Francesca

Aaliyah waves at her eagerly as Francesca steps from the uber, putting down her coffee and gesturing her over to the small table just outside the front of the café. Francesca smiles broadly and steps from the car, sparing a momentary glance in the blackout windows to check her make-up. She was right, the shirt made her look professional, and the flared trousers were the height of sophistication. There was no one that wouldn’t think she was a young entrepreneur or a middle-class professional. The make up is subtle. In the dark sheen of the car window, she could almost look tanned. She thinks she looks attractive, but not like she’s making a point of it. Just as she thought. Professional.

​

She does up another button as she embraces Aaliyah.

‘You look great,’ Aaliyah says, cupping her head and tilting it from side to side, ‘You definitely fit the brief.’

‘It’s not too much?’ Francesca says.

‘Not at all. Professional as hell. You got time for a cup of something?’

‘Fifteen minutes. I’d better not.’

Aaliyah looks remarkable. Almost as if she had never set foot in a clinic at all. As Francesca eyes the perfect cream of her blouse and the sleekness of her trousers, she feels, for the first time in a while, hopeful.

‘Do you know where you’re going? Just on the second corner. Tell them you’re here to see Ryan, someone will take you up to legal. I’m on a break until noon, but I could meet you if you hang around. If not, just drop me a call.’

Francesca pulls her briefcase towards her. ‘Will it last long?’

‘Could do. Ryan likes to put on a bit of a show. Schmooze a bit, you know.’

She nods. She finds it hard not to hide the bubbling of fear.

‘You okay?’ Aaliyah’s hand brushes Francesca’s arm. Francesca shifts her weight between feet.

‘I just… haven’t. With a guy I mean… Not since…’

Aaliyah puts a finger on Francesca’s lips. ‘I know. I get it. We’ve all been there. But it’s a professional environment and everything. He might take you to a café or something but that’s it. And I will literally be around here, so you can just text me if you feel uncomfortable, yeah? Ryan’s a good guy. Newly divorced, but then who isn’t. If you feel anything, anything at all, you can just leave. And text me. I’ll make up some excuse. Got it?’ Francesca nods. ‘Remember the talk I gave? It’s about exposure. Realising that the stuff you’re scared of is up here. In your head. The more you reintegrate, the easier it will become. Trust me, I was exactly where you are five years ago.’ Francesca smiles, more convincingly this time. ‘Besides, you took a dose this morning, right? You’ll be fine. You’ve got this.’

​

The front of the building is almost entirely made out of glass, and the building looms high above her as she pushes her way inside. The architecture is sleek and modern, but with the whisper of something gothic about it. She can see herself perfectly reflected in the green marble floor as she walks to the front desk, her heels tapping loudly and echoing into the high ceiling. A single receptionist sits behind the desk, talking into a headset. He smiles at her reassuringly. She wonders how obvious her nerves are.

​

‘Yes. Absolutely missus Klein. I can just patch you through. He’ll be there this time. If not you have his number. Okay. Okay, Patching you. Patching you now. Yes, okay bye.’

He presses the receiver and gives her an exaggerated look of mock exasperation.

‘Hi there, honey. Y’got an appointment?’

‘Ryan Ewens?’ she says, hesitantly, ’10 o’clock?’

The receptionist doesn’t acknowledge the name but clicks around on the computer. The phone rings. He picks it up and slams it down again in a practised motion.

‘Yes. Hargreaves and Forrester? Got you here, m’love. He’ll be down in a few. Have a seat.’

She walks calmly to a large black ‘L’ shaped sofa on the far side of the room and sits. From her purse, she produces a small mirror. She holds it up, tilting her head from left to right as discreetly as she can manage. While she waits, she experiments with her seating position. She tries sitting up, feet tightly pressed together. She feels awkward. Uncomfortable. Then, she tries crossing her legs, but the long pencil skirt reveals too much of her calves, so she goes back to both feet on the ground. She checks the buttons on her shirt again.

Professional. Respectable.

​

‘Francesca?’

Ryan is short but broadly built. His suit is crisp, a kind of suede brown with a paisley tie. His shoes have never been anything short of glistening. His hair and stubbled beard is a dark brown, the gel he has used is carefully done. It almost masks the balding spot. His eyes are a keen green, and gaze at her above a sharp, hawk-like nose and a thin mouth.

Francesca stands and smiles. ‘Ryan?’ She extends a hand, and he takes it. She sees his eyes look her up and down, just as the delivery man’s had done. She ignores it. He’s probably just taking her in, she thinks.

‘Lovely to meet you. Thanks so much for coming. Aaliyah’s told me so much about you.’

‘Pleasure,’ she says, and they laugh at the mention of their mutual acquaintance.
They stand there for a moment. Francesca is waiting for him to lead the way. He appears to be deciding something.

‘You know, it’s bloody stuffy up there. Every desk is stacked with this latest Duffy case. Maybe you heard it on the news? Nasty stuff. Anyway, fancy heading out and finding a seat somewhere. We won’t go far. Need to be back at eleven thirty anyway. Pub?’

He frowns, noticing the hesitance flitter across Francesca’s face.

‘Or café. Nice one up the road, how bout that?.’

She nods. As they make for the entrance, Francesca sighs a little with relief.

 

The café has a quaint look about it, and as the two of them step up through the front door, Francesca feels as though she is walking into someone’s living room. Considering the mayhem of the London streets outside, the café feels separate. In a world away from London. The door swings shut behind them, and the roar of London is muffled to a distant rumble.

It is eerily silent. In a cubicle towards the back, a couple sit opposite one another, flicking through their phones and not speaking. An old man, skin deep set with wrinkles, sits on a frayed green armchair, thumbing through a newspaper with calloused fingers, thin glasses perched on the end of his nose. A young man behind the counter smiles at them wearily from behind a glass display case lined meagrely with gaunt looking pastries. He stuffs his phone into his pocket as though denying its existence.

​

Ryan puts a hand on Francesca’s arm.

​

‘What can I get you?’

She swallows. ‘A black coffee is fine.’

‘Nothing to eat? I won’t judge, honestly. Don’t think of this as an interview, you know. Just putting a face to a name. You can eat if you want.’

His hand hasn’t moved. Francesca takes half a step back.

‘No, it’s fine. Had a big breakfast. But you go ahead.’

Ryan’s hand retreats. ‘No problem. How bout you find us a cubicle and I’ll bring your coffee.’

​

Francesca moves through the maze of empty seats and sits down in a cubicle. It’s separated from the others by wooden slats, so she can see the couple in the neighbouring cubicle. The man is still scrolling on his phone. From this angle, she can just make out a feed. Vapid eyes from half naked women gaze back at him. Their backs are curved awkwardly, pushing out their breasts and buttocks. They sit next to games consoles they’ve never played, and action figures they couldn’t name, and their bodies cry out for him. He just gazes, and scrolls. The woman isn’t looking at him. She is gazing over at Ryan, who is laughing with the Barista. Something about the train-strikes. She is slowly tracing circles on the skin of her neck. A faint smile curves her lips as Ryan nudges the Barista jovially and takes the tray from him. Her hand hides itself beneath the table and she pretends not to have noticed him, but Francesca can see. She can almost feel it. The heat radiating from her. The burning. She takes a tissue from her purse and gently wipes the sweat from her forehead.

​

I’m in a café. I’m just having coffee with a friend of a friend. The table is brown. There’s a picture of a forest on the wall beside me. There’s a water-ring on the table next to my hand. My hand is pale.

​

Francesca smiles as Ryan places a large saucer of coffee in front of her. The scent of it pulls her back, and she clasps her cold hands to it.

‘You didn’t want sugar or anything?’ Ryan says, sitting down opposite her.

‘No, thank you.’

Ryan has a frothy-looking drink. Could have easily been a hot chocolate more than a cappuccino. He places a large, sweating looking muffin on a plate beside him as he sits, and pulls out a folder.

​

‘Well, I must say,’ he said, flicking through the pages, ‘When the job came available and we started putting out advertising for it – internally at first, you know – and Aaliyah mentioned this friend of hers, I expected it might be someone a bit greener, you know? I mean, it’s only a clerk role at the end of the day. But when you sent your CV over. I mean, it’s great. Really great. You’ve got loads on here.’

Francesca nods and takes a sip of her coffee. The taste is dry, almost like liquid cardboard. She’s getting used to that. But the heat of it is comforting. Distracting. It burns her tongue. She watches Ryan’s hands as he turns her CV over.

‘I mean, really – loads. How old are you?’

She swallows the coffee and ignores the scalding sensation in her throat. ‘Twenty-six.’

Ryan shakes his head in disbelief. He looks shocked but seems to believe the lie. ‘I mean, sufficed to say, Fran – can I call you Fran?’ Francesca shrugs. ‘I mean, Fran. You are definitely over-qualified for this role. I mean, look at this. Two years as a clerk in Abersham’s – know a few guys there actually. Great guys, really great. I must ask you if Rick is still there. I forget his surname, but anyway. Then another three as an associate at Rossmere and Webb’s. Now, excuse me for asking this, but it then says you were a Senior associate at Turner and Mason’s – I thought they went bust in the 70s, no?’

Francesca nodded. She had planned for this question. ‘The American branches did. One of them stayed open in Stafford. That’s where I was living at the time.’

She holds his eye-contact and smiles. He doesn’t seem to totally believe her, but the story is plausible enough. After a moment, he nods.

‘And you were there for five years?’

She nods again.

‘I don’t know how you’ve had time for it all. To be as young as you are. Plus having the last few years out of the biz. Oh, don’t worry. Aaliyah has told me about your situation. Don’t worry, there’s absolutely no judgement here. My brother was in rehab,’ he speaks this word in a forced whisper, ‘too for many years. Addiction is a nasty business. He had alcohol and gambling, you know. You can’t get a worse combination in my mind. We fell out for years. Just couldn’t get him out of it, but rehab – best thing that’s ever happened to him. Well, that and his wife said, “It’s me or the bottle”. That works too. But don’t worry. Aaliyah hasn’t told me anything other than you’ve been in rehab, and frankly, it’s none of my business. You’re out now, and Aaliyah recommends you. That’s enough for me.’

​

His smile is warm. Genuine. Almost comforting. For a moment she feels herself begin to relax. The movement of his eyes is momentary, barely perceptible, but she notices it. Down, then up. Then, she feels the stirring in him. The same kind she felt with the delivery man. She didn’t understand it. She did the button up, she knows she did.

They talk for an hour. Aaliyah was right, it didn’t feel like an interview. Ryan seems adept with the conversation. He always has something to add, or related story to tell. Francesca tries to focus on what he’s saying, to push aside the memories of an old life that keep springing up inside her. The dark rooms, the feel of firm hands holding her. She focuses on Ryan’s words, on his lips, on his hands.

​

‘New to London then?’ he says, sparing a momentary glance at his watch.

‘Yes. Just moved in to a flat in North London. It’s nothing special. Just trying to get used to city life again.’

‘It can be a bit overwhelming at first. I remember when I first came here from Durham – where I went to Uni. No one talks to you. Except for the Uber drivers, and I can’t understand what they are saying half the time. To be honest, I couldn’t understand them in Durham either. Been out much? It’s a good scene, if you know the places to go.’

She grips her coffee cup. ‘Not yet, no.’

‘Could show you around, if you like. There’s a few good bars down by the river. Beautiful views. Not too seedy.’

Francesca hesitates. Her discomfort must be obvious. Suddenly, Ryan realises.

‘Oh my god. Sorry, I’m an idiot. I completely forgot. I didn’t -.’

Francesca smiles at him. ‘It’s fine, really. It’s actually…’

‘Sorry, I just say that to people new to London. It was my attempt at trying to be welcoming. Too much of a drinker myself anyway, force of habit. Didn’t think of the rehab at all, I’m so sorry.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ Francesca says, more firmly. ‘My rehab wasn’t for alcohol.’

Ryan blinks, confused. Then, he laughs. ‘Oh. Phew. God, that would have been… okay. So, do you go to bars then?’

She knows what she should do, but her mouth moves as though it is entirely separate from herself. She watches herself make the mistake as though from a distance.

‘Yes, of course.’

Ryan grins. ‘Come down tonight then? Meet me at Embankment. Nothing special, I can just show you around a bit. Could invite a few colleagues as well if you like? You could get to know everyone.’

Francesca smiles at him. She looks at the skin of his hands again. And at the pale green of his eyes.

‘No, that’s okay. You can show me around.’

Ryan’s eyebrows raise. For a moment, he looks indescribably pleased with himself.

‘It would be my pleasure.’