Another Cup of Coffee Read Free Page A

do…

Two
    October 2 nd 2006
    Jack sat on the edge of the stool. It was hard and unyielding against his buttocks. He suspected if had been specifically designed not to encourage lingering at the bar. In July it had seemed so much the right thing to do. Wiping his hands down his faded jeans, Jack remembered how carefully he’d wrapped the package before posting it north. He’d visualised Amy opening it, and had contemplated her reaction for a while. Then, in typical Jack style, he’d moved on, and placed the whole event into that part of his brain where the best-forgotten actions of his life dwelt.
    Propped against the bar counter behind him, Jack stared at his mobile phone. He hadn’t expected this. He read the text again.
    Got tape. Got letter. Moving to London. Will c u maybe. Hope u ok. Amy
    Jack gulped down a giant mouthful of Worthington’s before allowing his eyes to rove around the pulsating dance floor. He needed a distraction. Something – someone – to stop him thinking. Jack’s eyes fell on a tall slim man, about thirty years old, nice hair, dark eyes. He’d do.
    Jack put his pint down and joined the fray.
    Cramming the foot cream and moisturiser back amongst the more familiar clutter of books, tissues, and scraps of paper that adorned her bedside table, it struck Kit that not long ago she’d scorned such additions to her life. Nightly applications of unguents to stave off the evidence of aging were a paranoia reserved exclusively for other people.
    Somehow that had changed recently. It was as if, on her last birthday, a trigger had gone off in Kit’s head, and the fear of looking old, rather than being old, had consumed her. Phil had laughed when Kit had bought a pot of Nivea. Not in an unkind way, but in a ‘so you are growing up at last’ sort of way. She knew it had annoyed her far more than it should have done, as she’d sulked in their bedroom, embarrassed at the ownership of something that the rest of the female race had taken for granted since adolescence.
    As if having to admit she wasn’t twenty anymore wasn’t bad enough, other aspects of her life seemed to be losing their certainty as well. The twins were growing up way too fast. Although only nine years old (an age which was definitely the new thirteen, in Kit’s opinion), they seemed to need her less and less beyond the functions of taxi-driver, housekeeper, and meal-provider. To top it all, writing her erotica, which had once given her so much pleasure, somehow didn’t feel quite so satisfying these days.
    â€˜I’m not even forty!’ Kit flicked a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes and, slamming the offending lotion away with her socks, pulled open her knickers drawer for consolation. It always made her feel better to see her pile of delicate silk, satin, and lace undies. They felt soft between her fingers as she trailed a hand through the soft fabric. These were also a relatively new innovation for her, but not one that her husband joked about.
    Confidence, that was what it was about, and since she had, after five years of moaning and a further two gruelling years of actually trying, lost the weight gained during pregnancy, Kit had rewarded herself by throwing her hated cheap and boring knickers into the dustbin, and built up a pile of lingerie to be proud of. She had to be careful though. For the first time in her life Kit saw how buying clothes could become addictive. This was a new sensation to someone who didn’t give a damn about fashion, and regarded shopping as something inconvenient to be slotted in between coffee breaks.
    Kit smiled and closed the drawer, ignoring the glint of a shiny silver vibrator Phil had given her as a present after the publication of her first smutty story. He’d be up in a minute, and the real thing was always preferable. Or perhaps she should try and get some sleep. After all, she was seeing Jack tomorrow afternoon, and