The Sight of You Read online

  By contrast, she thinks I’ve shrunk back from the world—that I’ve slunk into its corners, started blinking into bright light. She’s probably right.

  “No martial arts moves on the customers,” I tell her. “Café policy.”

  “Anyway, there won’t be a next time. I’ve memorized his face. If I see him in town, I’m demanding that tenner back.”

  “He only had a coffee.”

  Dot shrugs. “Call it our tax on eat-and-run.”

  I smile and move past her into the back office to print the order for tomorrow’s delivery. I’ve been gone only a minute when I hear her calling out, “We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!”

  As I stick my head around the office doorway, I recognize the figure at the door. And so, it seems, does Murphy—he’s sniffing the hinges expectantly, tail wagging.

  “It’s him,” I say, feeling my stomach skitter slightly. Tall and lean, gray T-shirt, dark jeans. Skin that hints at a summer spent outside. “The guy who forgot to pay.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nice detective skills, Sherlock.”

  With a huff Dot unlocks the deadbolt and turns the key, cranking the door just a notch. I don’t hear what he says but assume he’s come to settle up as she’s unhooking the chain now, opening the door to let him in. Murphy scoots backward as he enters, tail wagging, paws dancing.

  “I walked out without paying earlier,” he says gruffly, with disarming remorse. “Completely unintentional. Here.” He passes Dot a twenty, rubs a hand through his hair, glances at me. His eyes are wide, dark as damp earth.

  “I’ll get your change,” I say.

  “No, keep it. Thanks. Sorry about that.”

  “Take something with you. Another coffee, some cake? As a thank-you for being so honest.” Aside from anything else, something in his demeanor seems to plead for kindness.

  There’s some drømmekage left, an airy Danish sponge topped with caramelized coconut that roughly translates as dream cake. I box up a slice and offer it to him.

  He pauses for a moment, rubs the crescent of stubble along his jaw uncertainly. Then he takes the box, his fingertips nudging mine. “Thanks.” He dips his head and leaves, a warm breath of velvet air drifting into the shop as he goes.

  “Well,” says Dot. “He was a man of few words.”

  “I think I threw him with the cake.”

  “Yeah, what was all that about? Another coffee?” she parrots. “Some drømmekage?”

  I only just resist the urge to blush. “At least he came back to settle up. Which proves you to be an outrageous cynic.”

  “Hardly. With that slab of drømmekage you’re still barely in profit.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Dot raises a microbladed brow. “Our boss might disagree. Or at least his accountant would.”

  “No, Ben would tell you to have more faith in human nature. You know—give people a chance.”

  “So what are you doing tonight?” Dot has a smile in her eye as she moves past me into the office for her jacket. “Sleeping rough for charity? Launching a pop-up soup kitchen?”

  “Very funny. I might just hang out at Ben’s for a bit, see how he’s doing.”

  Dot doesn’t reply. I know she thinks I’m weighed down by worrying about Ben, that I spend too much time mired in my memories.

  “How about you?”

  She reappears, sunglasses propped on top of her head. “Water-skiing.”

  I smile. Of course—what else?

  “You should come.”

  “No, I’m inherently clumsy.”

  “So? Water’s soft.”

  “No, I’d better . . .”

  She levels a look at me. “You know what I think, Cal.”

  “I do.”

  “Joined Tinder yet?”

  “No.” Please don’t nag me.

  “Or I can set you up with someone . . .”

  “I know.” Dot can do anything. “Have fun tonight.”

  “I’d say the same to you, but . . .” She winks affectionately. “See you tomorrow.” And, in a parting cloud of Gucci Bloom, she’s gone.

  After she leaves, I knock the lights off one by one before taking my customary final pew near the window, to breathe in the fading scent of bread and coffee beans. Like a reflex, I slip my phone from my pocket, tap through to Grace’s number, and dial.

  No. You can’t go on like this. Stop.

  I cut off the call and snap the screen back to lock. Calling her is a habit I’ve been trying hard to break lately, but the sight of her name on my phone always gives me a lift, like a bright blast of sunlight on a rubble-gray day.

  Allowing my gaze to unspool through the window, I unexpectedly find myself staring into the watchful, peat-dark eyes of the notebook man from earlier. With a jolt I start to smile, but I’m too late—he looks down at the pavement and makes himself a shadow, striding swiftly away into the evening’s mellow light.

  He’s not carrying the cake box anymore. Either he’s already eaten it, or he tossed it into the first bin he saw.

  4.

  Joel

  I lurch awake at two a.m. Easing out of bed, I grab my notebook, trying not to disturb her.

  Last week’s warm weather has dissipated, and the flat’s a bit chilly. I pull on a hoodie and jogging bottoms, make for the kitchen.

  Sitting up at the breakfast bar, I scribble everything down.

  My younger brother, Doug, will be chuffed, anyway. I dreamed about his daughter, Bella, gaining a sports scholarship to the local private school, the year she turns ten. An outstanding county swimmer, apparently, winning fistfuls of medals every weekend. Strange how things work out. Doug was banned from swimming at our local pool as a kid, after one too many dive bombs and flipping off the lifeguards.

  Bella’s not even three yet. But Doug’s view is that it’s never too early to schedule in potential. He’s already got four-year-old Buddy playing tennis, watches Britain’s Got Talent for tips on pushy parenting.

  Then again, my dream has confirmed it’s going to pay off. I make and triple-underline a note about mentioning local swimming clubs to him, ASAP.

  “Joel?”

  Melissa’s watching me from the doorway, still as a spy.

  “Bad dream?”

  I shake my head, tell her the dream was good.

  Melissa’s wearing my T-shirt, and she’ll probably wear it home, too. She thinks it’s cute, doing that. But I’d rather not have to keep an inventory of my own wardrobe.

  She approaches me now, hops onto a stool. Crosses her bare legs, runs a hand through her mane of sandy hair. “Was I in it?” She throws me a wink that’s both coy and outrageous.

  That would actually be impossible, I want to say, but won’t. She knows nothing about the nature of my dreaming, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  For almost three years now Melissa and I have been seeing each other every month or so, usually with little contact in between. Steve’s stopped her for a chat more often than I’d like, as though he thinks it might be worth getting to know her. Even Melissa finds this idea amusing, has started talking to him in the hallway just to provoke me.

  I glance up at the kitchen clock. Stifle a yawn. “It’s the middle of the night. You should go back to bed.”

  “Nah.” She sighs languidly, picks at a fingernail. “I’m awake now. May as well stay up with you.”

  “What time do you start work?” Melissa manages media relations at the London branch of an African mining company. Her morning shifts frequently kick off at six a.m.

  “Too early,” she says, eyes pinwheeling displeasure. “I’ll call in sick.”

  I’d been planning a dog walk with my friend Kieran first thing, was hoping to have breakfast at the café. I’ve been back several times now, following last week’s nonpay
ment debacle.

  Initially, I admit, I felt some kind of moral duty to return. But now it’s more about the dog-in-residence and great coffee. And the warm welcome I get, despite being a less-than-exemplary customer the first time I set foot in the place.

  “Actually . . . I’ve sort of made plans.” My stomach flexes with guilt, even as I say it.

  She tilts her head. “Charming. You know, I still can’t figure out why you’re single.”

  “You’re single,” I point out, like I do every time she comes over.

  “Yeah. But I want to be.”

  It’s one of Melissa’s theories. That I’m desperate for a relationship, dying to be someone’s boyfriend. I’d been single for five years before meeting her, a fact she delights in like a cat with a mouse. Sometimes she even tells me off for being too clingy, when I message her after a month of radio silence to see if she fancies a takeaway.

  She’s wrong, though. I was straight with her from the off, asked if she was okay with keeping things casual. She laughed and said yes. Told me I was full of myself.

  “You know, one day, I’m going to open that notebook while you’re asleep and see exactly what it is you write in there.”

  I half laugh and look down, not quite trusting myself to reply to that one.

  “Is it something I could sell to the papers?”

  Maybe she could: everything’s in there. A dream every week for twenty-eight years, and I’ve been keeping notes for the past twenty-two.

  I write it all down in case I need to act. But from time to time I do have to watch a bad dream play out. I let them slide if they’re less than serious, or when I can’t see a way to intervene. Neither option’s ideal, for a man with my mind-set.

  Still. Like diamonds in the dirt, happier dreams glimmer between the bad. Promotions, pregnancies, little twists of good luck. And then there are the dull ones, about life’s mundanities, routines. Haircuts and food shops, housework and homework. I might see what Doug’s eating for dinner (offal, seriously?). Or I’ll find out whether Dad will top the local badminton league, or if my niece will forget her PE kit.

  The relevant times and dates are bright in my mind whenever I wake. They lodge there like knowing my own birthday, or on which day in December Christmas falls.

  I pay attention to everything, even the tame stuff. Keep track of it all in my notebook. In case there’s a pattern, a clue in there somewhere. Something I can’t afford to miss.

  I glance now at my notebook on the worktop. Brace myself in case Melissa tries to snatch it. She clocks me straightaway and smiles creamily, tells me to relax.

  “Do you want a coffee?” I say, to try to dim the glint in her eye. Still, I feel a twinge of remorse. Despite her swagger, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind coming over here just once and getting her full eight hours like a normal person.

  “You know, with all your money you could afford to buy a proper coffee machine. Nobody drinks instant anymore.”

  From out of nowhere, a vision of the café drifts into my mind. Of Callie setting down my drink, and the cobbled-street view from my window seat. It alarms me slightly and I push it away, spoon coffee between two mugs. “All my what money?”

  “I love how you make out like you’re poor. You used to be a vet, and now you don’t work.”

  That’s only partly true. Yes, I’ve got savings. But only because I realized in time that my job was hanging in the balance. And they won’t last forever.

  “Sugar?” I ask, to steer her off-topic.

  “I’m sweet enough.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  She ignores me. “So—will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Buy a proper coffee machine.”

  I fold my arms, turn to face her. “For once a month when you come round?”

  She winks at me. “You know, if you actually started treating me properly, you might be in with a chance of this going somewhere.”

  I return the wink, clink spoon against mug. “Instant it is.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I had my first prophetic dream at just seven years old, when I was as tight with my cousin Luke as it was possible to be. Born only three days apart, we spent every spare moment together. Computer games, bike rides, roaming wild with the dogs.

  One night, I dreamed that as Luke took his usual shortcut across the playing field to school, a black dog charged at him from out of nowhere. I woke at three a.m., just as the dog was clamping its jaws around Luke’s face. Thumping through my mind like a migraine was the date when this was all going to go down.

  I had just hours to stop it.

  Over an untouched breakfast, I told Mum everything, begged her to call Dad’s sister, Luke’s mother. She quietly refused, projected calm, assured me it was just a bad dream. Promised I’d find Luke waiting for me at school, totally fine.

  But Luke wasn’t at school, totally fine. So I ran to his house, hard enough to taste blood at the back of my throat. A man I didn’t recognize answered the door. He’s in hospital, he told me gruffly. Got attacked by a dog this morning over the playing field.

  Mum rang my aunt that evening, and all the details came out. A black dog had attacked Luke on his way to school. He needed plastic surgery on his face, left arm, and throat. He was lucky to be alive.

  After putting down the phone, Mum took me into the living room, where we sat quite still on the sofa together. Dad hadn’t come home yet. I can still remember the scent of the chicken noodle soup she’d made me. The weirdly comforting sound of my siblings bickering upstairs.

  “It’s just coincidence, Joel,” Mum kept saying. (I wonder, now, if she was trying to convince herself.) “You know what that is, don’t you? That’s when something happens by chance.”

  Mum worked in Dad’s accountancy firm back then. She earned her living like he did, from dealing in logic, looking at facts. And the fact was, people were not psychic.

  “I knew it would happen,” I sobbed, inconsolable. “I could have stopped it.”

  “I know it seems that way, Joel,” she whispered, “but it was just coincidence. You need to remember that.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We never told anyone. Dad would have dismissed me as delusional, and my siblings were still too young to understand or possibly care. Let’s just keep it between us, Mum said. So we did.

  Even today, the rest of my family still doesn’t know the truth. They think I’m anxious and paranoid. That my garbled warnings and manic interventions are down to unresolved grief over Mum. Doug thinks I should take a pill for it, because Doug thinks there’s a pill for everything. (Spoiler: there isn’t.)

  Does Tamsin, my sister, suspect there’s more to it? Possibly. But I deliberately keep the details vague, and she doesn’t ask.

  I can’t say I’ve never been tempted to tell them everything. But if the urge ever comes, I only have to think back to the one time I was naive enough to consult a professional. The derision in his eyes and the sneer on his lips were enough to make me vow I would never confide in anyone again.

  5.

  Callie

  A Friday night in mid-September brings with it a typically dispiriting call from my letting agent.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Miss Cooper.”

  I frown, remind Ian he can call me Callie—we’ve had enough dealings, over the years.

  He repeats my first name slowly, like he’s writing it down for the first time ever. “All right, then. Now, Mr. Wright has just informed us he’s selling his property.”

  “Which property? What?”

  “Your flat. Ninety-two B. No, wait—C.”

  “It’s okay, I know my address. You’re really evicting me?”

  “We prefer to say you’re being given notice. You get a month.”

  “But why?
Why’s he selling?”

  “No longer commercially viable.”

  “I’m a person. I’m viable. I pay my rent.”

  “Now, don’t get upset.”

  “Do you think . . . he might sell it to another landlord? I could be a sitting tenant.” I like how it sounds, at least—enhanced rights, making demands on my landlord for once and not the other way around.

  “Oh, no. He definitely wants you out. He needs to spruce the place up.”

  “That’s good to know. Except I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “Not on benefits, are you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Plenty of properties on at the moment. I’ll e-mail you.”

  Nothing quite matches being evicted, I realize, for making you feel like a complete and colossal failure. “Way to start my weekend, Ian.” I wonder if he makes all of his eviction calls on Friday nights.

  “Yeah? No worries.”

  “No, I was being . . . Look,” I say desperately, “could you find me somewhere with a proper garden?” My flat’s on the top floor, so I don’t have access to the one here—but even if I did, it would be like hanging out in a scrap-metal yard. It’s covered almost completely with tarmac, and filled with various items of junk—rusty sun-loungers, a broken rotary laundry line, a decaying collection of kitchen chairs, and three out-of-service wheelbarrows. I don’t mind scruffy, a touch of mess—so much better than a sterile show-home garden—but this one’s an ongoing tetanus risk.

  Ian chortles. “Budget still the same?”

  “Less, if anything.”

  “Funny. Oh, and, Callie—I take it you got those bees sorted?”

  “Bees?” I say innocently.

  Ian hesitates. I hear him tapping furiously. “Yeah, here it is. They were going in and out of the soffits, next to your living room window.”

  They were indeed—the couple next door reported it, I think. I palmed Ian off when he called, told him I had a friend who could help. It comes as no surprise at all that he’s only thinking to follow up now, months later.