Oh God, it was her. The copper curls. Unmistakeable. Oh God.

From the pavement the people inside had been nothing more than unthreatening blurs. It had reminded Eric of the time when the council had fitted one way glass in the large front window of a social services office he had worked in. In an act of miraculous incompetence they had fitted the glass the wrong way round meaning that the vulnerable people waiting for help on the horrible plastic chairs were clearly visible to anyone who happened to be passing, while the identities of judgemental and occasionally predatory public were concealed from the anxious people inside. Today a layer of steam had provided a solution that was both low tech and equitable. To anyone inside looking out he would have been a lumpy grey ghost, an urban snowman, slush built, still solid despite the low sun thanks to the air’s bite. Peering at the window he had seen only an unclean aquarium, shapes moving in the gloom, the occasional flicker of silver. It was busier than he would have liked but on a workless day, free of any other responsibilities, going in felt like something he should do. Especially if he wanted to meet someone, which also felt like something he should try to do. Although, before leaving the house he’d been trying to muster some optimism by listening to music and when Hold On had come on, Tom Waits had assured him that this was not a good place to meet nice girls.

A small dented bell clapped tunelessly as Eric heaved through the door into the room. The steam that curtained the windows leapt to his glasses and he grabbed them from his face. He was almost as blind without them as with, but now in colour. Fumbling with the buttons of his overcoat in search of fabric fine enough to wipe his lenses he made for an abstract sculpture of blurry shapes that he hoped was an empty table.  

Relieved to be seated he buffed his glasses on his shirt. The restoration of his sight reminded him of the day almost three decades past when he had put on his first pair of NHS specs. In the privacy of his bedroom he had marvelled at the clean lines of Leonardo, the crisp colours of Raphael, the surprising precision of all of the Turtles, grinning approvingly at him from his poster. There were no turtles in the aquarium today, mutant or otherwise, but a teenager was approaching him with a notepad.

“What can I get you?”

He peered at the laminated list of Italian words. He had been strictly a tea man until last summer, avoiding the stress of a choice that seemed to introduce ill-fitting sophistication into his life. He preferred it when England had only had a choice of two hot brown drinks, tea, which was generally ranked to be as necessary as socks, or oxygen, and the other one. A freeze-dried headache in a cup favoured by smokers and people who didn’t know when to go to bed. But someone went and spoiled everything by making it aspirational and, more awkwardly, tasty, hitting two of the public’s plentiful weak spots with one little black shot.

“One of those please,” he said, pointing, avoiding the pronunciation trap, “large. No, actually, regular please. Thank you.”

The air of the room was thick with breath and chair backs and tables were heaped with discarded layers. Two more locomotive pedestrians rattled the bell and made for the only remaining table. No, only one. They were not together. One of them was approaching the counter, placing an order to go. The other was unwinding a scarf and heading for the table next to Eric. And, oh God, it was her. Greta.

She had been an unmet colleague’s plus-one at the Christmas party. After the colleague managed to get himself boneless with drink he was subtracted from the equation by security. Eric had already surprised himself by talking to her before the incident, although he suspected she would have spoken to anyone to allow her to distance herself from the remains of the man she had arrived with. Talking to someone who appeared to already be attached was so much safer, so much less stressful. But when the man Eric knew only from video calls been marched to the door she’d stayed. She had continued talking to Eric who, as a man too shy to publicly declare himself an introvert, felt heroic offering himself as a social shield. By the time she was no longer someone else’s plus-one, dramatically single and ordinarily unapproachable to Eric, they were already talking and drinking together, Eric looking like James Bond compared to the ejected inebriate. 

Eric grabbed his i-safety blanket© and bothered it with his thumb, focussing on algorithm selected news and relegating Greta to the hiss and clink of his periphery. He scrolled a column of sensationalist culture war skirmishes but closed the app fearing conscription. No new emails. Unsurprising since he had checked not ten minutes ago. He checked for activity on his online short story account. The little bell icon was free of the yellow dot that indicated new activity. He refreshed. No dot. Was he getting addicted to the little mustard dot? Surely not. He refreshed. Addiction was a bit too rock and roll for Eric. His lizard brain pushed his thumb to refresh.

“Here you go.” The teenager put his order down on the table.

“Ah, thank you. Thanks. Could I have…”

The teenager was already at the next table talking to Greta. Eric’s eyes followed her there and glanced at Greta while she gave her order. She saw him looking. He dropped his eyes to the nutty-smelling fern in front of him and his hand fell to his phone. No emails. No dot.

He’d already done the hard bit. A man’s alcohol abuse, a slo-mo yuletide suicide had already got Eric’s foot in the door. She wasn’t a stranger; he was Bond the last time they spoke. He’d made a joke of mild wit about the world’s most famous Greta. They’d talked music; the reliable popularity of David Bowie had helped him out a lot. They’d read a few of the same books. She’d kissed him on the cheek when she left. She was reading now. Folds of wool hugging the table, chin in hand under a copper curtain, pages pinned by painted nails.  

The teenager was back with Greta’s order. She looked up from her book to say thank you and caught Eric looking again. He gave her the type of smile that might open a conversation with a policeman, and a half nod that bordered on a bow. He was trapped. Talking to her was now the less-weird thing to do. Thank God he had left his coat on, there would be sweat patches like dinner plates. He cupped the warm fern to steady his hands.

“Hello.” It was a breathless effort. “Hi!” he said, a little too loudly.

“Oh, hello,” she said.

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine thanks.”

“Reading?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, yeah, obviously, sorry. Sorry.” Bond, Eric Bond. “What are you reading these days?”

“Lessons, Ian McEwan’s newest.”

“Any good?”

“Brilliant.”

“I’m a Chesil Beach man myself.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“No. I mean that’s what I’m like. No. I mean that’s what I like. That’s one of his I’ve read.”

“He’s very good. One of my favourites.”

“Me too. Him and Bowie.”

“Oh, yeah. Bowie’s great.” Back to Lessons. Copper curtain closed.

“I’ll have to check that one out. Lessons.”

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“Oh, well, sort of. We met. At Christmas. Oh God, sorry. It was at a party. Sorry, didn’t mean to be weird.”

“No problem. Busy time of year, so many chats at so many parties.”

“And the drinks don’t help the memory. I bet that sloppy fella you came with doesn’t remember it.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh God, I mean, he might be your husband for all I know.”

“Can I get you anything else?” The teenager was between them, asking both of them.

“Oh, not for me thanks,” said Eric, “Greta?”

“It’s Grazie,” said Greta.

“What?”

“Thank you is Grazie, not Greta.”

“Ha! No, I meant you, Greta. I’m fine, but do you want anything else?”

“My name’s not Greta.”

“Oh God.”

The teenager was loving it. This was like a live-action TikTok reaction video.

“We’re fine thanks,” said Greta dismissing the young voyeur with a smile.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you were…”

“It’s fine.”

“Well at least that means I wasn’t slagging off your husband.”

“No. I’m not called Greta and I haven’t got a husband. It’s fine.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. How’s your drink?”

“What are you called?”

“Neive.”

“Hello, Neive. I’m Eric.”

“And you like David Bowie and Ian McEwan, and this place.”

“Well, I’m more of a tea man really.”

“Well in that case you do look a little bit weird then don’t you?”

“Yeah, usually.”

“So, Eric, who’s this Greta you’ve been chatting up?”

“Oh God, no. It wasn’t like that. She was just this beautiful woman with amazing copper coloured hair who I ended up talking to by accident. She liked books and David Bowie…”

“She sounds great.”

“Yeah, well…” Eric stared at his wilting fern. “Did you know, David Bowie didn’t like tea?”

“No?”

“One of the most important British artists ever, and he did not like tea. He went on a boat trip with his parents when he was only small and there was a tea urn with this sludge in it that had been stewing since the blitz. Put him off for life.”

“It would.”

“Yeah, ha. So, have you got a loyalty card for this place?”

“Ha! Smooth. Yes, I have actually.” She hooked a twist of copper behind her ear.

“Oh! That’s not what I, er… Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ve got one,” she whispered with a nod at her own undisturbed fern.

“Oh, God, yes of course. Sorry. Felt like the next thing to say.”

“I don’t normally line my drinks up.”

“No, lining drinks up is a sure way to end up like that messy drunk who may or may not be Greta’s husband. But definitely isn't yours, because you haven't got one.”

“One of these is probably enough.” She sipped at her fern and turned to Eric, Lessons forgotten, lost under draped wool.

“Yeah, probably. Never mind.”

“We could go somewhere else though?”