was bitterly cold out: what was Kathy sleeping under? ‘Did you report it to the police?’
Kathy laughed. ‘They don’t care ’bout likes of me, dearie. No bother, though. I’m just A-okay.’ She squeezed Freddie’s arm, and Freddie felt how thin her fingers were. ‘I’ll make sure the other girls get their share.’ She bundled the bag up.
Kathy shuffled back toward the fire escape door Freddie propped open on her way into work. Freddie resolved to find a sleeping bag on Amazon and bring it in for her. She’d roped in her sympathetic work colleague, Milena, and they took it in turns to make these illicit drops. ‘Me or Milena will see you tomorrow,’ Freddie said. ‘If Dan’s out the way, I’ll try and get you some hot drinks, yeah?’
The old lady held up her hand to signal goodbye.
‘Here, Kathy, hang on,’ she jogged over to press the last of her fags into the old lady’s hand.
‘Pat’ll be pleased,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ nodded Freddie, though she knew Pat had been found dead of exposure at the end of September. The authorities weren’t interested: the NHS and homeless charities she’d spoken to were too stretched to come here and hunt out one elderly, senile woman. Kathy had far outlived the average age a homeless person was expected to reach. She was a tough old bird. ‘Try and keep warm, yeah?’ Freddie turned and headed back toward work. A Terrible Waste: how food destined for the bin could save lives.
Out on the floor she nodded at Milena, whose pony-tailed long dark hair and high Bulgarian cheekbones incredulously worked with Espress-oh’s uniform. Would she agree to an interview? An Immigrant Truth: two jobs, business school, and sharing a room with three others – how London betrayed its silent workforce.
‘Freddie?’ Dan had fixed her in his sights. He hadn’t seen anything had he?
She watched as he dug his hand into the dusty beans that formed an interactive display along the till.
‘Never forget, these are magic beans.’
Nope. He just wanted to share some more inane motivational drivel. Behind him, as the customers inspected the soggy sandwiches, Milena smacked the palm of her hand repeatedly against her forehead.
20:19 Nine hours and forty-one minutes to go. How Childhood Fairy Tales Set Generation Y Up To Fail.
04:43
Saturday 31 October
Eight Times People Actually Died of Boredom. A WhatsApp chat alert flashed on Freddie’s phone, which was under the till out of the sight of customers.
A white speech bubble from Milena, who was outside taking a fag break, read: ‘Dan is’, and then there was a series of smiling poo emojis.
Freddie typed back: ‘Espress-woes.’
‘Are you in charge?’
Shoving her phone into her pocket, she looked up to find a drunk in a pinstripe suit, swaying in front of her. His eyes pink.
‘Look!’ He prodded at the fruit toast he’d placed on the counter. ‘This slice has no raisins. This one all the raisins.’
She waited…
‘Is not right,’ he stabbed again, catching the edge of the paper plate and flipping one of the half-eaten slices onto the Almond Biscottis they were pushing this month.
You’ve got to be kidding? As she reached out to retrieve the toast, his hand – cold and damp – grabbed hers and she was pulled across the counter toward him.
‘Or yous could give me your number?’ His stale beer breath buffeted her face.
She scanned the cafe for help. A Japanese couple, heads down, earphones in, oblivious. The gossipy women who’d been here for hours had left. Dan was in the stockroom. She was on her own.
‘Giz a kiss,’ the drunk lunged.
Shame burned up her body and then ignited into anger. Wrenching her hand free, she sent the fruit toast flying toward him. ‘Get lost!’
Alerted by the disturbing sound of an employee raising their voice, Dan bustled into the cafe, oozing toward the drunk. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I’m sure Freddie here can help.’
What the…‘Are you suggesting I prostitute myself for a piece of sodding fruit toast?’
Milena swung through the glass door – had she seen?
‘Our Freddie, ever the joker!’ Dan laughed like a screaming kettle.
‘Sir, I make you some new toast, please, have a seat. I bring it over.’ Milena’s megawatt smile blindsided the pink-eyed man.
‘Sure,’ he swayed.
‘The customer is always right,’ Dan glared at Freddie.
How the hell was this her fault? ‘But he…’
‘I don’t care, Freddie. You need to see the positives in all customers. Visualise them as your close personal friend.’
‘That’s what I was sodding worried about!’
‘Espress-oh partners don’t use language they wouldn’t feel comfortable saying in front of their mothers,’ Dan stage whispered.
Flinging her arm in the direction of the drunk who was now face down asleep on the counter, a puddle of drool spreading toward the discarded fruit toast, Freddie screamed: ‘If my mum was here she’d tell that dirty bastard to fuck off!’
‘Enough! Take your break! Now!’
Furious, she smacked her palms hard against the glass door and powered toward the train platforms. A few hardy souls were bundled, with suitcases, on the cold metal benches, waiting for the first Eurostar. All this money regenerating the station and they forgot to put doors on? Yet another deterrent to Kathy and her homeless mates. Barely more appealing than metal spikes. She was heading to the taxi rank where she could bum a cigarette off a cabbie, when she saw her: Nasreen Cudmore.
They’d played together virtually every day since they were six, until…she couldn’t deal with thinking about that now. Eight years ago. Must be.
Nasreen looked the same. No, different. There was no puppy fat, and she was tall too, like her dad. Five foot eight, at least. She’d cut that ridiculous waist-length black hair. It now hung in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Perfect against her milky coffee skin. With both pride and pain, Freddie acknowledged Nasreen Cudmore had grown into a beautiful woman.
What the hell was she doing here at this time in the morning? Wearing a hoodie and jeans, Nasreen was stood with a group. All dressed casually. Most looked to be in their twenties or thirties. One guy, slightly older, early forties, broad shoulders, Bruce Willis buzz cut, was wearing a blue down puffa jacket zipped up over a tight white T-shirt. Friends’ night out? One of those godawful-sounding corporate away-days?
Freddie remembered seeing Fiona Cogswell at a pop-up Shoreditch tequila bar. Among the inane drivel about what every Pendrick High alumnus was now doing – mostly out of work management consultants, or pursuing worthless PhDs until the economy recovered – there’d been one lime wedge of interest: Nasreen Cudmore had joined the police.
She looked again at Nasreen’s group: men, all with regulation-neat haircuts. Police. Undercover? A bust? Seize the story. Neil’s advice echoed in her head. Behind her, Dan was waiting for a grovelling apology. A plan formulated in Freddie’s mind.
Thrusting her cap into her back pocket, she approached her old school friend. ‘Nasreen! Oh my God! It is you!’
Nasreen startled, turned toward her, taking in the yellow apron and the red hair. ‘F…Freddie?’
Feeling awkward and teenage again, Freddie kept smiling. Up close she could see a new