Love, coffee, a refill...and a sequel.

LOVE, COFFEE, A REFILL...AND A SEQUEL.

The thing about something called Love & Coffee is this. One book, just like one gulp, is never quite enough. That's what I thought when I started writing the sequel.

It's called Love & Coffee The Refill. And, just because today's Friday...and just because I damned well feel like it...here's a sneaky preview. Enjoy...

THE PAUPER AND THE PRINCESS...

Good morning Friday. It’s chilly, but sunny. Noisy, then quiet. Breezy one minute, calm and peaceful the next. It’s a day of opposites. Where North and South don’t seem so far apart from each other.

As my old gypsy granny used to say – every ending is a beginning. Every departure an arrival.

It’s how the world keeps on turning. Even though sometimes it feels like it’s slamming on the brakes and coming to a juddering halt.

As I walk into the coffee shop I can see a slow-moving queue stretching almost back to the door. Right at the front is The Pauper. A shabby, hand-me-down guy who looks like the last time he wore a new set of duds was never.

He’s taking his time. Being real careful. Counting out enough cash for a warm drink of anything with the colour brown in it. Using the kind of unwashed, unwanted, small change that finds its way onto busy city centre pavements.

The kind of filthy lucre too embarrassed to allow itself to be picked up except by anyone who already has nothing.

Behind the counter, Little Italy is patience personified. This is a game she knows well. The Pauper counts out more than enough grubby coins for a regular Americano. And he hands them all over to her. And she takes them and puts them in the till. Then hands him back the change. And the change is exactly the same amount he handed over to her.

Then she gives him an extra large Americano ?– not a regular – which he takes carefully to the far wall. To a table with two chairs. And he sits in the chair facing the door.

And he waits.

Then the rest of the queue diminishes double-quick as she and Big Red serve up the finest drink on the planet to folk who know that, like Guinness, good things come to those who wait.

And while that’s happening The Pauper counts again. Slowly.

Then he sips. Swallows. Takes a breath. Takes a break. Starts another count. Even from over by the counter I can see his lips move. Whispering numbers.

So when I get to the head of the queue I ask Little Italy about him. What’s his story, I say. She looks at me for a couple of heartbeats. Blinks. Then smiles her smile. Hang around, she says. You’ll see, she says.

So I hang around for a slow Americano and a slower refill. And halfway through the refill a simple twist of fate opens the door.

And in walks a Princess.

Not the blue blooded Royal kind. Not the royal celeb kind. This one’s the rarest of them all. The real deal. The Audrey Hepburn kind. The kind that can blow all the other kinds out of the water with a simple look or a gesture.

Figure hugging black mid-thigh dress under cosy mohair black jacket. Black leggings, black stilettoes, black Mary Quant hair.

Bone China skin. Flawless. Almost translucent.

Just a touch of pink lipstick.

Just a hint of sandalwood perfume.

She glides slowly to the counter while everyone in the shop with a surfeit of testosterone suddenly goes bug-eyed and open-mouthed as she walks by.

Me included.

Little Italy doesn’t even need to ask the question. The answer has been hanging around since the last time The Princess came in. So she reaches behind and brings down a pure white cup and saucer from the special occasion shelf.

Then she fills the cup with green tea. No milk. No sugar. No fuss.

Then she hands the married pair to The Princess who smiles and the room lights up.

A little of the loose stuff changes hands and The Princess moves to a table twenty feet away against the far wall. And she sits down in a chair facing away from the door. And she looks into the eyes of The Pauper just for a second.

But for The Pauper the second feels like an hour. An hour during which a whole conversation takes place.

Then she looks down, sips her green tea, breathes deep, and closes her eyes. And The Pauper closes his.

Behind the counter, Little Italy looks at the box on the wall. The box knows the routine. Some things you just don’t forget.

So it reaches down and picks up number 411. Brings it up top and slides it gently onto the turntable.

The curtains open and the smooth, silky voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing So Near and Yet So Far fills the space inside the four walls. Words and music by Cole Porter. Arrangement by Nelson Riddle.

A million heartbeats later the music stops. Ella fades into the distance. And The Pauper opens his eyes once again.

The Princess is conspicuous by her absence.

Sometimes the difference between living and loving is a single letter. Other times it’s a whole damned alphabet.

Be cool…

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Check out Love & Coffee in paperback and ebook in time for Christmas!

Grab a coffee...grab a chair...and grab a sneaky peek. You'll find them here, on Amazon; https://amzn.to/28IWaHq.

And if you fancy some more great festive reads, check out my other books here;

Ad Lib: https://amzn.to/2kd4LKf.

Ad Hoc: https://amzn.to/2Nx8GL8

Heaven Help Us: https://amzn.to/2nkQ1Jk

As for Love & Coffee The Refill...2021 is just around the corner.

And as for my debut crime novel A Time For Dying...well, that's just up the road a bit...