The Front

The café by her office was a front. Of this, Natalie was certain. Small, family-run place, food good but not great, linoleum floors. Angie’s Caf had all the hallmarks. There was nothing else it could be.

The décor, or lack thereof, stood out as soon as you walked in. Everything too sparse, too plain, no finishing touches. Just the basic tables, chairs, pastries in the deli counter, laminated menus, and an overgrown potted plant in the corner. No more, no less. To look at it was to look back in time somehow. There was a washiness to it all, like a screen filter – a fade ever-present, a lack of love.

It was a place that survived on regulars, people that had made it past the uninspiring storefront once and discovered the pricing and service made up for it. Natalie herself remembered not wanting to go in the first time, but Charlotte had made the lunch plans, and Charlotte did not change plans for such fickle things as feelings. They had been coming here three years now. Almost as long as she’d been with Michael.

There was an impatient cough from somewhere nearby. Beside her, the waiter was tapping his foot – pen and paper in hand.

Shit. Natalie racked her brain. What hadn’t she tried yet? “Uhh, can I have the squid, please?”

The waiter sighed. “Only what’s on the menu, ma’am.”

Natalie grimaced. “Right. The chicken sandwich then.” She slid her still-closed menu back between the salt and pepper.

“I really wish you would stop doing that,” Charlotte said across from her, as the waiter trudged back to the kitchen. “Miss Hour Lunch-break, not all of us are so lucky. I don’t have time to watch you tick the staff off every day.”

Charlotte worked at another company down the street. The café was the midpoint between them, and where they met for lunch each day. Charlotte had never adored the place as such, but it was close, and they did serve quickly, even with the constant meetings taking place.

The meetings were another big giveaway. The titular Angie, of Angie’s Caf, spent more of her time sat talking with customers than she did waiting on them. Always hushed tones, sideways glances, handshakes galore. And the wait staff, Angie’s relatives, always called over for this or that, some question that would send them scurrying off to the kitchen, but never to return with any food.

Natalie knew what this all meant. She watched TV. It was straight off the box sets, the crime dramas. Natalie loved the box sets. She and Michael had watched them all the time. Of course, all her evidence was, to borrow a box-set word, circumstantial. But she was okay with that. Because the real clue had been the note.

Buried deep within the folds of a napkin, the note had opened the door to another world. Or, at least, it had revealed the door to her. She was still working on getting inside.

“Seafoods haven’t been working,” said Natalie. “Think I need to move on.”

Charlotte checked herself in her pocket mirror. “What you need is to stop bothering these people. They’ll stop letting us in, you know.”

“Have I asked for whale yet?” Natalie frowned. “Don’t answer, I’ll check my notes.”

“How about we go out tonight?” Charlotte said. “Take your mind off things.”

Natalie rifled through a notepad, nodding as she went. “I have, last Thursday.”

“A few cocktails, some dancing,” Charlotte craned her neck, trying to attract her friend’s attention. “Can’t be good for you in that flat every night.”

Natalie chewed her lip. “Do you know any South American dishes?”

The journey back to the office was always too short. A few short steps, a pelican crossing, and three sets of double doors weren’t nearly enough to while away the time. Since her absence, there was never anything for her to do anymore. All her old responsibilities had been traded away, with the promise they would return when she was ready. Which apparently wasn’t yet, even with her insistence she was fine.

The first couple of weeks had been rough but, since the note, she supposed the free time wasn’t all bad. She could spend half the day with her notebook out, provided she kept a watchful eye for her boss’s attempts to check up. As for her other colleagues, since her time off, most of them were too afraid to even talk to her. She could feel the room grow still when she walked in, like there was some dampening forcefield around her. She told herself she didn’t mind. It left her more time to think anyway.

What kind of food would make a good password? Two months now and not one guess had set off a hint of something other than disdain from the waiter. Always stone-faced, always exasperated. He must know what she was doing. Did her floundering amuse him? Did he laugh when he disappeared to the kitchen? The acting involved to stay so stony was staggering. He should quit this life of crime and go to RADA.

She pulled out the note again. These walls hold dark secrets, it read. Our off-menu items can cater to yours if you know what to ask for. Some dishes will stimulate the palette, but our best are to die for. Table service. Pay at the bar.

Natalie was new to sleuthing, but she figured that as far as clues went, this was pretty damning. We provide drugs and murder were all but text. The only sticking point was gaining access. If you know what to ask for. How did that help anyone? Surely if you knew, you wouldn’t need the note.

Seafood seemed to be out at any rate. South America was up next, she decided, they had crime after all. What was Columbia’s national dish? She started typing.

“Hungry?” Colin, her boss, said from behind her. Shit. Natalie hadn’t even heard him arrive. She supressed a groan.

“I just ate.”

“What are you looking at then?”

She followed his gaze to her screen. Bandeja Paisa, the national dish of Colombia. “I … nothing. Shit, sorry. I was working, I promise. I just …”

“It’s okay,” he laid a hand on the back of her chair. “We’re all here to support you. Just remember, if you need a hand with any of your work, you can always let me know.”

“You don’t give me any work though,” she said, but he was already walking away.

Despite everything, Natalie preferred work to going home at the end of the day. Charlotte was right. It wasn’t good being in the flat every night. She was loath to admit it, but Michael’s death had really put a damper on the place.

She needed to get on about moving. She would, just as soon as she had some time to focus on it. In the meanwhile, all his junk was still everywhere she looked. She had no idea what to do with it all. Philosophy books he’d never read, droves of overpriced classy ornaments, maps of countries he’d never been to, and far, far too much grey. Grey rugs, grey upholstery, grey bedding, and a large grey canvas of the Brooklyn Bridge. All desperate attempts to be something he wasn’t. Sickening, all of it. By far the worst of it was the 4ft grey statue of The Thinker. Utterly ridiculous. Smart men did not buy The Thinker. Smart men didn’t get themselves killed during a mugging, trying to save themselves pocket change and the effort of cancelling their credit card. Smart men knew when to save their pride and come the hell home.

She could never get comfortable here anymore. Her keys missed the bowl when she threw them. The ornaments leered. The couch was too big, too hard. Curling up with a box set left her shivering, all the melodramatic cheese they’d loved now fell flat. The kitchen rebuked her at every turn. Without the scent of some Michael mystery dish wafting through the air, something he’d never attempted before but had already abandoned the recipe for, it all refused to work. A glance away and her meals turned to cinders. Even the bathroom mirror had revoked its friendship, all the rude messages left in the steam had ceased overnight.

All that was left was this stuff. This junk. Ornate whisky tumblers and the entire works of Hegel. Who was the sophisticated man that had lived here? She had never known him. It was all lies, a story he had wanted to tell. Where was the goof? Where was the warmth? It made her made her seethe to realise how ashamed he’d been of the person she loved. How badly he’d wanted to cover it all up.

He and his junk didn’t deserve to linger. It would all go. Just as soon as she had time.

She crossed the room and took the Brooklyn Bridge off its mounting. She stuck a post-it to the corkboard resting on the wall behind it. Look up Angie’s ancestry. Food is English, but where is her family from? What would she have eaten growing up? She stepped back and looked at the whole board, all her leads. So much to be getting on with. Reluctantly, she placed the canvas back and set to looking through her wardrobe. Charlotte would be waiting. Somewhere in here was a cocktail dress, she knew there was. But the more she searched, the more she could find only grey suits and grey ties. Grey suits and grey ties. Grey on grey on grey.

She’d been late. Charlotte didn’t like late, and had Natalie found a frown waiting for her when she arrived at the bar. There had been outfit troubles. She hadn’t washed anything but her work clothes in … a while. It just never seemed important anymore. Still, she’d found some things in the back of her wardrobe to make do, a short skirt and a cheap, sequinned crop top she hadn’t worn since her uni days. Hardly appropriate attire for Charlotte’s choice of upscale establishment, but there had been nothing for it. Next to Charlotte, in all her elegance, Natalie half felt like a teenager. She stared at the other patrons, all suited and booted and utterly sure of themselves. She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t know how to do this anymore – talk, socialise, smile, laugh. Those weren’t her games. These weren’t her spaces. Still, Charlotte had sat her down anyway and, after the first drink, all that had seemed to matter a little less. By the fourth, it hardly seemed to matter at all.

“So they like to present as this little family-run business, right?” she took a sip of her mojito. “But if you look at their finance records, there’s a part-ownership by this company called Ubiquitox Ltd. Companies House has them listed as an investment firm headquartered in, like, the Caymans or some other tax haven, and that doesn’t sound too familial to me, so–”

“Can I get you another drink?” said Burt … Brent? Something B. Handsome at any rate. Good jaw. Way too old for her though, good decade between them at least, not her thing. Of the two of them, she’d definitely preferred the other one, but she could tell from introductions that Charlotte had too, so Byron(?) it was.

“No, I’m still good thanks,” she took another sip. “So it got me thinking, you know, maybe this isn’t just a small operation. This could be far-reaching, and if that’s the case–”

Blaine shifted in his seat. “You got any pets?” he said. “I got a dog. There’s pictures on my phone. Here.” Before Natalie could say anything, she was staring at a golden retriever. It looked cute. She gave a polite smile and he scrolled to another picture. It looked the same as the first.

“I just can’t wrap my head around the menu code though,” she said, as the scrolling sped to a blur. “How are you supposed to know? It doesn’t make any sense. If it is a big operation, then surely there would be some record, or mention online. I’ve checked forums but –”

Bernard sighed, full and loud, like a punctured tire. Natalie followed his gaze to Charlotte and his friend across the booth. She was in his lap and he was kissing her neck, sucking like a vampire. That would leave a mark that Charlotte would definitely complain to her about tomorrow. Their legs were at war under the table and she was whispering softly in his ear.

Brad shook his head. “Really thought the tart would be the easy one,” he muttered.

Natalie felt herself burn, a great red wound on each cheek. She picked at the sequins on her top – this would go in the bin when she got home, she decided. She gulped the rest of her drink and forced out a smile, pretending she hadn’t heard. “So, you travel for work, right? You wouldn’t happen to know what they eat in Argentina, would you?”

South America had proved no good in the end. Right now, it was Greek. In truth, she had no idea where to go after that. Every obvious choice had been and gone. Some research had shown Angie had a Russian great aunt so that would likely be next, but it was a reach and she knew it. She needed a new approach.

Today they were by the big potted plant. It snaked everywhere, including onto the table, but Charlotte always picked this spot if she could. Dark red petals scattered the floor around them. The bell rang as a group entered the café and sat by the door. Angie rushed over immediately and the whispering began.

Natalie twisted her necklace around as she watched them talk. It was one Michael had bought her. Emerald. He would often surprise her with something fancy like that before a night out – beg that she wear it. He’d known flash and pomp wasn’t really her style, but regardless, appearances were what they were to him. She had no idea how he’d even afforded it all on his salary. Such a waste considering it all went in a box on her dresser after one wear. But recently she’d found herself opening it up from time to time. She had to know which pieces to sell after all.

“What are you ordering today?” Charlotte said.

Natalie turned her gaze back to her friend. “Why? You don’t care.”

“I might if it’s something normal.” Charlotte peered down her nose at her watch. She kept tapping at its surface as though she could shake time itself loose somehow.

“Oh, am I keeping you?” Natalie said. “Too much crazy for one day?”

“No, it’s not that. I’m supposed to have a date later, just waiting on a text.”

“Don’t tell me it’s with the neck guy.”

“You mean Grant? No. We … parted ways.”

Natalie laughed. “You dumped him.”

“He was a middle manager,” Charlotte shrugged. “Long term, that’s just not part of the plan.” Charlotte had been saying some variation of that since they were 15. For one reason or another, no one ever seemed to be part of the plan. “I take it you never saw Hunter again.”

“What, the friend?” She frowned. “I thought his name began with a B.”

“He worked at Barclays.”

“Ohhh,” Natalie smirked. “Whoops.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No! Not whoops.” Her voice briefly shot above the noise threshold before she righted herself. “You were supposed to leave all your conspiracy stuff at home for the night. That was the point.”

 Natalie sighed. “Can we go to a different bar next time, maybe?” My choice? I don’t think bankers are really my scene.”

“I’m not sure the bankers were the problem, Nat.”

“He really wasn’t my type, Charlotte.”

“You never used to complain about my choice of establishment,” Charlotte crossed her arms. “I mean, I found you Michael, didn’t I?”

Natalie grit her teeth. “Can you just let me pick one fucking time?” she said, much louder than intended, but she didn’t care. “Seriously, would that be too much to ask?”

A few heads turned. Charlotte looked about, cheeks burning. “Can you calm down, please?” She raised her menu to her face like a shield. “The waiter’s coming.”

Natalie felt her guts churning. She didn’t want to calm down. She tore through her notebook to the latest page. Today would be the day. She’d had enough.

“I would like Moussaka, please,” she said, when it was her turn.

The waiter sighed. “Only what’s on the menu, ma’am,” he said. The dispassion crammed into each word was like a series of blows. Across the table, Charlotte rolled her eyes. A hard, pointed loop, like throwing knives, spinning end on end.

Natalie gripped her notebook, knuckles white. She was tired of this. Such a stupid strategy. She wanted answers. “What about Baklava, then?” She could see his response already. “Gyros?” she snarled. “Greek salad? Fucking olives?!”

“Only what’s on the me–” he began.

“Who are Ubiquitox?!” she stood up, staring straight him in the face.

“Only … who?” he frowned.

“Ubiquitox,” she pushed forward. “They own a fair share of your little family company. 28% to be exact, that legally denotes them a Person of Significant Control. You’re telling me you’ve never heard of them?”

“I … no,” he swallowed, taking a step back. “My aunt, err … Angie, does all the business stuff. I never …”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she said. “Mr. Stony Face. Think you’re so smart, don’t you? I know you laugh at me. Here’s the thing though, I’m the smart one, and I know your dark secrets.”

“Err, shall I just get you the chicken sandwich like normal, or …”

“Have you ever seen a face smashed to a pulp before?” She closed further on him. “I have. Right up close. When it’s like that, you have to take a good long look before you identify the body, so I can still remember. How much do you want to bet I can recreate it?”

“Natalie! Sit down, for god’s sake!” Charlotte hissed. “Look at the poor boy, he’s terrified!”

“He’s not a boy, Charlotte. He’s a criminal fucking …” she trailed off. Without his usual expression, the person before her did look a lot younger. In fact, underneath that stubble, he was probably just pushing 20. And he did look fucking terrified. She realised she’d backed him into a corner. “But … Ubiquitox, they’re …”

“He doesn’t know anything, clearly,” Charlotte’s voice was a low growl. “There’s nothing to know. Now sit down.”

Natalie stepped back from the boy, practically falling into her seat. Had she really just threatened him? “Uhh, yes … the chicken sandwich. Thank you,” she said, not meeting his eye. He silently scurried off to the kitchen. Charlotte was right. This needed to stop.

They ate mostly in silence. Charlotte seemed engrossed by the plant, turning its red petals in her fingers. Meanwhile, Natalie couldn’t stop reading the note. Over and over. She folded and unfolded it, wearing in the creases. Every time she thought she was done, out it came again.

These walls hold dark secrets. Our off-menu items can cater to yours if you know what to ask for. Some dishes will stimulate the palette, but our best are to die for.

She couldn’t be wrong. She couldn’t be. This was irrefutable. So, what then? Was the waiter putting on an act? It was Oscar-worthy if so. Was he really not in on it? She had seen him in the meetings though. Something wasn’t right.

“How’s the food today, ladies? All in good order, I hope.” It was Angie. She stood before them, the picture of matronhood. A kindly smile, a faded apron, hair greying in dignity and gathered up in a bun. She looked like someone’s spry grandmother, the fun one whose house you want to get dumped at when your parents go out. She always seemed moments from offering up a butterscotch.

Too perfect, had always been Natalie’s rationale. She must be hiding something. She looked so non-criminal that it almost swung all the way back around. But looking at her now … all she could think was how could anyone fake that smile? Natalie felt it deep in her soul – the compassion, the warmth of it. It was a smile that cared. How could the owner of it possibly be hiding a criminal enterprise? It didn’t make any sense. For the first time, doubt started to creep in. Maybe she did have something wrong. Or worse. Maybe it was everything. Maybe the something wrong was her.

“I heard some commotion earlier, but I was with customers. I just wanted to check everything was okay. My nephew didn’t bother you, did he?”

“No, not at all,” Charlotte smiled politely, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Just some confusion on our order. In fact, we’re sorry if anything.”

She touched a hand to each of their shoulders. “Well, if there’s anything else I can get you.”

“Actually,” Charlotte said, just as Angie started to move on. “I’ve always loved this plant. It’s a pelargonium, yes? I’ve been meaning to ask after the variety.”

“Why, yes it is, dear,” she smiled. “Dark Secret.”

There were no photos in her boss’s office. Natalie knew he had children, and it wasn’t like he was a cold person, if anything he overshared, but yet there were no photos. She had never noticed that before. Curious. She was beginning to find mysteries all over these days. They were everywhere if you knew where to look. If you knew how not to let the world blind you to them, convince you they don’t exist.

“I just want to reiterate, we’re not firing you. You can come back whenever you like,” Colin said. “Just … not for a good while yet.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m fine.” In fact, ever since that moment she’d doubted herself, Natalie had scarcely felt better. Dark Secret. The truth had been there all along, its shoots tickling her arms with every meal. With her focus redoubled, she had made progress she could never have dreamt of before. In the past two weeks, she had acquired the cafe blueprints from city hall, she had the tax returns from Ubiquitox from the last 7 years, she was working on getting their client list. She was flying now.

“Respectfully, you’re not,” Colin said. “You’re distracted, unsociable. You spend half your time doing I don’t even know what, but it’s not work. It’s not good for morale.”

“You don’t give me any work to do. If you have tasks, I’m more than ready for them.”

He scratched his chin. “Natalie, when was the last time you checked your task list?”

“I …” she faltered. “Recently, I think. I …”

“It was 5 weeks ago. I had IT scan the logs.”

5 weeks? That couldn’t be right … could it? “Okay,” she brushed at her shoulder. “Well I’m sure I didn’t miss much, let me go log in and I’ll …”

“Listen,” he placed his hand on hers across the desk. “The death of a loved one can be hard to get past. I really think more time off will do you some good.”

Michael? Natalie supressed a laugh. They thought this was about that? She didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. “Colin, I’m fine,” she snatched her hand back. “Really, I never even think about him.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I just think this is best for now. For everyone. I’m sure you understand.”

The flat was a mess. Natalie decided she liked it that way. The weeks went by and the papers, dirty clothes, and takeaway boxes fell like snow. A patchwork blanket to brighten up the place. No more grey.

Natalie trawled through a stack of files, a bowl of cereal in hand. She fingered the barrette in her hair as she read. It had diamonds in it, 4 carat. Another item from the dresser box. She threw the papers down. Somewhere around here was a copy of Ubiquitox’s client list. Which stack though? There were so many now.

She finished with the pile on the kitchen counter and moved on to one by the bookshelves. Nothing. She stepped over The Thinker and kept looking. At some point it had fallen over and lost an arm. It lay forlorn, mournful. She would never sell it now. That was okay, she reasoned. Probably better not to inflict it on anyone else, intact or otherwise.

She swept aside a copy of Angie’s family tree. That had proved a waste of time. She still went to the café as often as she could. In the evenings, mostly. She still never cooked for herself. The lunch dates had stopped though. Ever since her forced leave, Charlotte’s disdain had become too much to bear. It was for the best. No interruptions this way.

The client list turned up inside last night’s pizza box. She had put it there for safekeeping, she remembered now. Grease stains marred the paper like scars, distorting words, but it didn’t matter. She basically knew it by heart at this point. It was a reasonable investment portfolio, your standard fare, safe bets, definitely not a lot of small businesses to speak of. Angie’s Caf jumped off the page even without the highlighter she’d added. The other standout on the list was Mulholland Deliveries. That had been where Michael worked.

In hindsight, she’d always known there was a connection. Maybe not consciously, but something had pulled at her to dig at this from the very start. A rope around her waist, lifting her through the dark of a cave-in. Michael’s death had been no accident. She was sure of it. The money, the jewellery, the bullshit mugging. He was involved, no question. The proof would be there somewhere. The only thing was, Mulholland ran a tight ship. Nothing she had on them so far even referenced Ubiquitox. She had to keep looking. There were more files somewhere.

A rattling sound made her jump. She spun. The door handle shook in place, twisting violently back and forth. She stared, frozen. She didn’t get visitors. Not besides takeaway drivers, and she hadn’t ordered today. Was someone onto her? Had her sleuthing tipped them off somehow? She tried to stay calm. Maybe if she stayed still it would go away.

Finally, it stopped. Then came the unmistakable scrape of a key sliding into the lock. Without realising, she crumpled her paper in her fist.

The door swung open to reveal Charlotte stood in the hall. “Well,” she blinked. “Love what you’ve done with the place.” She stepped in, surveying the room. “You’ve really made it yours, haven’t you? I never did like that statue.”

Natalie’s exhale was gale force. “Charlotte, I’m busy. What are you doing here?”

“I’m checking up on you,” she walked directly to the kitchen and poured herself a drink. She eyed a stack of papers by the fridge. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t doing … well, this really.”

 “Waste of a trip, then. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Can we just talk for a minute, please?”

“Don’t I get one first?” Natalie motioned to the glass.

“Nat, I can smell it on you.”

“You know what? Maybe you should go.”

Charlotte pulled a file from her bag. “Please. Can we just talk first? I think you’ll want to see this.” She moved over to the couch, perching herself on a clean spot.

Natalie stared at the paper as though she could x-ray through it. She thought briefly about snatching it. “Fine.” She crashed down on the other end.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Angie tells me you’ve been visiting in the evenings.”

“You two friends now?”

“That place isn’t good for you, Nat. You need to let it go.”

“She got you working for her now? You in on it too?”

“Oh, listen to yourself. You sound ridiculous.”

“They’re up to things, Charlotte! I know you think I’m crazy, but they really are!”

Charlotte sighed. She handed Natalie the file. “No. They’re not.”

Natalie started to read. “What is this?”

“They’re selling the café,” Charlotte said. “That’s what all the meetings are about. They’re keeping it hush hush so they don’t lose customers.” She brushed some things aside to sit closer. “Angie had some investments go wrong. They’re in debt. A lot of it. Ubiquitox offered to invest in the business to help out – an angel investment basically, but it’s not paid off. They just can’t get people through the door for some reason.”

Natalie shook her head. “No. No, Ubiquitox, they’re …”

“Just a regular, small-time investment firm.” She turned to some later pages in the file. “I got my company’s risk department to look them up. There was nothing out of the ordinary. And that’s coming from professionals, Nat. People that know what they’re looking at. Not an amateur in her flat with no clean clothes.”

Natalie sniffed inside her shirt. “Charlotte, that’s not possible. I have, like, a billion documents saying they’re shady pieces of shit. Take a look! I mean, they’re based out of the Caymans for fuck’s sake!”

“Plenty of legitimate firms use tax havens, Nat. Apple, for example. They’re only as shady as any regular business is.”

Natalie shook her head. No. She refused to accept it. “The note then. Explain that.”

Charlotte looked away.

“What?”

“Maybe we should–”

“What?!”

“I’ve … been looking online. It’s not unheard of for people with delusions to create evidence that supports their–”

Natalie slapped her. Her hand just whipped out, like when you touch something too hot. How dare she? She’d known that’s what Charlotte thought, deep down. She just never thought she’d say it. “I’m not crazy.”

Charlotte touched a hand to her cheek. The skin came up dark red, like the petals on the pelargonium. Her eyes glowed. For a second she looked fit to retaliate. “I’m so sorry he’s gone,” she said, finally. “I really, truly am. I cry for you every night.”

Not this again. She rolled her eyes. “Why? I don’t.”

“I know,” Charlotte stared into her lap. “That’s why I do.”

“Well, stop it. I didn’t ask for that. You’re wasting your time.”

Charlotte flinched. She looked more hurt than the slap. She took a breath, then pulled out some foundation and began to brush her cheek, checking with a pocket mirror. “It was me that called your boss, you know. Suggested more time off. Of course, he told me to stuff it at first, but then he checked your user activity. I thought some alone time, some privacy, might help you start to grieve – the right way, that is.”

There it was. The retaliation. Natalie felt the air leave her lungs – a rush, like a plane depressurising. “You what?” she croaked. The mess around her, the filth, seemed to hit her all at once. She recoiled. It was like seeing it for the first time. She wanted to vomit.

Charlotte took both her hands. “You can’t go around spouting all this nonsense, Nat. Long after you’ve stopped grieving, people are going to remember this about you. It’ll be all they think when they hear your name.”

“You think I care about that?” she said.

“You will. Maybe not now, but in a year’s time maybe. You’ll look back on this and be embarrassed.”

Natalie snatched her hands back. “Get out of my flat.” It came out as a whisper.

“Nat,” Charlotte pleaded. “This was for the best. Grief is messy, it’s undignified. Trust me, you’ll be thankful you hid it away.”

“GET OUT OF MY FLAT!” She shoved Charlotte off the sofa, sending up a storm of debris in the process. Papers rained down around them as Charlotte picked herself up. Natalie stared her down.

“Wow. You crazy bitch.” Charlotte clutched an elbow. She scrubbed frantically at her clothes, purging leftovers from her skirt. “You know, I really fucking tried with you. I told you for months to drop this shit, but you just couldn’t let it go.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Enjoy your sabbatical.” The door slammed behind her, hard. A tiny crack splintered along the frame – on the inside, where, with the door closed, no one could see.

The flat was stifling. It stunk. She needed to get out for a while, breathe the air. She looked like shit, she knew, but fuck whoever saw. She took the barrette out of her hair. This was her. She refused to hide it away.

Streets passed in a blur. The hours dwindled. Natalie didn’t care. All she could think of was a cradled elbow. A crumpled file. A bruise shining through makeup. The streets were barren. It was cold out, but she barely noticed. The world seemed to part for her, weather and all.

She hadn’t known where she was going at first, but of course it had been obvious. The bell rang when she walked in. She sat by the potted plant. It was late. The sky had long turned to ink. It was even emptier than usual – just a couple in the other corner, another paying up to leave. It seemed that even Angie had gone home for the day.

Natalie sat staring at the red flowers of the pelargonium. Dark Secret. Could she really have gotten everything so wrong? Was it in her mind the whole time? All those nights watching box sets with Michael. Did it all get twisted up somehow? Could the note really have come from … she didn’t even want to think about it.

Charlotte was wrong. She just was. Angie had lied, falsified the finances. She had to have done. That perfect smile. Charlotte would rather believe it than her own best friend. It was the proper belief, the sensible one. The one that wouldn’t earn any sideways glances. That was all she cared about. Months from now, people would ask about that friend she used to have, and Charlotte would just smile and say that long term Natalie just hadn’t been part of the plan. No one would even bat an eye.

She missed Michael. It hit her like a fist, sudden and overwhelming in its pain. She missed curling up with him on the sofa. She missed his requests to be the little spoon. She missed his jokes left on the mirror of a morning, the indent in his pillow. She missed housing a new trinket in the dresser box, collecting up all his tokens of love. She missed the way he’d listened, like no one else ever had or would again.

Her head dropped to her hands. Of course they were selling the café. Friday evening in the city centre and all her neighbours were empty chairs. It all made so much sense. A terrible, perfectly reasonable sense. But still she couldn’t let go. Ubiquitox, the connection with Michael. If it was all nothing … then that meant it was all nothing. No reason, no hidden truth. Nothing to discover. Nothing to fill the silence with.

Natalie looked around – at the tables and chairs, at the pastries in the deli counter, at the laminated menus, and at the overgrown potted plant in the corner – and finally let herself see what was in front of her. It was a café – nothing more, nothing less. And for the first time in a long time, she began to cry.

She was surprised she noticed the waiter approaching. She had forgotten for a time about being served at all, forgotten that there was anyone else even here. Suddenly, she realised she was ravenous.

His face was stony as usual, she could see it across the room. The exasperation, the dread. She wiped her eyes. Wouldn’t this be a surprise for him? A real order. No fancy, exotic dishes this time. She picked up a menu. What was boring? What was as English as it came?

“Fish and chips,” she said on his arrival. She sat back, pleased with herself. It was only after a full scan through the menu that she saw it wasn’t actually there. A good old English caf and they didn’t even serve it. How funny. All that time going through seafood and she had never even considered it. She snickered to herself, waiting for the familiar crush of ‘Only what’s on the menu, ma’am’. But it never came. The waiter regarded her with narrowed eyes. Slowly, he glanced around him, then sat down next to her. Natalie’s breath caught in her throat. What was happening? Was this … no. Somewhere far off, her menu slipped from her fingers. He glanced around him, checking for prying eyes. Finally, he leant in close and spoke in hushed tones. “Would you like that with mushy peas, or garden?”