By Saturday, Monica was starting to lose faith in her brilliant plan. It had been several days since she’d put the poster up in the café window, but there’d been no sign of Julian. In the meantime, she’d had to politely turn down a whole slew of applicants for the position of art teacher, with ever more ridiculous excuses. Who knew there were so many local artists looking for work? She was also, as an ex-lawyer, painfully aware that she was breaking every employment law going, although part of her rather enjoyed the idea that, for the first time in her life, she was doing something not entirely by the book.
The other problem was that every time someone new walked into the café, Monica found herself wondering if they’d been the one who’d picked up the book she’d left on the empty table in the wine bar and read the horribly embarrassing ramblings of a desperate spinster. Argh. What had she been thinking? If only she could delete it, like a badly judged Facebook post. Authenticity, she decided, was totally overrated.
A woman came up to the counter, holding a tiny baby, not more than three months old, dressed in the most adorable, old-fashioned smocked dress and cardigan. The baby fixed Monica with her big blue eyes, which looked as if they’d only recently learned how to focus. Monica felt her stomach lurch. She recited her mantra silently: I am a strong, independent woman. I do not need you . . . As if the baby could sense her thoughts, she let out a piercing wail, and her face went tight and red, like a human version of the angry-face emoji. Thank you, Monica mouthed at the baby and turned to make the peppermint tea. As she handed over the mug, the door opened, and in walked Julian.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d looked like an eccentric Edwardian gentleman. Monica had assumed that his entire wardrobe was inspired by that era. It appeared not, because today he was dressed in New Romantic style, circa mid-1980s. He wore drainpipe black trousers, suede ankle boots, and a white shirt, with frills. Lots of them. It was the sort of look that would usually be finished off with a generous helping of eyeliner. Monica was relieved to discover that Julian hadn’t taken it that far.
He sat down at the same table in The Library he’d occupied last time. Monica walked over, rather nervously, to take his order. Had he seen her advertisement? Was that why he was here? She glanced over at the café window where she’d posted it. It was gone. She looked again, as if it might have magically reappeared, but no, just a few sticky patches left behind by the Sellotape she’d placed in each corner. She made a mental note to remove the marks with a bit of vinegar.
Well, so much for that plan. Her irritation quite quickly morphed into relief. It had all been a stupid idea anyway. She approached Julian a little more confidently, now that it appeared he’d only dropped in for a coffee.
“What can I get you?” she asked, brightly.
“I’d like a strong black coffee, please,” he replied (no fancy cappucinos for him, she noted) as he unfolded a piece of paper he was holding, smoothed out the creases, and placed it on the table in front of him. It was her advertisement. But not the original, a photocopy. Monica felt herself blushing.
“Am I right in thinking that this was meant for me?” Julian asked.
“Why, are you an artist?” she stammered, like a panelist on Question Time, scrabbling around for the correct answer, not sure whether to tell the truth or to obfuscate.
He held her gaze for a while, a snake hypnotizing a small vole. “I am,” he replied, “which is why I think your advertisement was posted on the wall of the Chelsea Studios where I live. Not one single copy, but three.” He jabbed at the paper on the table, three times in emphasis. “Now, that might have been a coincidence, but yesterday, I went to visit the Admiral in Brompton Cemetery, at my usual time, and there, on his headstone, another copy of your advertisement. So I figured that you must have found my little notebook, and must be talking to me. By the way, I’m not sure about the typeface you used. I’d have stuck with Times New Roman. You can’t go very far wrong with Times New Roman, I find.”
By this point, Monica, still standing beside Julian’s table, felt very much like a naughty schoolgirl being told off by the headmaster. Or rather, she felt how she imagined that would feel, as she had, obviously, never been in that position herself.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing at the chair opposite Julian. He tilted his head slightly, in a half nod. Monica sat down and took a moment to gather herself. She was not going to be intimidated. She pictured her mother.
If you feel anxious, Monica, imagine you are Boudicca, Queen of the Celts! Or Elizabeth I, or Madonna!
Mother of Jesus? she’d asked.
No, silly! Far too meek and mild! I meant the pop star. And her mum had laughed so hard the neighbors had banged on the wall.
So Monica channeled Madonna and turned an unwavering stare on the rather imposing and slightly cross man opposite her.
“You’re right, I did pick up your book, and it was written for you, but I didn’t post it on your wall, or on the Admiral.” Julian raised one eyebrow in an impressive display of skepticism. “I only made one copy, and put it in the window.” She nodded over at the empty space where the poster had once been. “This is a photocopy. I didn’t make that. I wonder who did.” The question gnawed at her. Why on earth would someone steal her poster?
“Well, if it wasn’t you, it must be someone else who’s read my story,” Julian said, “otherwise how would they know where I live? Or about the Admiral? It surely can’t be a coincidence that the only gravestone sporting a copy of your poster was the one I’ve been visiting for forty years?”
Monica’s unease increased as she realized that if someone else had read Julian’s story, they must also have read hers. She mentally filed that thought under “too uncomfortable to think about for the time being.” She’d no doubt revisit it later.
“So, are you interested?” she asked Julian. “Will you teach an evening art class for me? In the café?”
Her question hung in the air for so long that Monica wondered if she should repeat it. Then, Julian’s face wrinkled like a concertina, and he smiled.
“Well, since you and, it seems, someone else, have gone to so much trouble, it would be rude not to, don’t you think? I’m Julian, by the way,” he said, proffering his hand.
“I know,” she replied, shaking it. “And I am Monica.”
“I look forward to working with you, Monica. I have a hunch that you and I might just become friends.” Monica went to make his coffee, feeling like she’d just been awarded ten points for Gryffindor.