Page 4 of Surprise Me Tonight
The café is warm and full, as usual. Mugs clinking, the hiss of steam from the machine, quiet chatter weaving through the space. It smells of strong coffee and something sweet. Familiar. I’ve lived in Little Hadlow fifteen years. This café’s been here for most of them. A small thing, but steady.
I glance out the window just in time to catch the tattooed man crossing the street.
His shoulders are broad, his walk easy. Confident. Not cocky, just... certain.
“Caught your eye too, did he?” Francesca’s voice comes from just behind me, low and amused.
I jump. She slides into the seat across from me with two cappuccinos in hand, pushing one towards me. Having a best friend who runs the village coffee shop, does come with perks.
Francesca has got a knowing smile and a glint in her eye that says she’s clocked more than just my sulking over the lack of a door-hold.
“Caught my shoulder, more like,” I say, taking the coffee. “Didn’t even look at me.”
“Well, he was busy holding the door for Miss Yoga Pants and eyelash extensions. Can’t multitask, poor love.” Francesca winks.
I snort. “Wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t nearly knocked me over on the way out.”
She leans in, voice dipping. “Still. Bit of a dish, don’t you think?”
I glance out again. He’s nearly out of sight now. “I suppose. If you like that whole rugged, tattooed, doesn’t-give-a-damn look.”
“Idolike that look,” she says, deadpan. “But I also like men who know how to use a washing machine and don’t sulk when you say no to sex.”
That gets a proper laugh out of me.
We both sip our coffees, letting the conversation stretch for a few seconds.
“Not that he’d go for us,” she adds casually.
“God, no,” I say, a little too fast. “Women like us only get that sort of attention in films. Or if we’re loaded. Or famous. Or both.”
“Or if the lad’s got some sort of older-woman fantasy and hasn’t worked it out in therapy yet.”
“Charming,” I say with a wry smile.
But underneath the banter, there's a truth that sits uncomfortably in my chest.
My ex-husband made it clear for years that I wasn’t desirable. Not in so many words, but in the way he looked through me. The way his eyes drifted to other women when we were out together. The way he always seemed irritated when I suggested we spend time, just the twoof us. God forbid I wanted intimacy. Jeremy had affairs, multiple, and I stayed… for our daughter. And when Vicky left for uni, and I finally left too, he still tried to make me feel like I was the one losing out.
“Come on,” Francesca says, nudging my arm gently. “Don’t go into that place.”
I blink. “Sorry.”
She doesn’t press. She never does. That’s part of why we get on. She’ll banter and tease and pass me coffee, but she won’t drag me into anything I’m not ready to say out loud.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” I say after a moment. “But sometimes I wonder if Jeremy was right. That there’s no one out there for me now. That I’ve missed the boat and what’s left is a sea of bald men looking for a cleaner who’ll make them shepherd’s pie and let them watchTop Gearreruns.”
Francesca lifts her cup. “To bald men with remote controls.”
I raise mine. “And to imagination. The only place blokes with tattoos and good arms ever hold the door open for women like us.”
We clink cups, quietly amused. I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach all the way.
It’s not that I believe Jeremy anymore. Not really. But his voice still echoes, now and then. Especially in moments like this.
It’s just gone half ten and I’m sat at the kitchen table with my third cup of tea and the assignment I’ve read so many times I’m starting to resent it. Bullet points, structure, tone, follow-up strategy. I know it’s not a masterpiece, but it’s decent. Thorough. Professional. Or at least it would be, if I could stop second-guessing every word. When I decided to take some courses to get my skills up to scratch, I didn’t think it would be this frustrating. I was always good in school but that was over twenty years ago.
The phone rings, buzzing across the table like it’s got urgent gossip to share.
