Chapter 1

A noise like pebbles being hurled at the windows makes me stop mid task. Pausing from cleaning the spigots of our barista machine, I gaze out at the street. Up here on the first floor, the windows look out across Oldham Street. The yellow lights of windows on the opposite look like smears as the hailstones slipping down the glass. It looks most unwelcoming. January in Manchester is always tough going. Thank goodness for coffee. Here in The Northern Grind we like to offer respite for our customers. Mondays in Winter are always frantic. What with the office refugees, the Monday shoppers, the weekend sleep deprived and the plain desperate it is one of the busiest days bar Saturday. I DON'T get much respite; I've been run off my feet. I'm exhausted and badly in need of an espresso myself. Karl, our other assistant barista is ill with flu (supposedly). Frankly I think he just wanted a long weekend. I don't blame him. He clearly has a life; a new boyfriend each week and a body and looks to die for. In his absence me and Debbie my manager have struggled all day to meet the demand. It's a huge relief when the last two customers put on their coats and leave: What a blessed relief to hear footsteps clumping down the bare wooden stairs.

'I'll finish cleaning the machine Jacqui', Debbie says. 'You wipe down the tables and then you can go.'

'Are you sure there's nothing else?' I say. 'I’ve nothing special to go home to.’

‘Really?' she looks at me quizzically. 'Well I suppose you could refill the sugar pourers’.

Northern Grind is what Debbie likes to call ‘Her Coffee Shop with Added Value’. Quirky and different, full of mismatched furniture and crockery, the place is a Northern Quarter paradise full of the aroma of freshly ground coffee and baking pastries. Old warehouse shelving shows off stacks of old books, some donated by customers, some from car boot sales and library decommissions. The ancient Gaggia came from a defunct espresso bar in Rochdale. With the cafe's ornate iron pillars, bare plank floor and huge windows, the place has a character all its own. Our large community notice board holds photos posted by regular customers and posters for community events. In the evening the Coffee Shop offers a cheap venue for Community Groups and classes . Tonight it’s the turn of the Salsa Class.

I grab the small polythene sack of sugar from behind the counter and start to fill the sugar pourers with a funnel. The customers seem to love these. They add yet another retro touch to our rather unusual coffee emporium. Everything is FairTrade and the recycled domestic sofas and crockery give it a delicious 1960’s meets 90’s vibe. We even have a juke box with a very eclectic set of classics from the soul, disco and rock eras.

I was lucky to get this job six months ago on arriving back in Manchester. Correction, Debbie took pity on me when I failed to get any work after 2 months on Job Seekers Allowance. It was such a relief to feel useful again. I have work: I really love it and I’m good at it. Coffee helped me cope with College, now it gives me a livelihood.

‘You’re not staying for Salsa then?’ she asks in a throwaway style that somehow makes me feel uncomfortable.

‘Oh I only like dancing with Karl’ I sigh with mock resignation. ‘He’s such a divine partner that I won’t have anyone else. I’m giving it a miss tonight.’

Karl dances Salsa with such style and panache. I know it’s such a gay stereotype but he does. Because he's Gay there's no strings attached; another thing I love about him. Nobody else comes close, especially not straight guys. If Karl doesn't go I end up dancing with someone from the pool of unattached women (why is there always such a dearth of men?).

‘I'll only end up dancing with Jo and she wants me to be the man.’

‘Is that such a problem?’

‘YES! I hate having to lead, come on, you know me well enough! Debbie’, I smile.

It’s true. I hate taking charge of anything. On the odd occasion Debbie isn’t here I leave managing to Karl. Debbie has been trying to encourage me to get out more ever since I started working here. It's become her mission. Instead, she ffinds a willing volunteer to help out with evening events, to stand in for Karl whenever he’s off and to be at everybody’s beck and call. I work hard. It earns me extra cash, I gain much needed experience and I don't have to think about myself at all. I love waiting on, I like chatting to people, hearing them talk about themselves and making them feel at home. I like making people happy. I hate talking about myself.

Debbie comes over the table, cloth in hand. 'Jacqui, why did you come back to Manchester? Be honest.'

'Why do you want to know?'

'Beacause I have a hunch. I have for a while now. You come in here. You work so hard, you go back home to Fallowfield, you come back in to work. You're never late, you never come in with a hangover, you never have bad hair days, you're always organised....what's going on girl?

'I don't get you?' I say evasively, wanting to desperately dodge the question.

She shakes her head with a knowing smile. 'Do you fancy a coffee?'.

'But Debbie you've just cleaned the machine!'

'Fuck that! You're having a mug of Northern Grind's finest Colombian whether you like it or not; the best truth serum I know of. How many secrets do you think get spilled between these four walls? Everybody knows the barista code...You don't grind and tell!'

Uh oh, how was I going to get out of THIS one? Debbie has that determined look on her face, the one she uses when she's attempting the herculean task of opening our rusty windows!'

'Maybe some of us don't WANT to tell.'

'Hmm, we'll see about that. Coffee is way more powerful than sodium pentothal, believe me!' She plants the two mugs on the table and sits down opposite to me.

'Jacqui, it seems to me either you're laying low, hiding from an ex, hurt in love or just plain running scared. OK, which is it? Spill!'

There is a very long pause as the leaky Gaggia hisses like a wise, all knowing coffee serpent in the background. I look at Debbie across the table as she gazes back intently at me. We both take a slug from our coffee mugs: It's hot and aromatic; altura grown supremo grade arabica, the best, impossible to resist. She continues to look at me, non threatening but waiting. It would be almost impossible to turn away. This extended silence is worse than anything because of the need to fill it. How long can I avoid her questions?

I take another gulp of coffee. 'All of them!' I sigh. 'Every fucking one!'

Over the next hour I pour it all out to Debbie. She has a knack of eliciting every last minute detail. During pauses we make more coffee and it's in those thought filled intervals which somehow lead me to divulge more. Before long there are only a few pieces left like the tough hard centres in a box of chocolates. Once you begin a story you need to complete it. I'm beginning to realise I can't bear the thought of more questions or of hiding my secret any longer. As a consequence, even those hard, brittle and least palatable memories get tasted and shared. I finish up my third coffee. There is the sound of footsteps coming UP the stairs. Debbie looks at her watch, picks up the empty mugs and stands up. It punctuates our confidential talk like a full stop. I feel slightly sick and guilty as if we really have consumed a massive box of chocoates together.

'Jacqui, this is just between the two of us, okay? I can't say that I had no idea because I suspected as much. You must have been through so much but then so we all have. The difference is that you have locked it all away. You can't hide in Manchester love, believe me. One day you'll have to deal with all of this. The sooner the better. You've put your life on hold right now: You've made a giant Star Jump but some time you'll have to land. Here's hoping you'll find a really soft place.....or person.' she added.

At that moment Karl walks in...