Another Cup of Coffee Read Free Page B

judging by the tone of his voice when he’d called, it sounded as if their inevitable caffeine overload might be accompanied by some pretty heavy conversation.
    October 3 rd 2006
    Fishing around in her kitchen cupboards, Kit produced two school lunchboxes, and began buttering slices of bread before facing the fact that she didn’t have much to put between them.
    As she worked, Kit’s brain was abruptly dragged out of its sandwich-preparing stupor by the radio. ‘Let’s Dance’ was oozing out of the speakers. David Bowie’s gravel voice made her skin chill and her heart leap at the same time. It had been so long since she’d heard it. Her mind slipped back to those precious months back in 1994. She was in his old bedroom with him then, dancing in time to the words, and …
    â€˜Mum.’
    Helena was staring at Kit with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. ‘Mum, what are you doing? You’ve put milk in your coffee. You hate milk.’
    Coming reluctantly back to the present, Kit bit back an expletive, and put on her “Mum is in control” face. ‘Hello love. What do you want for breakfast?’
    â€˜Shreddies please, Mum, I always have Shreddies.’ Helena gave a grown-ups are so stupid shrug, and sat imperiously at the kitchen table expecting full waitress service. ‘And blackcurrant juice!’
    Moving around the room, completing her everyday routine, Kit’s brain totally disengaged, as her subconscious carried on dancing.

Three
    October 3 rd 2006
    Kit had begun working from home three years ago. Except she hadn’t, because she couldn’t.
    Phil had designated their home’s box-sized bedroom as Kit’s office, brought her a new desk, a laptop, and evicted all the twin’s baby toys, unused curtains, spare duvets and other clutter to the loft, but it was no good. Try as she might, Kit could not take on the persona of her pseudonym, Katrina Island, and think up intricate plot lines and erotic acrobatics in a house she knew needed dusting. So each morning Kit stuffed a notebook into her bag and, after walking the twins to school, headed to her favourite café.
    Kit loved Pickwicks. Cluttered with dubious antiques and mismatched furniture, it had shuttered windows and a solid wooden floor that echoed as you walked across it. Classical music played gently in the background. It was the perfect venue in which to avoid real life, and become immersed in her brand of literary progress.
    As a regular customer, Kit frequently found that her arrival had been anticipated, and a piping hot cup of black coffee would already be waiting on her usual table before she’d got through the door. Today however, Kit didn’t find her essential caffeine injection awaiting her, but a plotline dying to be exploited.
    Her friend Peggy, resident waitress, manager, and dogsbody combined, was leaning so far across the glass cake counter that her head was dangling down over the other side, her feet only just touching the floor. Her shiny black hair had escaped from of its grips and cascaded downwards, obscuring the view of all the mouth-wateringly fattening cakes on offer.
    â€˜What the hell are you doing?’ Kit threw her bag down and crossed the room to rescue the sprawled waitress.
    â€˜I was trying to clean the glass and I slipped.’ Peggy, her round face apple-red from the blood that had rushed to it, smiled broadly, adjusting her ample white blouse and black trousers.
    â€˜Oh really?’ Disbelief dripped from Kit’s lips, ‘Why didn’t you go around the front then?’
    â€˜Gets boring doing the same old thing every day,’ said Peggy with a mischievous grin, ‘I fancied a change.’
    â€˜And I don’t suppose that husband of yours is just out of sight, wishing that a customer wasn’t so inconsiderate as to want serving, and thus causing him to quit playing waitress and chef?’
    â€˜I don’t