A Hint of Sandalwood

‘Do you mind if I join you,’ asks a voice that wouldn’t sound out of place on Radio 4 or Classic FM.  I look up to see a gloved hand hovering over the chair opposite. ‘It’s just, this appears to be the only seat left.’

I’ll be honest here, I don’t like sharing with strangers, but the coffee shop is popular and is indeed full. I purse my lips and, deciding it would be churlish of me to refuse, I indicate for him to sit.

‘Thank you,’ he says as he pulls out the chair and lowers himself with a fluid grace that seems at odds with his height and build. Unwinding my ivory cashmere and silk scarf, I make a show of folding it neatly and placing it on my half of the small, round mahogany-varnished table, marking my territory. His right hand reaches up to remove his hat, a fedora no less, which he places less than an inch from my scarf. His layered salt and pepper hair curls round his ears, just shy of his neck and flops to within millimetres of his eyebrows. It is surprisingly thick for a man his age and despite being tousled from the removal of his hat, is clearly well styled. A feeling of familiarity triggers at a suppressed memory and unnerves me.

‘Frank,’ he says, removing his gloves and offering me his hand across the table. Nice eyes I think as I take in the liquid caramel irises flecked with gold and the way his left eye drags slightly at the outer edge.

‘Lily,’ I reply, blinking to stop myself staring as I finish easing off my scarlet leather gloves. I lay them on top of my scarf and reach towards his outstretched hand. We meet in the middle, our fingers touching briefly with an imperceptible shake that prompts an unexpected tingling down my spine.

‘Always busy in here,’ he says, unbuttoning his charcoal woollen overcoat. He slips his arms out of the sleeves and lets it fall over the back of the chair, the exposed silk lining two shades darker than my gloves. Expensive. A man of style, and taste. A hint of sandalwood drifts towards me, stirring dormant memories. I inhale and smiled inwardly.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘And noisy today.’

‘Do you come here often?’

The question takes me by surprise. Not the actual question, I should add, but the fact that it doesn’t fit with the persona I’ve already started building of him. Then his lips move into what I interpret to be a self-conscious smile and his clean-shaven face takes on another dimension.

‘Sorry. That sounded trite.’

I match his smile. ‘Yes,’ I say again, adding, ‘not yes it sounded trite but yes, I do come here often. Most days, in fact.’

‘Oh. I’ve not seen you before.’

Nor I him. I would definitely have remembered.

‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘And a pastry, maybe?’

‘Thank you,’ I say. His face lights up before I extinguish it by continuing, ‘but I prefer to get my own.’

I don’t like feeling obliged to anyone, you see. Not since Jeremy. It took a while to realise that his generosity was his way of controlling me; of making me feel I owed him. But by then it was too late. I’d already committed myself, marrying a man who was wrong for me; a decision borne out of misplaced loyalty.

The waitress comes over and I order my usual regular decaff cappuccino with oat milk. Frank (a good, solid name, straightforward and honest; dependable…not like Jeremy) orders a grande (pronouncing it gronday which I have to say I find a bit pretentious), double strength latte with full fat milk.

           I remove the paperback from my handbag and open it at the bookmark, intending to read whilst I wait for my coffee. There is movement opposite and I discreetly raise my eyes to see Frank putting on a pair of tortoiseshell-patterned, small framed glasses which, I note without trying to be obvious, make him look even more distinguished and complement those delicious eyes. Deliberate, I wonder, or coincidence? He then taps and swipes at his mobile phone before settling back, studying the screen. Despite the fact that I am reading, I have an unprecedented urge to talk, which is unusual for me. I mean, what would I say? I don’t do small talk, you see. If something doesn’t have a point then as far as I’m concerned its best not said at all.

By the time our drinks arrive I’ve started another chapter. The waitress places my cappuccino in front of me, the two-tone foam topped with a generous dusting of a chocolate fern leaf that has yet to melt. Frank’s latte is in a tall, tapered, top-heavy glass, precariously balanced on its saucer. He steadies it by a handle that looks too small for those perfectly manicured, large hands of his. I notice there is a thick band on the third finger of his right hand, white gold, probably platinum, and no sign of a mark on the opposite finger. My left hand automatically goes to my own, redundant, slim band.

I delicately bite into my almond cookie petit-four whereas Frank pops his in whole and I can’t help but watch as it disappears between those perfectly formed, inviting lips.

I take a sip of my cappuccino whilst he drinks his latte a mouthful at a time.

‘Never hot enough,’ he says.

I agree.

He finishes first, not that it’s a race, and makes no effort to move. Usually, when I’ve finished my cappuccino, one of my guilty pleasures is to spoon out the remaining foam and chocolate but today, in front of this man, I feel unusually self-conscious so I refrain and instead take a tissue from one of the small handy packs I always carry with me and dab at my lips to remove any residue of chocolate and foam, careful not to smudge my lipstick before aligning my Literature Club bookmark and closing the book.

‘I see you like Hardy,’ he says, looking up. ‘Far From the Madding Crowd is one of my favourites.’

‘And mine...’

There’s a pause, as of things unsaid, before I reluctantly pick up the paperback, wishing our discussion could continue. I return it to my handbag then stand, wrapping the scarf round my neck and shrugging into my camel-coloured trench coat.

‘Goodbye then,’ I say.

We make eye contact as I tighten the belt and begin to pull on my gloves; those warm eyes causing more pre-Jeremy sensations to tumble into the present. As I breathe in to negotiate the tight space between my chair and the one behind I catch the smell of sandalwood again and this time it unlocks the bittersweet memories of a man who had been dependable and honest…and too much of a gentleman to point out my failing regarding Jeremy.

‘I don’t know whether you know,’ said Frank, holding my gaze, ‘but the Willow Road Cinema has been refurbished. It’s now called the Vintage Picture House.’

‘Yes,’ I say, hesitating between the chairs. ‘I had heard.’

‘It’s just…well, I was wondering, if you happen to be free sometime next week…?

He glances down at his phone then back up, locking eyes with me again and I can feel the warmth rise to my cheeks ‘Next Tuesday, in fact. In the afternoon. They’re screening Far From the Madding Crowd…’

‘With Julie Christie and Alan Bates…’

‘A classic…’

I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but I do believe in second chances. With him still looking at me with those melting eyes and an air of expectancy I sit back down, peel off my gloves and pull out my diary. I open it and stare for a few seconds at the empty week ahead.

           ‘Tuesday, you say?’

1,320 words

ends