A Season for Second Chances(80)

“No. But I had potential.”

“So no more parties,” said Annie.

“No more parties,” John agreed. “Unfortunately, Dee had fallen for party John. Sober John was a lot less fun; like I said, I was all or nothing back then. I didn’t want to drink, and I didn’t like being around people who did. Dee and I split up when Celeste was about four years old. It was amicable. I had a lot of shit to reconcile, and she knew that.”

“And you never drank again?” Annie was racking her brain trying to remember if she’d left any empty wine bottles in the kitchen. She didn’t want to give him the impression she was a lush.

“I’m not a teetotaler,” said John. “But I don’t drink very much. I abstained completely for about ten years, until I felt I had the maturity to drink responsibly. I don’t think my problem was ever really the drink, so much as my inability to do anything by halves. If I was going to party, I was going to be a legendary partier; if I was going to be sober, I had to be the soberest of the sober. It took me a long time to reconcile all the elements of myself to working together instead of against each other.”

“Wow,” said Annie, peeling a piece of hot marshmallow off her chin. “You are really together. I mean, like really together! I’m impressed. I’m a fucking disaster.”

John laughed heartily. “Don’t be fooled,” he said. “That’s years of therapy talking. Most of the time striving to be the best version of myself results in me being a giant arse—you can bear testament to that!” he said, smiling at her. “And anyway, I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself. You walked away from your marriage with nothing, and within a couple of months you’ve launched a new business. Despite the landlord’s nephew sticking his beak in and being a pain in the proverbial.”

It was Annie’s turn to laugh now.

“It’s true I have become well acquainted with the proverbial side of your personality,” Annie teased.

“I don’t dispute it,” John said, holding his hands up and accidentally sending a freshly toasted marshmallow flying off into the darkness. “Bollocks,” he added, and skewered another pillowy sweet onto his fork.

“I’ve spent years slogging my guts out,” said Annie. “Always working harder, always pushing through to the next level, trying to achieve the next award or accolade. I mean, I never stopped. And I told myself it was because I had a lot to prove; you don’t get up the duff at seventeen without encountering a lot of judgment!”

“So you proved them all wrong,” said John.

“But if I’m honest, that’s not what I was doing. I set myself on fast-forward, so that there was never time to contemplate the idea that my marriage had been a terrible mistake.”

“You were lying to yourself,” said John.

“I just plain ignored it. I felt like I’d made my bed and I had to bloody well lie in it. Unfortunately, Max didn’t only lie in my bed.” She laughed humorlessly.

“That’s rough,” said John.

“It is what it is,” said Annie with resignation in her voice. “Wailing and moaning about it isn’t going to change anything.”

“But you feel you can make a fresh start here,” said John.

“Precisely,” said Annie. “Which is where you come in.”

“Make me an offer,” said John. “And I promise to give it fair consideration.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” said Annie.

She smiled at him then, in the glow of the dying fire, and he smiled back, a smile that seemed to warm her bones from the inside.

When the fire had burned down to embers and daylight had given itself over to darkness, they cleared away the remains and headed back up to the café. Annie felt excited at having laid her cards out on the table and having John promise to give them consideration. She couldn’t ask for more than that. And on top of this there was a rush of exhilaration from this slow, delicious way in which they were unfolding their life histories to one another. After each encounter Annie found herself greedy for more.





Chapter 62



Annie put on some of Django Reinhardt’s uplifting jazz and turned the volume up, for an energy boost while she and John set to clearing down the café. Annie filled a couple of bread rolls with ham, cheese, and red onion chutney and wrapped them up ready for Alfred’s supper. John pushed the tables to the sides of the room and stacked the chairs on top of them and began to sweep the floor.

The sound of jaunty violins signaled the beginning to the track “Minor Swing,” and Annie called out, “I love this one!” above the boom of the double bass and the tickle of acoustic guitar. She wiggled to the music as she wiped down the wooden countertop. She looked up to see John coming toward her, his eyes on hers, his broom left to rest against a table. He extended his hand over the counter, and Annie took it, coming around to the other side to join him.

“What are you doing?” She laughed.

John didn’t speak but led her to the middle of the floor and, still holding one of her hands, he slid his other arm around her waist and pulled her to him. They began to move around the room to the music. Annie laughed and allowed herself to be inexpertly twirled around the makeshift dance floor. Neither of them were good dancers—but it didn’t matter. They laughed and stumbled and stepped on each other’s toes as they danced and whirled around the empty café. His arms felt solid around her and she knew instinctively that he wouldn’t let her fall. He smiled wickedly as he twirled her out away from him and then pulled her back quickly so that their bodies rammed together. Annie shrieked out a giggle and when she looked up at John, he was smiling with such warmth that his whole face seemed lit up from within those deep blue eyes. Annie’s breath caught in her throat, but she recovered herself.