Page 4 of A Secret Escape

T he weather is finally warming up, and for once I don’t have to wrestle with my hood against the wind or sidestep puddles on the pavement.

The cherry trees lining the streets have woken up, their delicate pink blossoms drifting lazily through the morning air like nature’s own confetti.

Something about the newfound warmth stirs a change in me, and I turn left instead of right outside my building, deciding to try a new route to get to work.

The shoebox of a flat I live in that somehow passes for legal accommodation is only a fifteen-minute walk to the office, and most mornings, I can’t get out the door fast enough.

I share the space with two other girls, Jen who was my roommate in uni, and her friend Mia.

They’re nice enough, but there’s no privacy, and everything feels like a negotiation.

Who left hair in the shower drain, whose turn is it to buy toilet roll, why does the Wi-Fi keep cutting out when someone’s watching Netflix?

I hate it. I’m saving a little bit of my pay check every month for a future version of me who will one day have her own space.

A fluffy rug, a kettle that isn’t in arm’s reach of my bed.

Maybe a gorgeous older man to share said bed with.

Nope. Not going there. Definitely not going there. Stop it, Lila.

Anyway - in the meantime, I take small wins where I can get them.

Like my morning walk. It’s my quiet time.

The fifteen minutes of the day when the city belongs to me alone, with Taylor Swift and Dua Lipa blaring in my ears, creating a soundtrack that transforms the regular city streets into my own personal music video.

And so, this morning, I turn left instead of my usual right, letting my feet carry me along the riverside path that snakes gently past the Manchester Civil Justice Centre.

It’s quieter this way, the glass-fronted office towers of Spinningfields glinting ahead through the soft morning haze, their reflections rippling in the river beside me.

And that’s when I spot it – a cute little café tucked away just around the corner from the office, all mismatched chairs and big front windows that catch the morning light like something out of a film. It looks warm and inviting and I’m instantly drawn to it.

I walk in, a little bell dinging above me, and close my eyes, inhaling the aroma of actual coffee, not the weak, soulless stuff from the high street chains – or worse, the staff room’s disappointing excuse for coffee, where the machine hisses like it’s about to launch into space before producing something closer to foamy dishwater.

I order a caramel oat latte and am pleasantly surprised to find they steam the milk just right, and the coffee itself is fresh - smooth and deep with a nutty aroma.

I go back the next morning, and the next, and then again.

Pretty soon, it’s become a pre-work ritual that my bank account definitely doesn’t appreciate, but my mental health does.

And every day, I do my usual round of mental gymnastics to justify it.

I saw that dress in Zara yesterday and didn’t buy it, so this coffee is fine.

At least I don’t smoke. I could just about afford a new pair of boots, but mine are still fine. And so on and so on.

And then – one morning – I turn from the counter, cup in hand, and see him.

“Lila, hey,” Marcus says, his voice casual but warm .

“Hi,” I manage, my heart doing that stupid cartoon thud-thud against my ribs the same way it does every time I see him.

He looks flawless, as always, his hair perfectly swept back, and he’s wearing my favourite of his three navy suits - the one that fits just tight enough around his arms to hint at the muscle definition underneath.

He gets in the queue to order, shooting me a warm smile. “Early one for you too, today?”

“Coffee’s the only thing getting me through these Monday meetings,” I nod, cursing myself inwardly for not being able to come up with a better response.

I stand by the sugar station, pretending to scroll on my phone awkwardly for a minute or two, but there’s three people ahead of him and I don’t want to hover too long and seem weird.

I wait another few seconds until I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye. I flash him a smile and a quick ‘See ya,’ then escape out the door, my cheeks burning the rest of the way to the office.

After that, I start seeing him there more regularly. Sometimes once or twice a week, sometimes more, but always on a Friday, I notice.

Sometimes he’s a few steps ahead of me, holding the door open with a quiet ‘Morning’ – soft, low, and utterly unbothered – like he has no idea that every time he says it, I find myself wishing I could wake up to him whispering that in my ear.

Other times, one of us is already in the queue and the other joins, trading sleepy pre-caffeinated eye rolls or muttering complaints about early meetings.

And the days I see him there are my favourite parts of my entire week.

** *

JUNE 2023

Despite it being bright sunshine all last week, in typical British fashion, the weather has gone completely rogue overnight.

Rain is coming down in sheets, a cold wind whipping through the air like it’s winter all over again.

I’m running late because I couldn’t decide what to wear, having already transitioned fully into summer mode.

And I’m freaking out, because it’s Friday, the one day I’ve been guaranteed to see Marcus at the coffee shop these past few months. If he’s already gone by the time I get there, I might just cry.

I finally manage to get out the door, shoving my feet into my wellies and grabbing the world’s most useless umbrella, speed-walking as fast as I can to the coffee shop.

I burst through the door, breathless and soaked, convinced I must be too late.

But he’s there. Standing at the pick-up end of the counter. Two cups in hand.

His dark coat is speckled with silver rain drops, his hair slightly damp and tousled from the wind, and somehow, he looks even better for it, while I’m here praying that I don’t look like a drowned rat.

“Hey,” he smiles. “I took the chance you were just running late and not hit by a car or something.” He passes me one of the cups like it’s the most casual thing ever. Like he buys me coffee every day.

“Thank you,” I say. “You really didn’t have to. ”

I bring the cup to my mouth, taking a sip, and it’s my standard caramel oat latte.

He remembered my order. Like it’s nothing.

It’s fucking everything.