Book Tour – Extract Milkshakes And Heartbreaks At The Starlight Diner By Helen Cox

‘The frowner at the counter wants his cheque; it’s number twenty-seven. I gotta get four breakfasts to fourteen. Can you sort that for me, honey?’ Mona asked, juggling many more plates than she had hands.

‘Sure,’ I said, picking up the correct cheque off the pinboard.

‘Here’s your cheque, sir. Hope everything was OK,’ I recited the standard line and offered a measured smile.

‘It was just what I needed, thanks,’ the frowner said in a familiar accent. He’d clocked my accent too: there was an expectant sparkle in his blue eyes.

Further diluting my smile, I turned to walk away before anything concerning – like a conversation – could take place.

‘You’re from England, aren’t you?’ he asked.

I dropped my shoulders and turned back to face him.

‘Yes,’ I replied in the most monotone manner I could muster. My absolute lack of interest would surely signal I didn’t want to spew my origin story over the counter to some stranger in a theatrical downtown diner.

‘I’m from Putney, in West London. You?’

‘London too.’ Insert awkward pause. This was the point in the exchange where I was supposed to ask him something. What brought him to New York? How long would he be staying? Etcetera. But he was a ghost from a past life. A patriot of a place I’d done all I could to distance myself from. Inviting though his smile was, I wouldn’t go back. For anyone.

‘Excuse me.’ A woman much younger than the frowner and I, sporting a cropped, neon-yellow blazer, stepped forward. ‘Could I get your autograph?’ I looked at the bronzed beauty holding out a napkin and a biro, skewing her head to one side the way exotic birds do when they’re trying to make sense of the world, and then looked again at the man. He nodded at her request. He pushed a hand through his thick, black hair which fell long around the ears but showed signs of receding at the hairline.

On closer inspection, his face did look sort of familiar. I thought I’d seen it on a billboard in Times Square but minus the beard, which was peppered with grey at the edges.

‘You could add your number, if you wanted.’ The woman put a hand on his shoulder now. Her long hair, crimped from root to tip, spilled over him as she leaned in close. I rolled my eyes, took the opportunity to exit the conversation and went to speak to Walt, a man of seventy-seven who ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with us every day.

‘You want your usual or do you feel like a change this morning?’ Walt spent most mornings engrossed in his paper but, as had become the daily ritual between us, cast a stern look at me over his glasses.

‘You only ask me that to torment me, don’t ya?’ His freckled face scrunched in irritation.

‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, Walt.’ I grinned.

‘Be as presumptuous as you like. Whaddo I care? It’s only food.’ He waved a hand in my direction as though he were shooing a pigeon.

‘The way you embrace life so whole-heartedly is an inspiration to us all.’ Walt put down his paper and his face scrunched even tighter. ‘Alright, alright,’ I said. ‘Mushroom omelette it is.’

‘Excuse me?’

Oh great, the frowner had returned. He stood right in my way. Blocking my route to the kitchen.
‘Yes sir, is there a problem?’

‘Er. No, of course not. I … we were just interrupted.’ Though his arms were folded loose across his body, the skin around his eyes was taut with confusion. What did this guy want from me? He’d already picked up a brunette this morning. Did he really need to add a blonde to his collection?

‘Oh, I have to get Walt’s breakfast now,’ I said.

‘I can wait.’ Walt again waved his hand. I glared at him. He smirked, lowering his eyes back to the paper. Sighing, I turned to the frowner; I raised both eyebrows and tilted my head, signposting to this socially blunt individual that if he had something to say, he should say it now.