Problem: the pancakes are cold. And for butter to melt, pleasingly and glisteningly, I need them warm. So I whack them in the industrial-looking toaster, which has a little conveyer belt to carry your items along, spitting them out the other end once toasted. While that’s happening, I spoon some berries into a bowl, and then head over to the jugs of juice, because some orange, in the corner of the shot, might look vibrant and healthy too.
I do a sweep past the toaster, but the pancakes haven’t emerged yet, so take my other bits back to my table.
“Morning, Jack!” It’s Nate’s mum, looking bright and breezy in these pink chino shorts and a rather jaunty blue-striped top. “Don’t tell me my sleep-loving son is still in bed and he’s left you to fend for yourself at this breakfast buffet?”
“He needs his sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll save him a stale croissant.”
“He’s in a weird mood. Is it still this Tariq business?”
I nod. “Yeah. But, I had a thought, and I think it might help cheer him up – if you’re up for a slight detour – to see my cousin Elliot perform in a talent show near Stoke-on-Trent, which I know sounds—”
“Yes!” she blurts out. “I mean, anything, some form of structure, is great. Mick is being so free and easy about this whole trip, I’m beside myself. I’m having to lie to friends and relatives, saying it’s all planned and everything is wonderful – if the mums at Rose’s school get wind of what’s actually happening, I’ll be shunned, Jack. Shunned. Like they did with Anne Rogers after she ditched her SUV and bought an electric bike.”
I nod, even though I have no idea.
“But Nate knows Elliot and likes him?”
“They got on so well when we were ten and Elliot spent a few weeks of the summer at ours.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mick, but I’m sure we can manage it.” She cocks her head to the other side of the restaurant. “Join us, you can hear Mick prattle on about how he wants to catch a fish and barbecue it on a beach, because why eat at one of Rick Stein’s restaurants like Debbie Atwood does every month with her millionaire husband when you can drag something out of the sewage-ridden North Sea and incinerate it over a fire made with the last remaining vestiges of your hopes and dreams?”
I take a deep breath. I hope Nate’s folks aren’t on the rocks, relationship-wise. I don’t think Nate could take that. “Sure,” I say. “I just have something I need to—”
I freeze as I see smoke billowing out of the toaster, which is clearly malfunctioning for reasons completely unconnected with me. And before I can do anything else, there’s this ear-shattering siren, all the breakfast guests start panicking, and even though it seems like the “fire” is controllable, everyone starts being herded out into the car park because of “policy” and “procedures which have to be followed” after the (unspecified) “incident at Basildon East”.
As I’m shepherded out through a fire exit, I hear one of the staff members say to another, “Another prat who ignored the sign saying ‘only put bread in the toaster’.”
I want to make it very clear that this is the first I’ve heard of the existence of such a sign, and maybe they need to think about a bigger sign, or a highlighter pen, I don’t know, but this is not my fault and if anyone asks, I’m going to deny all knowledge because it feels like everyone is very angry right now and I really can’t be dealing with any more haters.
Let me tell you, though, you have not experienced true joy until you’ve seen Nate blunder, confused and half-asleep, out through a fire exit, wearing just his boxers and a pair of trainers, with a duvet wrapped around his shoulders. It’s a sight so messy, chaotic and hopeless, it can’t fail to warm your cynical heart.
“What the hell?” he says, as he stumbles over to me.
“Apparently some fool put some pancakes through the toaster.” I shrug. “Why is everyone such an idiot?” I look him up and down. “Nice outfit. Daring. I like how you’re pushing boundaries.”
Nate’s parents and Rose walk over to us. “Nate Harrison!” his mum says. “Why are you standing here in your underpants?”
“Fire,” Nate mutters, rubbing his hand through his bed-head hair. “You’re not meant to stop to collect belongings.”
“So if you’d been in the shower, you’d just be out here naked, would you? Have it all out for the world to see?”
Nate’s eyes widen.
“I think he did the right thing,” Nate’s dad says.
“Would you rather have me naked in a car park or dead?” Nate asks.
His mum seriously thinks about it. “Why aren’t you up yet anyway? It’s nine a.m.!”
“Mu-um,” Nate growls. He slumps down to sit on the edge of the kerb, still sleepy.
“Right, well,” his mum continues, “get yourself up because, change of plan, we’re heading over to Stoke-on-Trent to see Jack’s cousin Elliot perform in
