xThe fisherman cast his line out, far across the stretch of water. Even from this distance Sam heard the heavy weight plop through the surface. The brittle reeds that had turned brown with the changing of the season chittered on the shoreline. The angler, just a stick man on the far side of the lake, set his rod on a rest and sat down.
Unable to sleep, Sam had come here before work. It was peaceful. Sometimes, in the summer, he’d bring his lunch to this lake. It was hardly light yet there he was, the fisherman, out for an early catch. To his left, a heron was standing perfectly still in the shallows.
In his hand, Sam held the copy of Cathedral. The air was freezing, but Sam barely noticed. He was remembering being in the bathroom at the pub quiz, on the verge of going home, and the feeling that had come over him of needing to stay – to hold on. It made him think of Sarah’s Rocket Tree. The one he’d let go of so many years ago. She’d said that after a while, when you think you’re all alone, you suddenly look out and that’s when you see it. The other tree, with the other person in it.
He nodded. It had taken weeks to get here but he was ready. He took out his phone . . .
Hi Sarah, was just wondering how you were. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Hope all is OK.
. . . and exhaled.
Across the way Linda was talking loudly to a customer. Sam picked up the phone from his desk but Sarah still hadn’t replied. He warmed his hands on his cup of tea. Mr Okamatsu was staring out of the window near the entrance of the office, his back to the room, with his hands on his hips and legs apart. He was swaying gently. The second hand on the clock on the wall didn’t seem to be moving fast enough and it was impossible to concentrate as the slow realisation that he’d blown it sank in.
At lunch he drove as far as he could for half an hour, before turning the car round and driving back. When he parked up he checked his phone again, but there was still nothing. He sat at his desk and stared at his monitor. He watched a money spider lower itself on a spun thread from the eaves of his bonsai tree and it was when the spider touched the soil that the phone finally buzzed.
Sam froze. His heart rate started up and his skin went clammy. At last he summoned the courage to look.
Hi Sam! Nice to hear from you! Yes, all good here. We should meet up for coffee sometime x
He stared at the message. All this time . . .
Definitely. When? He scrubbed out the last part. It was too desperate. Definitely. We should go to that place near your work you told me about, with the comfy chairs.
She was typing and his skin prickled with the thought of her.
Fo sho. When’s good for you? I miss speaking to you x
Whoa. That was a good message. He sat there for a second.
Great! How about tomorrow maybe? Do you still finish at half 5? I could be there at 6. I miss speaking to you too.
He deleted the last sentence, thought for a moment, and then retyped it. At the other end she was typing. Then she would stop, and then restart. Stop, restart. Sam waited, tapping his foot on the floor, heart thumping.
Awesome. See you there x
Was that it? All that worry. The phone felt warm in his hands. He started typing but then noticed she was typing again, so he stopped. She stopped. He waited, and she started typing again so he let her finish. At last, her message came through.
I’m so glad you messaged me. Can’t wait x
The coffee house was in a Victorian building, where the plaster had been ripped off to reveal the original brickwork. There were fake stags’ heads and floating shelves crammed with old books and retro teapots. There were metal advertising signs from the fifties and old movie posters. The tables were upturned crates and the mismatched leather chairs were low and so comfy he might have fallen asleep if he wasn’t so nervous.
‘Sam!’
She sidled her way through the chairs, a vision in a red dress with a black collar and black buttons down the front. His heart lurched. It felt like when you pull your foot out of wet, sticky mud. And in that instant he knew he’d done the right thing.
He got up out of the chair and they hugged and she fitted perfectly.
‘Hey, let me get you a drink,’ he said.
‘It’s OK, I’ve got money,’ she said. ‘You wait here and guard my stuff.’ She threw her bag and coat down messily and disappeared to the counter.
Sam took a seat and dried his sweaty palms on his trousers. She came back with a coffee and a slice of cake.
‘What’s that?’
‘Chocolate and chilli and lavender.’
‘Oh. I wonder if that works.’
‘And I’ve gone here for a gingerbread latte,’ she said, sweeping her hand across her coffee, with a cinnamon-dusted surface. ‘I’ve been Jonesing for this.’
‘It smells like Christmas.’
‘It does smell like Christmas,’ she said, opening her eyes wide. There was a pause and Sam tried to fight back the sudden surge of thoughts piling into his mind: the arrest, his not getting back to her.
‘It was really nice to get that text from you,’ she said.
The fact that this was the first time they’d spoken since he told her about his family’s death ballooned around the moment.
She looked at her cake and cut off the front corner with her fork and popped it in her mouth. ‘How come you sent it?’
How to answer that question?
‘I just thought about you,’ he said.
‘Aw. That’s nice.’
A man passed them and Sam noticed him checking Sarah out.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he said.
‘Oh, no problemo.’
‘No, I mean . . . you know. Last time.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
She made a half smile. He went to pick up his teapot but it was heavier than he thought and he dropped it back to the table with a bang.
‘Yeah, that thing’s made of iron,’ she said.
Sam nodded. ‘I’m really sorry about not being in touch, though.’
They both drank.
‘I heard somebody order a lager with a dash the other day,’ said Sarah, skipping over the subject like it was nothing. ‘And do you know what they said?’
Sam shook his head.
‘They said, “Pop a drop of pop in the top.” Isn’t that lovely? You should say that. I thought of you when they said it.’
Sam smiled sadly and felt forlorn. In a way he was glad she didn’t want to linger on his absence but in another, there was a sense they should at least talk about it. ‘I should.’ He dropped a sugar cube into his tea. ‘So how have you been?’
Sarah tried to hurry the swallowing of her cake and made a circling motion with her fork before saying, ‘Everything’s good. I’m going to a Christmas fayre on the weekend, with Francis.’
Sam’s heart froze. Francis. He’d forgotten about Francis.
‘On a date?’
‘Uh-uh,’ she shook her head. ‘At least, I don’t think it’s a date. We’ve been out a few times, but only as friends. I mean, Francis is OK, obviously he’s super hot, but . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure what it is.’
The jealousy shook Sam hard. ‘I’ll come,’ he blurted.
‘To the fayre?’
‘Sure. Why not?’ He already half regretted saying it, as he imagined how incredibly awkward this was going to be. But only half.
Sarah thought for a second and shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Cool.’
He stirred his tea, trying to be calm. But this was tough, because Francis was so much better looking than him. ‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’ he said, steering the conversation away. ‘Are you going home?’
‘I am home.’
‘To your family, I mean.’
‘Nope. I’m going to stay with a friend at his country house.’ She spooned some foam off the top of her coffee and ate it. ‘How about you?’
He decided not to say anything about how she diverted him away from the subject of her family again. ‘Staying local,’ he said.
‘What do you normally do on Christmas Day?’
‘Oh, you know, just the usual.’ If not seeing a single person on Christmas Day could be considered usual. There was a pause. ‘So what else have you been up to?’ he said.
She shrugged and ate some more cake. ‘Been going to a lot of literary things. Readings. Francis knows lots of local writers. They’re really good. You should come.’
The thought of Francis was making him feel very anxious. Why did she keep coming back to him?
‘How about you?’ she said.
Oh, just sending myself crazy about you, thinking of you every ten seconds, getting arrested because you’ve made me insane because you’re amazing.
‘Just the usual.’
‘It’s good to see you, Sam. I’ve missed this. Talking to you.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
Behind her, a girl was preparing a cappuccino, raining chocolate sprinkles down through the flame of a blowtorch, igniting them, backlighting Sarah with tiny fireworks. An uneasy feeling settled over him. He might, in some small way, have overcome his demons by sending that text at the side of the fishing lake, but now there was a bigger, badder demon. And its name was Francis.