F would be sacrilege. Besides, as long as he makes great coffee, who are we to judge how he looks?’
‘I hear you.’ He tasted the coffee and was again surprised by how excellent a brew could come from such a dubious coffee maker. ‘OK, what?’
Ed was looking at him intently and the instant sinking sensation Jake experienced could only herald one thing: he was about to receive a ‘concerned older brother chat’. He had learned it from their father – a past master at the serious Steinmann conversation switch – although Ed would vehemently deny it if Jake ever pointed this out to him.
‘Have you dealt with – it – yet?’
Jake folded his arms. ‘It?’
‘Come on, man, you know what I mean. The letter. From Jessica’s lawyer. That, I’m guessing from your expression, is still in the envelope it arrived in?’
Jake wished his brother didn’t know him quite as well as he did. Of course he hadn’t replied to the letter. He’d told himself he was too busy and had made sure the engagement party preparations demanded as much of his time as possible. Between that and his to-do list for establishing his new Manhattan practice, what time was there left to deal with lawyers who only wanted to fleece him anyway?
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Yeah, sure. When do you reckon that’ll be, hmm? Five years? Twenty? You need closure on this. As soon as you can.’
Irritation rising, Jake prepared to face him down. ‘Easy for you to say. Before you met Rosie you never had a relationship last long enough for lawyers to notice. Apart from the ones you were bedding, that is.’
‘Ouch. You cut me deep, bro.’
Ed was mocking him, but Jake didn’t care. He was so sick of the entire world feeling entitled to tell him how to live his life: Jessica and her lawyer, Jake’s father, Ed, his own lawyer Chuck – even the lady who sold him coffee at his new neighbourhood coffee place had somehow learned that he was going through a divorce. What right did any of them have to advise him, however well meaning they were? ‘Of course I’ll answer the damn letter.’
Ed held up his hands. ‘Hey, it’s your call. Just don’t leave it too long.’
In the cab heading back to Williamsburg, Jake was still fuming. He knew Ed was right, but the truth of it was that he didn’t want to start the process that would inevitably lead to the end of his marriage. Jessica might have made herself undeniably clear when she walked out on him, but while they were still legally bound to one another there remained the possibility that – just maybe – there was a chance they might be reconciled. Jake hated the stubborn hope within him and wished that he didn’t still yearn for Jess to reconsider her decision. But, he reasoned, you didn’t spend almost ten years of your life loving someone only to let go of them so easily, did you?
He stared out at the grey Manhattan afternoon; the vivid yellow of New York cabs on either side of him appearing like splashes of sunlight against the leaden palette of the passing city. I’ll sign the papers soon, he decided. But I’m not ready yet.
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn
If it was possible to have a coronary induced by new culinary machinery then Russ O’Docherty was going to need a paramedic. Bea watched her colleague unwinding bubble-wrap from the bookstore’s new espresso machine with the kind of breathless reverence normally reserved for priceless works of art, expensive gifts and beautiful women.
‘She … is … stunning …’
‘How do you know it’s female?’
‘Are you kidding me? Look at her curves, the shine on her chrome, the delicate curve of her milk arm …’
Bea shuddered. ‘That’s just creepy now. It’s a machine, Russ, not Marilyn Monroe.’
Russ clicked his fingers and stared at Bea as though she had just shared the meaning of life with him. ‘That’s perfect! We’ll call her Marilyn.’
‘We will?’
‘Sure! Men will want to worship at her feet, women will want to hang out with her and bask in her beauty.’
‘O-K … Well, when you’re done worshipping her, perhaps you can help me clear the corner where her shrine will be? The carpenter will be here in an hour.’
Reluctantly, Russ left the gleaming object of his affections to begin packing boxes of books as Bea dismantled a shelving unit that was making way for the new coffee bar. He shook his head as they worked, casting wry glances at Bea. And, while it pained her to admit it, Bea loved him for it. This was the way things had always been between them since the day they first met in a mutual friend’s dorm at Columbia. They had gone under the auspices of studying for a group project, but somebody had found a bottle of vodka and the gathering had quickly descended into hook-ups and hilarity. Attempting to avoid the advances of a particularly persistent English Lit major, Bea had headed for Russ, who looked like the only other person in the room who was as uncomfortable as she felt. Acting quickly upon seeing her predicament, Russ pulled her to him for a hugely theatrical stage kiss, sending her disappointed would-be suitor sulking away. When Bea recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace they struck up a conversation, and Bea discovered a kindred spirit with a wicked sense of humour whom she quickly felt an affinity with.
They had once tried to recreate the fake kiss for real, not long after their graduation when, both despondent after recent break-ups, they ended up drowning their sorrows in beer and cheap takeaway pizza at Bea’s apartment. It was a spontaneous moment that very nearly progressed further than either of them was prepared for, but before clothes were removed, Russ had pulled away. Bea had understood completely – the sudden awkwardness of their kiss sobering her – and they had never spoken of it since. Russ relied on Bea to be his closest friend and Bea felt the same. Their relationship represented the nearest thing to a successful partnership that either of them had experienced and therefore was not something they were willing to risk.
‘Look at this,’ Bea said, keen to take her mind off the sudden recollection of their historic drunken clinch. She held up a slightly faded hardback, its cover protected with the kind of plastic sleeve usually seen in libraries.
Her colleague’s expression instantly softened. ‘Oh, hello old friend! I didn’t realise Sid was still with us.’
Bea gave the cover an affectionate pat. ‘I think HRB would collapse if Sid ever left.’
Motorcycling For Life by Sid ‘Wolfman’ Wolkevic was the very first book Bea had unpacked as she and Russ had prepared to open their store, just over three years ago. At the time it had been the cause of their first argument in Hudson River Books, as neither of them would admit to ordering the book from the distributor. Since then, the book had periodically appeared on different shelves around the bookstore and, consequently, had become something of a phenomenon.
‘We should put him somewhere prominent,’ Russ suggested. ‘Or make him a one-off sale item. See if we can re-home him at last.’
Bea
