Page 2 of The Sound Between Us

Flick snorts, loud enough to catch the attention of Double Shot Latte. He glances over. She freezes. Then attempts the world’s least subtle head-nod in his direction.

I grab my cup.

“And that’s my cue. I’m out.”

“You’re a total coward,” she calls after me, and she’s not wrong.

At the door, I turn and grin.

“Happy Birthday, Felicity Andrews!”

I shout it loud enough for the whole café to hear.

I laugh so hard I might rupture something vital as her cheeks burn a spectacular shade of red.

“And I thought you’d forgotten.”

I shoot her finger guns.

“Everyone tip her. She’s depressed and ancient!”

The morning regulars cheer. I step outside still grinning as the café bell jingles behind me.

The grin fades the second I’m alone.

The wind slaps my face like I’ve offended the gods.

“Fuck. Shit. That’s cold.” I try to sip my coffee through the plastic lid and immediately burn my top lip. “Fuck.”

I hunch deeper into my coat, retreating like a tortoise into its shell, and battle the weather for exactly five doors. Then I reach the small shop with the blue front—my sanctuary, my excuse, my quiet rebellion against the world outside.

My fingers fumble through my coat pocket. Lip balm. Tissues. A packet of mints that must’ve migrated from another life.

“Bollocksy, fuck fuck.” I glance up and down the empty street, then groan as I bend to place my cup on the doorstep. Where’s Simon when I need him? I specifically asked Vinny to keep him on the rota just so I wouldn’t have to wrestle with this door alone every bloody morning.

I jab the key in and lean my shoulder against the frame. After a theatrical battle, the lock gives way with a reluctant clunk. The bell jangles above my head, shrill and unforgiving.

Warm air exhales into my face as I stumble inside. The electric heater by the till wheezes to life as I crank it to full blast. I might take my gloves off around eleven, if I’m feeling wildly optimistic.

Coffee retrieved, scarf wrapped round my face like a balaclava, I stamp my feet until the pins and needles start to prickle. The day hasn’t begun, but I’m already calculating how long it’ll take before I feel like a real person again.

Two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad.

Black polyester and tartan wool burst through the door in a blur of limbs and flailing arms. Simon, tracking half of Hampstead Heath across my floor.

“You’re late.”

“You’re moody.”

“You’re an arsehole.”

“You literally employ me to be an arsehole. Keeps it real for you every day.”

I grunt, mostly because he’s right. Simon starts shedding layers—scarves, gloves, that coat that looks like it survived the trenches. The last scarf is burgundy and cream, and almost certainly stolen from a pensioner.

“You still coming to Flick’s birthday tonight?” I keep my voice flat, low on enthusiasm.

Simon squeals like a kettle boiling over and throws himself at me, catching my shoulders in a bear hug. I let it happen.