Take A Look At Me Now. Miranda Dickinson
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me. And that was it for law and me. I walked around Central Park for hours, thinking about how much of my life I’d given to my career – and how fruitless it had proved to be. So, I made a decision. I quit my apartment, trashed my business suits and moved to the West Coast with one suitcase and my guitar. I busked around for a while, met Autumn at a beach gig in Santa Monica, we settled here and within two years I’d opened Java’s Crypt.’
I was amazed by his story but also encouraged that he had achieved so much from such inauspicious beginnings. If it had happened for Ced, could it happen for me? ‘That’s really good to hear.’
‘This town is a place for adventurers, Nell. There ain’t nothing you can’t do here if you work hard at it.’
As we were speaking one of the homeless men Lizzie and I had encountered that morning entered the coffee shop. I felt every muscle tense in my shoulders: in London this situation usually was a precursor to an ugly scene. Calmly, Ced left our table and walked over to greet the man.
‘Hey brother, what can I do for ya?’
‘You got any coffee on hold?’ the man asked, his voice gruff and low.
‘Sure, man. Come over to the bar.’
I watched as the man accompanied Ced to the counter, where the coffee shop owner made him a large coffee. Thanking Ced, the man shuffled out, tipping his baseball cap to us as he went. I turned to Lizzie, confused by what I’d seen.
‘What just happened?’
Lizzie smiled. ‘That happens a lot here. People buy a coffee to take out and one “suspended”. It then means that when the homeless guys come in they have a drink already paid for. It doesn’t happen everywhere, but it’s something Ced has always done since he opened this place.’
I was quickly learning that this was a city that made no bones about itself. Everything was presented just as it was – good and bad, beautiful and not-so-attractive. It was brash and bold and would definitely take some getting used to.
By the time we returned to Lizzie’s apartment I felt as if I’d gone eight rounds with a heavyweight boxer. Succumbing to the jetlag still pummelling my body, I slept for another couple of hours and when I woke I checked my emails, the familiar task comforting. And then I don’t know why, but I clicked on the latest email from Aidan. Despite my best efforts earlier that day to convince myself I didn’t want to hear from him, the temptation to know what he had to say was too great. As soon as I opened it, however, I wished I hadn’t:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Nell – please read this
Nell
I feel terrible. I wish we could talk so I could tell you all this in person. But you won’t return my calls and seem to have disappeared off the face of the planet, so this is the best I can do.
I hated giving you the news about your job and I hated even more that you left before I had a chance to explain.
I fought for you, honestly I did. I tried everything I could to save your job. But I couldn’t change their minds. And now the office is like a morgue and you’re not here. And I miss you.
I know I was an idiot to say what I said about us. But it’s still true. Being without you for the past week has only strengthened how I feel. I love you, Nell. I’m going to email you every day until I get an answer. Because I know you feel it too.
You’re angry now – I get that. But look in your heart. Can you honestly say you don’t want us to be together?
We’ve been through too much for this not to happen. I’m not giving up on us.
I love you.
Aidan xx
Angrily, I logged out. I didn’t want to know that Aidan was hurting too and I certainly didn’t want to feel the glimmer of hope it gave me. Suddenly I was stuck in limbo between the newness of San Francisco that I didn’t yet feel a part of and the aspects of my old life I was trying to leave. I decided to ignore the other messages waiting unread in my inbox. Reading any more of Aidan’s words while I was here wouldn’t solve anything, only leave me with more questions. I was still angry with him for making me redundant and then trying to get back with me. Besides, I wanted to use the time I had here to think about the future and how I fitted into it. Whether Aidan could – or should – ever be a part of my life again was something I wasn’t ready to consider yet.
While I had been sleeping, Lizzie had been busy. Keen to make me feel more a part of her city she had invited her friend Eric to join us for dinner.
‘You’ll love him,’ she promised me, dashing around her tiny kitchen as she prepared food. ‘If anyone can cheer you up, Eric can.’
Eric Walker was a six-foot bundle of pure energy, from the cheeky grin playing on his face to his ever-moving hands which he used to accentuate every word. Even sitting at Lizzie’s dining table he didn’t keep still, animatedly jumping from anecdote to anecdote. Originally from Dagenham in Essex, Eric had come to San Francisco for a year and ended up with a lucrative job entertaining visitors at Pier 39 with his unique blend of British humour, circus skills and crazy unicycle riding – which he was still doing fifteen years later. It was wonderful to meet him and especially lovely to talk to another British person, even if his accent had adopted a noticeable West Coast twang.
‘If I’d stayed in the UK I’d be an accountant by now,’ he told me, after reducing me to tears of laughter by juggling various ornaments from Lizzie’s living room. ‘That’s what my dad wanted me to be. Instead I’m in San Francisco, where juggling swords while balancing on a unicycle is perfectly acceptable. I make a good wage from the daily shows and teach circus skills to private students – most of which are accountants, lawyers and bankers. Can you imagine me doing that for a living in Dagenham?’
Watching Lizzie’s friend performing his impromptu routine I found it hard to imagine Eric wading through tax returns in an office.
‘So Lizzie tells me you’ve had a tough day?’ he asked, when Lizzie was in the kitchen dishing up dessert.
‘Not really. I’ve just felt a bit out of place. Everything’s different here: crossing the road, ordering a cup of coffee, even buying things in shops.’
Eric laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we all go through it. Listen, have you been to Fisherman’s Wharf yet?’
‘No, I only arrived yesterday. But it’s on my list of places to visit.’
‘Excellent!’ He grabbed a handful of cutlery and began to juggle it, making me laugh again. ‘Why don’t you two come and see my show tomorrow? You’ll love Pier 39. It reminds me of summer holidays in Southend and Bournemouth when I was a kid.’ He added a pepper grinder to the collection of tumbling knives and forks – chuckling when a cloud of pepper dust covered his lap. ‘Trust me, it’s impossible to feel out of place there. Lizzie, what do you reckon?’
Lizzie returned to the table with enormous bowls of ice cream sprinkled with tiny Oreo cookies. ‘I think it’s a great idea, but this is Nell’s trip.’
By now I was laughing so hard I had to struggle to catch my breath, feeling so much better already. Eric’s suggestion sounded like the perfect choice.
‘Yes – let’s do it!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cable cars and seaside jazz
Next morning we made our way down to Fisherman’s Wharf. Eric had recommended a great place for lunch and suggested it was worth spending time wandering along the Bayside streets to soak in the atmosphere before we visited his afternoon show.
‘I really like Eric,’ I said to Lizzie as we walked past the numbered piers stretching out into