
‘Was last night the night?’ Mona butted in. She was always first in line for customer tittle-tattle. ‘You even been home?’
‘I needed a coffee first.’ Julie-Ann gave in to an impish grin. She’d known she could cause a stir if she added the diner to her ‘walk of shame’ route map. ‘Last night he took me out to Staten Island for Mexican food, then we sat out looking over the water beneath the stars.’ Julie-Ann beamed. ‘I tell you, this is love. I feel like Barbra Streisand, you know, and Robert Redford in that movie.’
‘Oh, er.’ Mona clicked her fingers.
‘The Way We Were?’ I said.
‘Yeah!’ said Julie-Ann. ‘Oh, I love that movie.’ I resisted the almost crippling urge to remind Julie-Ann that Babs and her on-screen beau weren’t exactly booking a mini-break to Paris when the credits rolled at the end of that film.
The doorbell chimed and for a second time my eyes darted to the doorway but this time it was just Bernie, our boss. He waddled in and perched at the end of the counter. Bernie’s precise age was a mystery to me. He wasn’t greying but he’d lost a lot of his hair, which was brown and matted and concentrated on the sides of his head. His substantial tummy meant he had to sit some distance away from the counter surface. Even the effort of hoisting himself up onto his stool left him out of breath.
‘Morning, ladies. I see you’re hard at work as always.’ Poor Bernie spent much of his time trying to mask his contempt for women. His wife left him some years ago – a topic that was understood to be off limits amongst the diner staff. He’d never got over it, and now and then that old bitterness oozed out.
‘Everyone’s got their coffee, Bernie, don’t sweat it. You want some breakfast?’ asked Mona.
‘Yeah, ask Lucia to grill me some bacon, fresh,’ said Bernie.
‘You got it,’ Mona replied and we both disappeared into the kitchen. It was best to keep out of Bernie’s way until he’d had something to eat.
‘You gonna jump every time that doorbell goes today?’ asked Mona.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I mean, you’re looking at that door every two minutes. You’re gonna give yourself a neck injury at this rate. If I wasn’t so busy mindin’ my own business I’d say it was almost like you’re looking for someone particular.’ Mona crossed her arms. Slouched to one side.
‘She exchanged a stern word or two with Mr Faber last night,’ Lucia piped up, ‘maybe she’s lookin’ to make amends.’
‘Good to know you caught the whole show, Lu.’ Lucia threw some bacon rashers on the griddle and giggled. ‘I’m not looking for anyone. I have to keep an eye on who comes in. It’s my job to serve them,’ I argued. ‘Speaking of which, do you know that hooded woman on table twelve?’ I said.
‘Nope,’ said Mona, applying a fresh layer of pink lip gloss and using the microwave door as a convenient mirror.
‘Weird that she wears her hood up inside.’
‘Probably hiding out from some boyfriend who won’t leave her alone.’ Mona shrugged. ‘I seen that a lot. Course, you wouldn’t know anything about that kinda thing. Boyfriends, I mean.’
I sighed and left to take Bernie some coffee.
Although I tried hard not to react every time the door opened – Mona was watching me, ready to pounce with a quip – I did spend most of the day hoping Jack would be our next customer. We had numerous other punters: a tourist family from Belgium who wanted to see if maple syrup was a viable breakfast food; a loved-up couple in their twenties grabbing a burger on their way to watch The Exorcist III at the movies and a haughty businessman who tutted every ten seconds whilst we made his coffee-to-go. But Faber never showed.
By the time my shift finished at four o’ clock I was repeating the same phrase over and over in my mind: it’s for the best, Esther. For the best. I tried to think about Mr Delaney. The stench of him, up close. The feral glint in his eyes as he held her down. The ceaseless rhythm of him. But I could only hold these thoughts for moments at a time before they faded. Before I remembered the warmth of Jack’s hand on mine…
‘Mona, do you think I’m icy?’ I asked, changing out of my heels and into my trainers. Rubbing my toes to relieve the sting of the eight-hour shift.
‘Icy?’ Mona laughed. ‘Now, where’d you get an idea like that?’
‘Come on, tell me.’
‘Well, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say icy. But you definitely have a frost to you.’
I looked at the ground and pouted my lips to one side.
‘Aw honey, don’t you worry about it. Most people’ll just put it down to you being British.’
‘Oh, thanks. You’re a great comfort.’ I laughed in spite of myself. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Though it was after four, the heat out on East Houston Street was insufferable for anyone used to the soggy Augusts of England. I straggled along towards Clinton Street trying not to think about it all: the temperature and my emotional yo-yoing. A fire engine blared past. Nobody else paid it any heed but to me its peal was banshee-like. The exhaust fumes from passing taxis and buses created a suffocating cloud of smog and the air smelt of roasting nuts some vendor was selling on the street corner. A scent that mingled with the sweat hanging in the air and this, combined with the weather, left me nauseated. I rooted through my satchel. Amongst the empty perfume samples and loose sticks of gum and pulled out a bottle of water.
A phone booth further down the street caught my eye and a thought came to me. It was a thought that’d been skulking at the back of my mind ever since my conversation with the man at Coney. I’d done all I could to ignore it but what if he was right? What if the most frightening thing in this world was being alone?
I walked over and emptied out a handful of small change on the stand beneath the receiver. Picking up the phone, I pushed in the coins and dialled the one number I knew by heart. A click sounded out and then came a drowsy version of her voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum? Mum, it’s Esther.’ The line crackled. ‘I’m…I’m sorry, to ring so late, I forgot about the time zones.’
‘Esther? Oh God, I’ve been so worried,’ said Mum.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to settle into New York, you know, after Atlantic City.’ I paused then, thinking about the false start to my new life in America. It’d been just over a year since I flew into JFK, shipping out to Atlantic City shortly after, where I hoped to lead a quiet life by the sea. I should’ve known the town that inspired the original Monopoly board would be a town driven by greed, brimming with liars and cheats. At least in New York, the muggers were upfront about it.
‘Esther?’
‘Sorry, Mum. How are you, you OK?’ I asked, keen to keep this phone call as much about her as possible. The last thing Mum needed was to hear me sobbing down the phone from 3000 miles away.
‘I’m getting along,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ That was blatant Old Person Code for ‘I’m still breathing but that’s about it’. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are, love. I know.’ Her voice sounded strained. I looked to the sky, hating myself.
‘Mum, look, I was wondering –’ I took a deep breath ‘– do you want to come to New York? For a visit.’
‘Oh! Well, I could do that. When were you thinking?’ she asked.
‘As soon as you like or can get a flight. This phone booth is gobbling up all my change. But I … I just wanted to call,’ I said.
‘Alright. Well, call again in a couple of days and I’ll tell you what flight I’ve booked. It’s so good to hear from you.’ The strain in her voice had become a tremble and I wondered if she was doing that thing women do so well of letting silent tears slip down their cheeks over the phone, offering little indication of their grief to the person at the other end.
‘It’s good to hear your voice, Mum.’
‘Yours too,’ she replied. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you,’ I said, a lump lodging in my throat.
‘Esther?’ There was a dead pause. ‘You will be in touch, won’t you?’ The lump swelled to a pulsing tumour.
‘I promise, Mum. I promise I will this time.’
‘I’m glad.’ She seemed to perk up a bit at this. ‘It really is good to hear from you but suppose I should let you go if you’re short on money? You’ve probably other things to spend it on.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, thinking about all those miles between us. ‘I’ll be in touch next week about your trip. Bye, Mum.’
I hung up. My eyes glazed with tears. I could almost smell Mum’s perfume. The sedative scent of lavender. The imagined aroma was so strong I half-expected to see her round the corner in one of her loud, floral dresses. A big, chunky necklace clinking as she walked. But the street was littered only with strangers. I sighed and nodded. It wouldn’t be this way forever, I promised myself. It just couldn’t be.
Not forever.

Chapter Five (#ulink_28a2a57c-0f5e-5acc-9852-d0fe841e843a)
‘Heads-up,’ said Mona, as I frothed the milk for the millionth cappuccino that morning. I turned for just a second and then whipped back to face the coffee machine again, doing all I could to make myself seem nonchalant from behind.
‘Morning,’ said Faber’s now-familiar voice. I pursed my lips and feigned a deep fascination with the milk steamer.
‘Mornin’ how’re you doin’ today?’ said Mona. There was a pause. I saw Mona look at me out of the corner of my eye. The air around me thickened.
‘Alright, thanks,’ the actor replied.
‘Pretty darn peachy,’ said a chirpy woman’s voice.
‘Esther,’ said Mona. ‘You can serve Jack, can’t you? I’ve got to sort tomorrow’s bakery order.’
I glowered. She didn’t have to do that job right then. She knew it and she knew I knew it. But I couldn’t make a scene. Serving people was, after all, my job. Fastening a smile to my lips, I turned to see him perched at the counter next to Walt.
‘Good morning, what can I get for you?’
Jack looked into my eyes. His expression unreadable. It’d been three days since I’d seen him and now it appeared that he had a woman in tow.
‘This is Angela,’ said Jack, ignoring my question. Tearing from his steady gaze, I looked at her. It was the same young woman who asked for his autograph the day we met. Studying her face, I realised I’d seen her in the diner a couple of times before. Somehow I managed to hold my smile in place and nod. She was holding hands with Jack. Her fingers entangled themselves with his on the counter top, similar to how mine had a few nights ago. I moved my eyes upwards again. Jack was looking at me, looking at their hands.
‘So what can I get for you?’ I tried again.
‘I’ll have the fruit salad,’ said Angela.
‘No problem.’ I concentrated hard on writing down her order. Anything to distract myself from her shiny hair, or her manicured nails or that she was holding hands with Jack. ‘Can I get you a drink with that?’
‘Um. No I’ll just stick with some water, thanks.’
‘Are you sure that’s all you want?’ Jack asked her. ‘I’m definitely having pancakes.’
‘No, I’m good with the fruit salad.’ Some dark part of me spat silent slurs about her ultra-virtuous menu choice. Good job neither of them were psychic. It wasn’t her fault Jack asked her out. Or that I was so lonely. Like everything else, it was Mrs Delaney’s.
‘Pancakes? What toppings?’ I asked Jack. He paused before replying, forcing me to look at him to prompt a response.
‘Strawberries, please.’ He smiled. I didn’t reciprocate. You don’t get to call me a psycho and have me smile at you. Those two things are mutually exclusive.
‘Right, and to drink?’
‘Er…’ He looked at me. I glared back, tilting my head and tapping my notebook with the end of my pen. He looked at the pen and then back at my irritable face.
‘Just a coffee. Thanks.’ He put an arm around Angela.
‘Coming right up,’ I said, all but snatching the menus from them.
‘Hey Esther.’
‘Hang on, Walt. I’ll just get this order into the kitchen and I’ll be right over.’ I reasoned the sooner I served them, the sooner they’d be gone. Thus, the sooner I could stop watching her bury her head into his shoulder, or him, pulling her close and kissing the neat bow of her lips. She was polished and prim alright. Jack had followed my advice to the letter.
On delivering their order to Lucia, I caught my reflection in the small, round window of the kitchen door. My blonde hair was scraped back any old how into a ponytail. In this light, my skin looked almost sallow and, even in the air-conditioning, I was sweating with the effort of running around after customers. In short: I looked a mess. I’d looked a mess for months, but for the first time in a long time I wished I’d gone to the effort of at least moisturising before leaving the flat. Out of nowhere, the door swung towards me. Mona stepped through it.
‘What are you doin’ stood right there? Nearly knocked you out.’ She shook her head.
‘Er, nothing.’ I propped my glasses up on my head for something casual to do. ‘Sorry. Lapsed into a daydream. Must be tired.’
‘Well, Walt’s itchin’ to ask you today’s clue. And he needs a top up,’ said Mona.
‘I’ll go and sort him out.’
‘You OK?’ Mona tilted her head as she looked at me.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just. Well…’
‘What?’ I heard the defensiveness in my voice but pretended not to.
‘Nothin’. I can see Mr Faber and his lady friend ain’t botherin’ you a jot.’
Other than a weak smile I didn’t offer a response. In the land of the free, Jack could eat pancakes wherever and with whoever he wanted.
Marching back out into the diner, I carried a coffee jug over to Walt. From there I had unparalleled views of the happy couple. Angela was giggling at a joke Jack had just made. His hands were in her hair.
‘Want a top up, Walt?’ Though his body still faced Angela, Jack looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘Yeah –’ Walt grinned ‘– but more importantly, there’s a clue for ya.’
‘Alright, I’m listening,’ I said, pouring a drop more coffee into his cup.
‘Pen name used by Sylvia Plath for her first and only novel, The Bell Jar.’
‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘That is a tricky one.’ Walt’s face dropped. He’d never asked me a clue question that’d given me pause. ‘It’s been a long time since I read any Plath but I think the name she used was Lucas. Victoria Lucas. Does that fit?’ Walt made a small calculation and smiled.
‘It’s a fit. 17 across and 21 down.’
‘You know so much,’ Angela said; Walt’s question had distracted her from Jack’s lips.
I shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve been on the planet a lot longer than you so I’ve had more time to absorb.’ She laughed but Jack didn’t find my comment so amusing. He’d sussed that although I was being kind to Angela it was also a sly dig at his choice to date a woman who was, at a guess, a good ten years his junior.
Mona came over with Jack and Angela’s breakfast. I had to admire Angela’s willpower: next to Jack’s pancakes, the fruit salad looked paltry. Still, she had her reward. Her waist was tiny. She chewed her food in small, mousey movements that betrayed a certain self-consciousness about eating in public, despite her enviable figure.
Mona smiled as the doorbell chimed. ‘There’s my man.’ Her husband, Alan, always came to visit on Wednesdays, taking a short break from his beat along Broadway. She glided over and gave him a peck on the lips.
‘Mornin’, jelly bean. How about some coffee?’ Mona stroked his beard, which was trimmed close to his face, took off his hat and laid it on the counter. Alan, I’d gleaned from Mona’s numerous rants, had a tendency to bring police business home with him and the removal of his hat was a well-worn ritual between them that signified he was off duty. Shop talk was off limits.
‘I’ll get that for you, Alan,’ I said, desperate for a distraction from the almost non-stop smooching Jack and Angela were engaged in. Alan took a seat next to Walt. I poured his coffee.
‘Heard you got mugged last week,’ Alan said.
I stiffened. Mona had spoken to him even though I’d told her not to.
‘Alan Montgomery,’ Mona interjected, laying her hands down heavy on the counter. ‘Where is your hat?’ Alan looked like a school boy who’d been caught stealing the milk money.
‘On the counter.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I was askin’ for purely personal reasons. I care about Esther so it don’t count as shop talk,’ he tried.
Mona pursed her lips and put a hand on her hip but Lucia called out one of her order numbers so she was unable to monitor the situation any longer.
‘So, what happened?’ Alan hissed at me with wide eyes. Jack looked over at this. I caught his eye and wondered if he was thinking, as I was, about the morning we met.
‘I’m not encouraging you,’ I whispered, checking to see if Mona was stood anywhere behind me. ‘It was nothing anyway. Just some kids.’ I rubbed my head where the cut was still healing.
‘You know you should have reported it,’ he said, feeling bold enough to raise his hiss to a murmur.
‘Come on, Alan.’ I smiled. ‘I know you’ve got better things to do than look for the eighteen dollars they took from me.’
‘It’s not just that. If they’re doing it to you they’re probably doing it to others.’ Then he added with a smile, ‘Maybe folk who aren’t as scrappy as you.’ I let out a short laugh whilst wracking my brain for some surreptitious way to change the subject.
‘Really Alan, it’s not worth your time,’ I tried again, unable to think of anything else.
‘Did they hurt you?’
‘No.’ Jack still had an eye on me. Was that concern imprinted on his face? ‘One of them hit me across the head but it wasn’t designed to knock me out. Or if it was they need to lift a few more weights. They were just trying to scare me so I’d hand over what I had.’
‘Were they armed?’ Alan glanced over to the kitchen. There was something adorable about the fact he looked down the barrel of a gun without a second thought but was scared of his wife who was a mere two inches taller than my modest five foot three stature.
‘Only with knives.’ I gave him the loosest shrug in my armoury.
‘Well, that’s bad enough. You should still report it.’
‘OK, Alan, I’ll think about it.’ There was no way I was going anywhere near a police station of my own accord but I had to find a way to pacify him.
‘Good.’ He sipped his coffee and, aware that Mona would be walking past any minute, changed the subject of his own free will. ‘How’s it goin’, Walt?’
‘Alright,’ he said, and then pointed his thumb at Jack and Angela who’d resumed kissing. ‘Except this gal over here might need surgery. She’s got some guy stuck to her face.’ Walt looked at me with a sparkle in his eye and erupted into a bout of childish laughter. His hooting was so infectious I wound up joining in, releasing some of the inner-tension Alan’s probing had stirred.
Our outburst scattered the lovebirds.
‘I didn’t know it was even possible you could laugh like that,’ Jack remarked.
‘Well,’ I said, straightening my face after his dig, ‘maybe I don’t find you so funny.’
‘Mona! Esther!’ Bernie shouted from his perch. ‘Would you come over here and stop clowning around? I’ve got matters to discuss.’ Mona, who’d come back over to find out what the commotion was, exchanged a look of tetchiness with me before we sauntered over to where he was sitting. Lucia was due a night off, which meant he’d have to work the late shift in the kitchen, a fact guaranteed to make him even more of a grouch than usual.
‘What’s up, Bernie?’ asked Mona.
‘The week after next, instead of working here I’m taking you to get fitted for the hop. Let’s say the Thursday, that’s the 22
. It’s usually quiet in the afternoon so we’ll shut up shop for an hour and head up to midtown.’
‘Sorry, what do you mean fitted?’ I asked. I knew about the annual event Bernie hosted at the diner. A night where all the chairs and tables were cleared away to make dance space for a vintage party, during which he piped fifties music over the jukebox until late. Bernie made more in one night than he usually did in two weeks. I’d no idea, however, there were any special requirements of us as waitresses.
‘Every year Bernie buys the waitresses a new dress for the hop. You get to keep it. They’re cut in the fifties style so they’re always glam. It’s sorta like a bonus,’ said Mona.
‘That’s really kind, Bernie.’ I smiled thinking about how long it had been since I’d had anything new that wasn’t a second-hand book.
‘Well, people spend more on the night if there’s a bit of flesh on show,’ Bernie explained.
‘Flesh?’
‘Don’t you worry, honey. He’s talking in comparison to our diner uniforms. Modest amount of cleavage. A flash of leg. Nothing you wouldn’t put on show if you were going to any other party,’ said Mona before looking back at Bernie. ‘You payin’ for our hair and make-up this year? I loved the way they curled my hair last time.’
‘You’ll get the works,’ Bernie replied without a smile. ‘Just make sure those tickets sell out by the end of the week.’
‘Not a problem.’ Mona did a quick calculation in her head. ‘We’ve only got ten left.’
‘When is the hop, Mona?’ asked Jack who, having extracted himself from Angela’s lips, had been listening in.
‘It’s two weeks today, Saturday 25th. Tickets are twenty bucks.’ she replied.
Jack turned to Angela. ‘Do you want to go?’
‘Sure. Fifties music is so cute and retro.’
Jack nodded and pressed his lips together. ‘Can I buy two tickets, Mona?’
‘Sure honey, I’ll add it to your cheque.’
I looked over at Jack and Angela and thought ahead to the night of the hop. They’d come together. I’d have to watch them laughing and dancing, knowing that if things were different I might have taken her place.
It was in this not so very special moment that I hatched a plan to avoid anymore suspicion from Mona over my feelings for Jack. She could see my strong aversion to him was a cover-up for the fact I found him… well, intriguing. The obvious solution was to stop being so sensitive about it. If Jack was in a relationship with someone else, there wasn’t any danger of anything happening between us. And if there was no chance of him making a move then what harm would it do to be pleasant? He had a gorgeous twenty-something at his side and, in his own words, thought I was psycho. He wasn’t interested in me – which made things easier and meant I could get Mona off my back.
I looked over to him once again. Shovelling the last morsels of pancake into his mouth. Nodding at something Angela was explaining. He noticed me, looking. Instinct diverted my eyes down to the counter but, realising I no longer had to worry about the little things, I raised my eyes again to meet his, which were still fixed on me. I smiled the smallest of smiles and he mirrored my expression as he chewed his food with a vague grin on his face.
‘Esther? Hello?’ Bernie’s voice sliced through my thoughts. ‘You gonna clear table six, or what?’
‘Yes. Sorry,’ I said, snapping out of contemplation mode. I’d just started stacking the plates onto a tray and washing down the plastic, gingham table cover when, out of nowhere, I heard the last thing I was ever expecting to hear.
‘Mrs Delaney? Is that you?’ A familiar voice sounded out across the diner. I hadn’t been called by that name in almost two years. Everyone at the counter looked my way. I froze, my eyes widened and I turned.

Chapter Six (#ulink_37cec6d3-b901-5640-b57e-117ec259a430)
Stood before me, as though collaged into my New York existence, were Sandra and David Rutherford. I’d taught their daughter about four years ago. Isabella struggled with English throughout her secondary education, meaning we’d all sat through a number of parent/teacher conferences to discuss solutions. Now I thought about it, they were the sort of couple who were always tanned from some expensive, foreign getaway. This year, it seemed, they’d chosen to trip off to Manhattan for a few weeks. There they stood, at the till, ordering takeaway coffees from Bernie.
Sandra hadn’t asked for a restyle at the hairdresser’s in the last five years; she had the same mousey, shoulder-length bob she wore back when I knew her in England. She still favoured loose, baggy tops around three sizes too big and her smile was just as placid. She never could quite bring herself to reveal her teeth. In that respect, David was her opposite. His teeth hung too far over his bottom lip making his face lopsided, goofy.
Hi …’ I managed but that’s all I managed. I stumbled forward. The tray of crockery slid from my hands. I heard the shatter. I saw their mouths drop open but couldn’t react myself. The world hazed. A toxic green cloud fell over me and the last thing I remember is reaching out for the back of a chair before everything went dark. Mona later relayed, many times over to anyone who would listen, that I’d missed the chair and fallen hard to the floor. Both Alan and Jack, realising I was going to faint, tried to get to me in time and failed.
The first thing I was aware of after the blankness was the sound of Jack, Walt and Alan discussing how to wake me up … followed by the sharp scent of bourbon.
‘Will this work?’ asked Alan.
‘Guaranteed. If it worked in Nam, it’ll work here,’ Walt replied.
‘She fell so hard,’ Jack said. Their voices were backed by a chorus of chattering customers. All of whom, I could hear, were gossiping about me: the ‘little lady who’d taken a fall’. They didn’t hear me beg but every cell in my body screamed for a way out. Don’t wake me. Please. Let me stay here. Somewhere between this world and the next. Where I don’t have to answer questions. Don’t have to avoid your eye. Or remember. What he did to her. What I did to him …
Then, there was a sting as something strong and alcoholic wafted up my nostrils. My eyes jolted open.
‘Easy, easy…’ said Alan. Squinting up at the three concerned faces staring down at me, I tried to sit up. That was a mistake. I cried out with the pain. ‘Give yourself a second, I know you’re tough but you took quite a fall,’ Alan added. I offered him a feeble smile for talking to me as he would a child who’d braved an injection at the doctor’s.
‘Is my head big?’ I croaked. ‘It feels too big.’
‘You’ve got a bit of a bump but otherwise your head is pretty much the size it should be,’ Jack said. ‘Can you sit up now?’
‘I think so,’ I replied, and, with less grace than I would’ve liked, I did.
Alan smiled. ‘You’re having quite a week.’
‘Yes. I wrote my dissertation on being a magnet for trouble. I’m OK,’ I said as they helped me up into a chair. I put a hand to my head. Dizzy and bruised, not to mention mortified, I sat as still as I could in the hope the room would stop spinning. The Rutherfords stood just yards away, red-faced at being the root cause of this ruckus. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you,’ I called over to them. They inched closer.
‘We didn’t mean to shock you,’ said Sandra, taking her time over every word, as though any utterance might send me into another faint.
‘You didn’t. Not at all,’ I lied. ‘I’ve just, I haven’t been eating properly or looking after myself. Seeing you was just an added surprise my body wasn’t expecting. You mustn’t blame yourselves.’ I flashed them my most convincing smile.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you in that uniform,’ said David. ‘Given up teaching, have you?’
‘No, er yes.’ I was conscious of the regulars watching, and listening. ‘I … I decided to take a break. You know, from the responsibilities of teaching.’
‘Oh. After… I mean we heard about –’ Sandra began.
‘Yes,’ I interrupted. ‘Fresh start.’ Sandra nodded. David looked as vacant as ever. ‘So, you in New York for long?’ I asked, hoping the answer was something along the lines of ‘we’re just on our way to the airport to catch a flight home’.
‘Coupla weeks,’ David said. ‘Just on our way to the Empire State Building but we read about this place and thought we’d give it a quick look. It’s rather something, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Life’s simpler in the fifties.’ I smiled. David pointed a finger at me and laughed, then an awkward silence fell over us. ‘How’s Isabella?’ I asked, desperate to fill the silence with something. Sandra understood me but David could start blabbing on about the late Mr and Mrs Delaney in front of the whole diner gang at any moment.
David beamed. ‘Oh, she’s fantastic. She got a graduate position in the city and is busy working her way up the banking ladder.’
‘Banking,’ I repeated. ‘Can be quite stressful during a recession, I believe.’ It had been for him. But Mrs Delaney was always there. Ready to sprawl and relieve the pressure.
‘She seems to be coping.’ Sandra smiled. Silence again. I had to get these two out the door sharpish.
‘Well, sorry about the whole fainting thing. I really need to slow down.’ I strained out a laugh though my whole head pulsed when I did so. ‘I hope you enjoy the Empire State Building. The view up there will be quite spectacular today.’
‘Yes. Thanks. And er. Sorry. I mean. I hope you’re OK,’ said Sandra. I nodded. And with that they picked up their takeaway coffees, waving goodbye.
The second they left I knew there’d be pressure to explain. Bernie hobbled over, weighing up how to respond to the havoc I’d wreaked. Mona, Alan, Walt, Angela and Jack were all looking at me; even Lucia had ducked out of the kitchen. I was surrounded by faces that begged for answers. The thought of telling my story however, even excerpts from it, made me want to throw up. Or maybe that was just the first signs of a concussion.
‘Suppose I better start clearing up the mess I made. Sorry, Bernie.’ Perhaps I could distract them by being industrious.
‘Don’t worry ’bout that,’ he replied. Of all the responses Bernie had considered in the last minute, he seemed to have landed on pity. ‘You should go home. Rest up.’
‘You mean I’ve caused enough damage for one day?’ I tried to smile.
‘You clearly need a break and it’s not like the world is going to end if you don’t wait on customers this afternoon,’ he said in the softest tone I’d ever heard him use.
‘Thanks. I know you must have … questions …’ I pressed down on the table in an attempt to stand but it was still too soon and I had to sit again.
‘We wouldn’t dream of pryin’,’ said Mona, the corners of her mouth twitching. ‘But you can probably tell the story better tomorrow anyway, when you haven’t had a knock to the head.’
I sighed. Mona’s maternal instinct only just trumped her love for gossip.
‘You can barely stand,’ said Jack.
‘I can see you home,’ Alan offered.
‘Oh, Alan, that’s not necessary.’ I smiled so hard at him I probably looked like a game-show host. ‘Walking home a woman who’s fainted is hardly police business.’
‘Well, I do have a hearing to get to… but you shouldn’t walk back alone, Esther.’
‘Maybe Jack could see you home,’ Mona suggested with an almost untraceable smirk. Angela looked at Jack and pursed her lips. I glared at Mona for meddling yet again.
‘No, no, no. I’m fine,’ I said. Angela was so beautiful it was unthinkable that she should be insecure but, being a kid, she was. I could see it in the thin smile she’d forced onto her face. A smile she’d borrowed from me. She was quiet for a few moments and then, looking down at me, shook her head.
‘Esther, you’re not fine. I’d come with you but I have to get to work. Jack can walk you home.’
‘But –’ I began.
‘No. You need help,’ Angela insisted. She nodded at Jack, pecked him on the cheek and squeezed my arm on her way out.
‘Look. I… I don’t want to …’ I looked up at Jack. ‘It’s kind, but you don’t need to go to the trouble of walking me home. I don’t live far.’ In my weakened state the last thing I needed was to be left alone, unsupervised, with Jack.
‘Yes, you live nearby. Which is why it’s no trouble,’ he said.
I sighed and shook my head.
‘Stop being so stubborn and let the man see you home,’ said Mona.
‘Alright, alright.’ I closed my eyes. Peril lurked in some quiet corner of this situation. I could feel its stale, over-familiar breath on the back of my neck but didn’t have the strength for an argument. With my head hung low I rose from my seat. ‘I’m sorry about the mess, Bernie.’
‘Forget about it,’ was all he would say on the matter.
The walk home was slower than expected. In the diner the air-conditioning kept me cool but out in the street there was no escape from the humidity. On more than one occasion, given the blow I’d taken, I was convinced I’d wind up unconscious on the ground again.
‘Sorry,’ I said to Jack who was walking close beside me. ‘This is going to take all day at this rate.’ I leant against a nearby scaffolding pole.
‘Just take it at your own pace,’ he replied then looked at me, his face alight with an idea. ‘In fact …’ and without another word he picked me up. I let out a sharp yelp of surprise and wrapped my arms around his neck. We looked at each other.
‘You can’t carry me like this all the way to my place. I weigh a tonne,’ I said.
‘You do not weigh a tonne,’ he laughed at the suggestion. ‘You’re practically in miniature.’ I wanted to react to this with a playful punch to the stomach – that’s the kind of thing you can do to someone you’ve met a whole three times in your life right? – but I’d neither the strength nor the angle. I settled for raising an eyebrow.
Jack began walking towards my room on Clinton Street as per my directions. Having his arms around me, well, it’d been a long time since anyone had put their arms around me like that. After what’d happened with Mr Delaney, I never expected to crave closeness. Not to a man, anyway. But I couldn’t deny the truth. At least, not in my own head. Some days my arms ached for the warmth of someone else’s. To, just for a moment, know I wasn’t on my own. That I didn’t need to be on guard because I was safe where I was. In quiet moments, I’d started to daydream about losing myself in the warmth of somebody else’s body. In the warmth of Jack’s body.
With this in mind I should’ve felt soothed by Jack’s embrace but the position was far too intimate for two people so unavailable to one another. Grooms carried brides over thresholds like this, and the proximity of his body to mine amplified my awkwardness. The whole time he was holding me I didn’t know where to put my head. If I kept it upright my face was too close to his. Our lips and noses brushing by each other. Then there was a moment of eye contact before nervousness got the better of me and I looked away. Leaning my head against his chest didn’t work either. There was something personal about the gesture. It didn’t feel like an OK thing to do knowing he was involved with someone else. So I alternated between the two arrangements. Switching the instant one of them became too intense.
Within ten minutes we reached my building. He lowered me back to street level. I held a hand against my head, trying to stay steady.
‘You sure you don’t want me to carry you up the stairs?’ He was dead serious.
I smiled. ‘You’ve been very chivalrous, but I think carrying me up the stairs would be bordering on showing off.’ He laughed while I thought about what I’d want to happen next if I let him carry me upstairs.
‘As I’ve carried you all this way, have I earned the right to ask you one question and get a straight answer?’
‘Alright. But you’ve got one question so use it wisely.’
That gave him pause. He opened his mouth and closed it again before posing his question.
‘I couldn’t help noticing that couple called you Mrs Delaney.’ He looked at me, his eyes expectant. As though that statement alone was enough to prompt me into spilling my story.
‘What’s the question?’
‘Are you…married?’ he asked. I looked at the ground. Tears swelled but I fought them. I took a deep breath, stared back at him. His frown had returned. He looked sorry for even asking the question.
‘No. I was once. But I’m not anymore.’ There. That wasn’t a lie. Not the whole truth but not a lie.
‘I’m sorry. I…’ He scratched his forehead dead in the centre. ‘I got married too. When I was younger. It didn’t work out. Makes it difficult to trust new people. And that, well, that can get pretty lonely.’ He took a step towards me.
‘Well,’ I said, part pleased by his assumption, part wishing I had the guts to tell him something closer to the truth, ‘I suppose everybody’s loved and lost,’ and then added, ‘I’m sort of trying to stop acting like I’m the first person in history to have it happen to them.’
‘I didn’t realise.’ He bowed his head. ‘God. I shouldn’t have called you…’ He took another step forward.
‘A psycho?’ I shuffled on the spot.
He opened his mouth to say something but the words stuck in his throat. Staring into each other’s eyes, we cut through our awkwardness with short, nervous laughter.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve had some bad…’ He stopped and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Please, just forget I said that.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ I gave him a frail smile. ‘Thanks for getting me home.’ Turning then, I walked up the steps to the front door, fumbled for my keys.
‘So I’ll see you around. In the diner maybe,’ he called, stood at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets. He looked so humble, not at all like someone who was about to get their big break in the movies.
‘Yeah. Well, you and Angela are going to the hop, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, er…yes.’ He glanced down at the pavement.
‘Guess I’ll see you then, if not before.’ I gave him a nod and scurried inside, pushing the door shut behind me. Leaning back against it, I let out a heavy sigh. My head throbbed, my mind flitting back to the moments I’d spent in Jack’s arms. Best not to get dejected or anxious about how overpowering the need to be close to him now was. He was with Angela and that was for the best. For everyone. Yes, I’d been lonely the past couple of years. Being on my own hadn’t proved as easy as I thought but what was the alternative? Getting close to someone? Losing myself a second time? No. If I let that happen again, I may never find my way back.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_f9cd6c17-0e9a-5c41-a5a1-4057c808b78f)
An assembly line of familiar faces awaited at the diner the next day, including Jack and Angela. All of them in earlier than usual, guaranteeing a front row seat at the counter.
‘Mornin’,’ Mona said with obvious weight.
‘Good morning.’ I smiled. ‘Anybody need their order taking?’
‘Yes. I’ve got an order here for an explanation about what happened yesterday.’ Mona put her head on one side, and leaned in towards me.
‘Can’t I at least get a cup of coffee down me before the interrogation begins?’ I yawned. I’d been awake most of the night with my throbbing head.
Mona laughed. ‘Not sure I can stretch to that, it’s been bad enough waitin’ this long. You really gonna make us speculate any longer? C’mon.’
‘It’s a dull story. I warn you now. Total anti-climax.’
Oh Esther, you liar.
‘Let us be the judge of that.’ Mona rested on a high stool stood behind the counter and looked at me, waiting. I took a deep breath and thought about what to say. Where to begin. How little I could get away with telling them.
‘You were a teacher,’ said Walt. I looked at him, picked up a coffee jug and topped up his drink before answering.
‘I used to teach literature. Back in England.’
‘That explains the crossword clues.’ I shook my head. For Walt, that was the most significant enigma of all when it came to me. A waitress who read for pleasure was a species completely beyond his imagination.
‘You got me stumped, Esther,’ said Mona. ‘If you can teach about Shakespeare what in the world are you doin’ sweeping floors and makin’ milkshakes? If I could teach about books I wouldn’t be here. You can be sure of that.’
‘What’s wrong with this place?’ asked Bernie from his perch at the end of the counter.
‘Nothin’,’ said Mona. ‘I just love comin’ home with achin’ feet and smellin’ of bacon fat. Loved it every day for the past thirteen years.’ Bernie’s left eye twitched but he didn’t say any more on the subject. Mona turned back to me with an expectant hand on her hip. ‘Well?’ I looked at Jack. He caught my eye but then looked down into his coffee, stirring in some more milk.
‘Well, teaching, like a lot of things, isn’t the charmed life you might imagine.’ That’s right, Esther. Focus on the professional. Keep it surface. ‘People think all you have to do is talk for a few hours and revel in the long holidays but there’s a lot of pressure. At least there was back in England.’
‘So you left to be a waitress?’
I gave Mona a playful push. ‘I left to become something I wasn’t.’ That was the most truthful thing I’d said to anyone for years. ‘For the first time in my life I didn’t know what I’d be, and that was exciting.’
‘Waitressin’ excitin’?’ Mona shook her head in disbelief.
‘In a city like New York? Yes it is, to me,’ I said.
‘Well I ain’t never heard nothing like it. All that studyin’ of books, years it must’ve took, and you travel halfway around the world to serve people eggs and toast. Can barely pay your rent,’ said Mona.
‘I don’t expect you to understand –’ I started pulling pots out of the dishwasher ‘– but to me it’s liberating. I don’t have the weight of children’s futures on my shoulders. Leaves room in my head for other things. Each day I wake up knowing the worst thing I can do is take the wrong order to a table.’
Or lie to everyone. About everything.
‘Actually,’ Angela said, speaking for the first time that morning, ‘I think we learnt yesterday that’s not entirely the worst you could do…’
‘Angela.’ Jack shook his head.
‘Oh, I was just joking, Esther…’ she began to backtrack.
‘It’s fine.’ I laughed. ‘I took it as it was meant.’ She smiled a radiant smile. Her lip gloss glimmered even in the faint, yellowing light of the diner, and she wore an acid green shift dress patterned with tiny triangles that brought out the earthier tones of her rich, brown hair. It was conclusive: she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life. Eat your heart out Yasmin Le Bon.
‘So that’s it?’ Mona turned her head sideways.
‘That’s it.’
‘Oh, and there’s just that little matter ’bout you bein’ a Mrs?’
‘Yes.’ I bristled. Mona didn’t miss a thing. ‘I had a husband. And I don’t like to talk about it. And that’s definitely enough fodder for you lot for one day. I’ve got to get on.’
‘You sure do,’ said Bernie, ‘and you too.’ He glared at Mona who would stand and gossip all day if it weren’t for the distraction of serving customers.
‘Before you do, I’ve got a clue for ya.’ Walt sat armed with a black biro and a crumpled copy of The Times.
‘Hasn’t the fun being taken out of it now you know the source of all my powers?’ I asked.
‘No. Not all the fun.’ He chuckled.
‘Alright.’ I shook my head stacking the next load of cups and plates in the dishwasher. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Famous poet who wrote “Beauty is truth” –’
‘Keats,’ said Jack and I, our voices falling on top of one another. I stared into his face. He stared into mine. An idiotic, dreamy smile crept across my lips. Handsome and familiar with the poetry of John Keats, how was I supposed to resist that combination long-term? Angela looked between us, one to the other.
‘How’d you guys know that?’ she asked, the wounded note in her voice snapped me out of my trance. Jack must have noticed it too. He ran reassuring fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head.
‘Well, it used to be my job to know things like that. I don’t know what his story is. Old age, probably.’
Angela twittered.
‘Actually, Keats is one of my favourite poets,’ said Jack. ‘You’re not the only person around here to have read a few books.’ He narrowed his eyes in jest.
‘Well,’ Angela said, draping her arms around Jack’s neck, then turning his chin to face her and looking deep into his eyes, ‘I’ve never heard anything by Keats. Maybe you could read me some later tonight?’
‘I’d love to.’ He smiled and rested his hands on her hips. ‘I’ve got to go now though, got a read-through to get to.’
‘Jack’s first movie is doing so well at the box office, he’s landed a role in a new action movie.’ Angela bragged to the small crowd of regulars. ‘It’s called Nowhere Left to Hide.’
‘I can just imagine him comin’ to the rescue.’ Mona smiled, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I glowered even though I didn’t know whether she could see my expression. Her little dig confirmed my suspicions that yesterday’s incident would become part of the diner’s mythology – a story that would never die. I sighed at the thought of my future notoriety and started cleaning down the counter top for something to do.
‘See you at your place?’ Angela asked Jack.
‘Yeah. I’ll see you.’ Angela leaned in to kiss Jack but he made what seemed like an awkward swerve and she missed. He kissed her on the forehead instead and left the money for his breakfast on the saucer with his cheque. Angela watched after him and then turned back to her apricot smoothie. Stirring the pulp with her straw.
‘You sure got a catch there, honey,’ said Mona.
‘Yeah.’ She looked down at her drink. ‘I’m not sure it’s gonna work out though.’
‘What?’ My voice was shriller than I’d have liked. ‘Why not? You two just got together,’ I said, adjusting to a more casual register.
‘I know. It’s complicated.’
‘It’s complicated already? What’ve you had, like four dates?’ asked Mona, leaning closer.
‘Six, if you count the day we met.’ Angela smiled. ‘It’s weird. I don’t really know how to explain it.’ She paused for a moment. Looked at me, then down at the counter. ‘On one level I know I should be ecstatic Jack wants to take me out. When he gave me his number I was like that, but you know when someone is just not who you thought they’d be?’
‘Huh,’ Mona grunted, ‘just about every man I ever dated, except Alan of course, but even he has his moments.’
‘I think he’s gorgeous obviously. But I thought… Something’s just not right,’ she said.
‘Well, maybe you should give it a bit more time?’ I suggested. ‘You probably haven’t known him long enough to make an in-depth assessment of your relationship potential. It’s very early days.’ Then I stopped talking and began thinking about how sick it was to play relationship counsellor with a woman I’d just met and a man I was struggling to resist. It was insane that the only way I could be close to Jack was to keep my distance. In what universe did that make sense? And much, much worse, I was advising Angela through the sour fog of a hidden agenda. She deserved better than that, and I knew it.
‘You’re probably right.’ Angela shrugged. ‘He just seems…’
‘What?’ asked Mona.
‘Distant. Like he’s not really there.’ Mona and I looked at each other, then back at Angela.
‘That’s men, honey,’ said Mona.
Angela nodded. ‘Maybe. He’s reluctant to talk about his past, that’s for sure. You know how it is on the first few dates. Past relationships are bound to come up but whenever I asked about his, he’d change the subject. He thinks I didn’t notice but of course I did.’
I thought about what Jack told me about his previous marriage and wondered if Angela knew. Why did Jack have to tell me that? I didn’t want to keep more secrets, especially not from somebody as sweet-natured as Angela.
‘Jack is a little bit older than you, maybe he just doesn’t want to scare you off with all his past heartbreaks?” I suggested. I wasn’t telling her exactly what Jack had said, just hinting at it. ‘Everyone has a history. Some people are downright blocked when it comes to opening up about it.’
‘Yes.’ Mona eyed me. ‘Some people are indeed.’
I rolled my eyes and tilted my head towards Angela, reminding Mona that this was not about me but the young girl in front of us, feeling lost.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Angela, though she didn’t seem convinced. ‘Anyway, I’ve gotta get off to work soon.’
‘What do you do?’ I asked.
‘I work just round the corner at Venus Athletics. I’m Junior PR Officer there. Got a big presentation this afternoon. Boss wants my thoughts on making VA the number one sports brand in the US.’
‘Oh, no pressure then.’ I laughed.
‘Oh don’t, I have zero ideas. It’s going to be a disaster.’ She counted out some money onto a saucer.
‘I take it the “sports brand of the gods” angle has already been done with a name like Venus?’
‘Yeah. Their last major campaign was all about loving sport. Goddess of love, etcetera. It’s just not sexy enough.’
‘Well, Venus was the goddess of desire too. Maybe you can create a campaign built around lust, rather than love? An Olympian lust, or something.’ I was just spouting rubbish, even more so than usual, but Angela paused.
‘That’s interesting.’ She pondered. ‘Thanks. I’m going to think on that. Oh, you won’t mention anything to Jack, will you? About what I’ve been saying?’
‘No, honey,’ Mona reassured her. ‘Sometimes you just gotta talk. We understand that.’
I nodded and smiled. Great. Now I was keeping secrets for both of them? My lot in life, it seemed.
‘Guess I’ll see you guys later.’ Angela smiled, and with that she was off on a mission to change the face of Venus Athletics.
‘You don’t think we shoulda mentioned the wall-punching thing?’ Mona asked once she was sure Angela had gone.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘We don’t even know what that was about. It’s just none of our business.’ Mona raised both eyebrows and pursed her lips. She may not agree but it wasn’t our place to tell Angela anything. If Jack was hiding something then maybe, just like me, he had his reasons.
I picked up a tray and headed to a table in the corner. Mona followed and helped clear the filthy pots strewn across it.
‘Hey,’ she said as we stacked plates slick with bacon grease. I looked up at her. ‘That friend of yours with the homicidal husband? It’s you, isn’t it?’
My eyes widened. Oh God. I should’ve been expecting that. For Mona to put together the pieces. But I hadn’t. I’d been too caught up in Jack and Angela.
Always prioritising the important stuff, Esther.
‘Well?’ Mona pushed. Was she really going to make me say it, out loud? That Mrs Delaney and I were … No. She didn’t need an answer. She could see the truth, and no doubt the colour draining from my face. I gave her the stiffest of nods. ‘But you said … you didn’t die,’ she added.
‘Didn’t I?’ My eyes lowered to the table, fixating on the dregs of a black coffee some customer had left behind. ‘Maybe not. Maybe it was just the woman I was who died. The woman I became when I married him.’
‘Your husband. Where’s he now?’
I pressed my lips together tight. I’d have to tell her something here. Acting suspicious in front of someone married to a cop was a sure route to getting caught out.
But careful, Esther. Careful.
‘He …’ Though I wrangled with them, the words rose like bile in my throat. ‘He’s dead,’ I whispered. Mona looked at me sidelong. ‘The real kind of dead. We bought a gravestone and everything.’ One that’s been hanging round my neck for two years. Its lead weight dragging me down into cold, empty places nobody else knows about.
‘Esther, what did he do to you?’
I took in a sharp breath. My eyes filled with tears and my lips pushed tight against one another. Shaking my head, I picked up the tray and started towards the counter. Then I stopped.
‘Nobody can know any of this,’ I said, and then, making a gradual turn so I could look straight into Mona’s deep brown eyes, I added, ‘ever.’
Mona gave me a reluctant nod.
Turning my back to her once more, I marched off to finish loading the dishwasher.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_3a203f5e-c81b-58a5-936b-b792c26f0e26)

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