Cafe Hopping

Cafe Hopping

“There you are,” she said, “Gavin, honestly, where have you been?”

The name made the back of my neck tense, my hands stopped typing at my laptop. It couldn’t be the same Gavin, what were the odds? Still, I kept my head bent forward over my keyboard, I looked out of the corner of my eye at the man approaching. Instinctively, I raised my hand and rested my head in it, with my elbow on the table, to hide my face. What an obvious move. He was standing right next to me now. I’d know that ring anywhere. I felt my heart rate rise, I felt a tension in my entire chest and throat. Gavin. It was him.

The woman with Gavin was blonde, on the heavy side, wearing a floaty animal print top, large shades and a whole lot of scent. I heard Gavin sit down, and then kiss the woman. He ordered a coffee and a croissant in his very good French. His looks alone would have got him anything, of course. Even now.

He had to have seen me. There was no way he couldn’t have. I put on my baseball cap and started to pack up my things. The woman’s phone started ringing, she answered it.

“Hello, Evan? Evan? I can hardly hear you.”

Gavin put his hand on her arm. “Leila, you really must go outside to take a phone call in this country.”

“Oh, really? No-one’s said anything.”

Leila sailed down the aisle between the tables, and a man standing at the counter had to pull in to let her through. Outside in the street, the whole of Paris learned the intimate details of her relationship with her co-producer.

“Frankie, Frankie.” I heard my name and I turned to face Gavin.

“Hello, Gavin.”

He looked at me with his huge eyes and shook his head. 

“I love you Gavin. I love you now, after everything, I’ll never stop loving you, no matter what happens, it will always be like this. I hate you so much, you make me sick. I love you. I forgive you. I’ll never forgive you. I wish you’d die. Let’s live together, let’s be together, forever.”

But of course I didn’t say any of those things, because he knew, just looking at me. Without a word, he gave me his card. I put my index finger against my lips - sshh. He nodded and half smiled, then looked away. I finished packing up my belongings, sliding my laptop into my bag. I paid and left. Leila was still outside, her deep voice echoing in the early morning street. I doubted she had even noticed me at all.

I walked along the pavement, watching the morning city life, as it had been for centuries,. Whom should I call? Who would be able to talk me down from this disaster? And who was Leila? His boss, his wife, his mark? Should I hate her, or run back and warn her? I felt the card in my jacket pocket, and stopped at a crossroads. A car stopped to let me cross, but I shook my head. I looked down the streets left and right, ahead. I stood aside so that a man pushing a trolley loaded with soft drinks could pass. There was a bar on the corner opposite. I went in and ordered a Pastis.

I hate Pastis, I hate aniseed, and the bar was filthy, the noise of the fruit machines and people talking felt like shouting in my ears. Even at this early hour, people were drunk and rowdy. I poured water in my drink and watched it become cloudy and yellow. I drank the hateful liquor without gagging. I felt my shoulders relax and my senses come back to me. I laid Gavin’s card on the table.

Gavin Stokes-Crawford

Attorney at Law

There was an address in New York and a mobile number. The card was good quality, embossed. Could this be true? He was smart enough for sure. My mobile phone was on the table, next to the card. What could we talk about? Old times? How far he’d come? His new woman? I didn’t want to talk about myself, the intervening decades of a wasted life, my nothingness next to his success. 

I felt eyes on me, and looked up. A couple of men were sitting at the bar, talking and occasionally glancing at me. One of them smiled at me. Time to leave.

Outside in the street, I walked towards the Boulevard. I was grateful for the pastis and the feeling of ease as I walked. I heard footsteps behind me and I stopped to let the person go past, but he called out:

“Excusez-moi, Madame, puis-je vous parler?” Excuse me, miss, can I talk to you?

I shook my head and hurried on, but he caught up with me. 

“Leave me alone!” I shouted in French, but he showed me his policeman’s badge and I recognised him as the man at the cafe counter, earlier, with Leila and Gavin. 

“Can I talk to you, please? It’s about the man and the woman in the cafe, just now.”

I stood, dumbfounded, but really, what could I have expected, from Gavin? I looked at the police officer. He was in his mid to late forties, with a crew cut, a leather bomber jacket and jeans. His eyes were dark, intense, but not without kindness.

We went together to another cafe, he held the door open for me and I allowed him to brush against me as I walked in. He ordered some coffees and we sat down. He spoke English quite well.

“My name is Luc Henri, I am a detective with the police here in Paris. I would like to ask you some questions about the man and the woman in the cafe, earlier. I think you know the man.”

“Yes, I know him, but I don’t know her, the woman.”

“I think he gave you a card, may I see it?”

I showed him the card. He took a photo of it and handed it back to me.

“How do you know him, if you don’t mind?”

“I’ve known him for a long time, but I haven’t seen him for years.”

“So, it’s a coincidence that you see him today?”

“Yes, a coincidence.”

“But you know him. Can you tell me about that, please?”

“We were together for a few years, we were lovers. We met at University.”

“In Cambridge?”

I blinked. “Yes, in Cambridge. My name is Frances Harrison.”

The police officer took out a notebook and wrote down my name. 

“Can I see your ID, please?”

I showed him my passport. He looked at all the pages, and paid special attention to the entry stamps.

“What are you doing in France?”

“I’m just on holiday. Cafe hopping.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Stokes-Crawford introduce you to his wife?”

“I don’t know, maybe it was awkward?”

“You were in love.”

“I still am. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Did you follow Mr. Stokes-Crawford to France?”

“No. I have self-respect.”

The police officer looked at me and nodded. Then he smiled.

“A man like that, he is hard to forget.”

“A man like that is bad for your health. Stay away from him, officer.”

He laughed. He ripped off the top of the paper sugar sachet, and stirred the sugar in his coffee, smiling.

“Were you involved in the kidnapping of Diana Fortnay?”

Of course. Because he knew about Cambridge, he was bound to ask. 

“Do you see how this works?” I asked. “I saw Gavin in the cafe for less than a minute, and now I have a police officer asking me about a crime that was committed decades ago. No. I wasn’t involved in that. You can ask the police in the UK.”

“Can you prove it?” The police officer’s foot was tapping under the table and the coffee cups on the table were jingling.

“I was in Slovenia at the time, studying ice-age grave sites.”

He nodded. He looked up at me and sighed. His foot stopped tapping. 

“Do you have a job?”

“No, I don’t work.” I paused. “I, I had an accident years ago, and I got an insurance payout. So I don’t have to work.”

“Nice.”

“I was declared dead, then I was in a coma for two weeks. After I came round, I’d lost all sensation from my neck down. So, no. Not nice.”

“How did it happen, if you don’t mind?”

“It was just after Gavin and I split up. I was in a riding accident.”

“You wanted to die?”

I didn’t answer. I frowned and pursed my lips and it didn’t bother me that he could see. I picked up the empty sugar wrapper and twisted it into a bow.

“I don’t know if Gavin was involved in the kidnapping. It’s the kind of thing that people said about him, that he stole, he cheated in his finals, he broke many hearts. I know that’s true, I was there. But I’m free of that now. I can walk and do everything myself. The last thing I want is to have anything to do with him.” I let the paper fall from my fingers into the saucer of my coffee cup. 

He smiled at me and sighed.

I don’t know if Officer Luc Henri believed me. He thanked me and left, without paying for his coffee, I might add. I sat in the cafe with Gavin’s card in front of me on the little white table, as lethal as a cyanide pill, as compelling as a line of cocaine. I smiled at myself. A riding accident was a good story, I’d never used that before. Unless you could call Diana Fortnay a horse.

I picked up my phone and dialled a number. A man answered:

“Frankie. Hi.”

“Guess who I’ve just seen, in a cafe in Paris?”

There was a silence.

“Gavin. Oh my god, woman. Run.”

He wasn’t joking.