The first thing I noticed about her was her eyes. Washed-out blue, like the water under clouds far out to sea, framed by the auburn waves of her hair and the slight dusting of freckles on her cheeks. She ordered a cinnamon cafe latte, to go. Full cream milk, no sugar, nothing else, just the latte. She was dressed in leggings, boots, and a flatteringly-tight dress framing her slender body under a button-up wool jacket that hung half open.
I watched her leave the cafe, and sighed to myself. Another London beauty, here one day and likely never seen again.
The second thing I noticed was the way she seemed to never have company. She'd arrive, most days dressed similarly, occasionally dressed down in jeans and a tight thermal vest, but always with her hair loose like flames. She was soft spoken, always polite, a slight accent marking her out as possibly northern European. She wore no jewelry that I could see, and I couldn't work out what she did. Perhaps an office worker; she seemed too mature to be an intern. I placed her in her mid-twenties.
Her pattern was once every three to five days, on average. Longer than that and I'd start to worry she'd moved on. But she'd always come back sooner or later.
.:.
"Cinnamon cafe latte to go," I said, producing it with a flourish.
"You're always so quick with that."
"I see you coming, gives me time to get everything ready," I answered, glad for this small chance to talk to her.
"How do you know what I'll want?"
"You always order the same thing," I replied, grinning. "You're my easiest customer."
She laughed softly. "I guess I'm a creature of habit. Oh well. Maybe I'll mix it up a bit."
"Don't," I answered. "Never change a winning formula."
"Not even if it gets boring?"
"Are you bored with it?" I asked.
"No."
"My point exactly!"
She smiled again as she tucked away an unruly lock of her hair. "Your cafe is a place of safety. I like that it's uncomplicated."
"We are extremely uncomplicated," I agreed. "Fish, chips, baps, chips, mayonnaise, chips... London cuisine at its finest."
"What's your name?" she asked as she picked up her latte.
"I'm Eddie."
"Edward?
"For my sins, yes."
"Thank you for the coffee... Eddie," she said, turning away.
"Wait, don't I get to know your name? Fair's fair after all."
She paused, considered, then winked at me. "No. All is fair in love and war."
I pantomimed a wound to the heart, and, laughing, she stepped outside. But then she stopped and turned to the window. She traced out "Natalie" in the light film of dust on the glass, and gave me a smile and a wave as she walked away.
.:.
My uncle had a loyal following from the staff of the various office buildings surrounding his cafe, many of whom came for the coffee and stayed for the honest and reasonably priced food. Uncle Peter knew them all by name, and would greet them as they walked in. I'd been working for him since I finished school; first as his dish washer and later as his assistant. The hours were long, the pay was low, but I loved the cafe and I loved him so I stuck with it. Age had slowed him down a bit, and these days he was more likely to saunter in twice a week during the mid day rush to help our chef Marco, trusting the rest of the work to me.
One night, we'd stayed in to drink after closing, and over way too much Jamesons he'd told me that I was the son he'd never had and how proud of me he was, and how he wished my own father could have seen what I'd become.
I'd asked him about Natalie he'd simply shrug. "She's quiet," he'd demurred. "Some people are like that. Best to just leave her be, Eddie."
Easily said.
Lots of pretty girls walk into Pete's Cafe. We have ad agencies, model agencies, law firms, software development houses, PR consultancies, you name it, we serve them and their clients. Lots of them smile at us. Talk to us. Share the little bits of their daily lives or gossip with us. And for our part we take pride in making them happy; bacon rights many wrongs, after all.
Cinnamon girl, though. She was the only one of them I missed when she wasn't there.
.:.
Days passed, more than she'd normally be absent for. At first, I fretted that she'd got cold feet about losing her casual anonymity with me. But surely she'd heard us - Marco, Pete and me - bantering with other customers. Surely that couldn't be it or she'd have stopped coming to the cafe long before she had.
Fatalistically, I decided that she'd moved. Or been reassigned.
Or, perhaps, I sighed, she had indeed gone and found a coffee shop with a less nosey man behind the counter where she didn't have to do more than order her brew, pay for it, and leave again. God knows there's enough places to get a latte in London.
I chalked it down as a harsh object lesson. People had their routines, and I'd broken hers. Best thing I could do was learn, and not do it again.
Not that there'd be another girl like her.
Days turned into a week, then two. I no longer watched the foot traffic outside, vainly hoping the next pedestrian would be her.
But early one chilly morning, a flash of red hair, and there she was, smiling up at me.
.:.
"I thought you weren't coming back," I said, as I handed her her coffee.
She pulled a face, pantomimed retching. "Life and work."
I made a noise of disgust as I cleaned and wiped the steam feed on the machine. "I'm lucky, I suppose. Work is fun for me. And I don't have much of a life to speak of," I added, grinning.
"You do look like you enjoy this."
"It's a busy job, but my uncle is an easy boss, and he trusts me, so..." I shrugged. "I can think of far worse places to be. It's warm, it's indoors, the food is great, and I get to meet new and interesting people every day."
"You're lucky," she said softly, as she blew foam away and sipped her latte. "I wish I could have a job I loved."
I quietly began to wipe down my countertop. "What do you do, Natalie?"
"English tutor for non-native-speakers. Which is kinda funny, considering my own background."
"That sounds really interesting though? More interesting than most people we have walking through here."
"You know what all your customers do?"
I laughed. "My uncle does. He has a gift of making people open up to him. I seem to have inherited some of it."
"Uh huh. I'd better be careful I don't spill all my secrets to you, then," she said, smiling over the lip of her paper cup.
"So why don't you enjoy it?"
"Freelancing. No security. Constant fear of not being paid... it leaves me pretty drained. It would be nice to work in an office. Less admin."
"That is a side of it I hadn't thought of," I said. "Must be stressful."
"Yeah, it is. Dealing with lots of medium-level execs who like showing their power in inter-personal relationships. Sometimes I feel like I need a shower afterwards." She stared down into her coffee, then shook her head, dismissing whatever she'd been thinking about. "Gotta go," she said. "Can't be late, or I get abused."
"Don't be a stranger," I answered.
She adjusted the worn leather book bag that hung at her hip, then sighed. "No promises. My time is not my own."
I mimed taking another wound to the heart, and she was still laughing as she walked out the cafe. She waved from outside, then walked off out of view.
I turned back to the counter, checking everything was organised and clean.
I heard a scooter buzz past, but scooters are as common as pigeons in the City.
Screams and shouting, however, aren't.
.:.
I vaulted the counter, barely remembering to yell "Watch the till!" to Marco.
A knot of people was forming around a prone figure a short distance north, and I dashed over. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it was Natalie lying sprawled face down on the dirty tar.
"Natalie, Natalie, hey, you ok love?" I said, as I knelt down beside her.
