Read An Extract Of Follow Me By Angela Clarke

Saturday 31 October

Eight Times People Actually Died of Boredom. A WhatsApp chat alert flashed on Freddie’s phone, which was under the till out of the sight of customers.

A white speech bubble from Milena, who was outside taking a fag break, read: ‘Dan is’, and then there was a series of smiling poo emojis.

Freddie typed back: ‘Espress-woes.’

‘Are you in charge?’

Shoving her phone into her pocket, she looked up to find a drunk in a pinstripe suit, swaying in front of her. His eyes pink.

‘Look!’ He prodded at the fruit toast he’d placed on the counter.

‘This slice has no raisins. This one all the raisins.’

She waited…

‘Is not right,’ he stabbed again, catching the edge of the paper plate and flipping one of the half-eaten slices onto the Almond Biscottis they were pushing this month.

You’ve got to be kidding? As she reached out to retrieve the toast, his hand – cold and damp – grabbed hers and she was pulled across the counter toward him.

‘Or yous could give me your number?’ His stale beer breath buffeted her face.

She scanned the cafe for help. A Japanese couple, heads down, earphones in, oblivious. The gossipy women who’d been here for hours had left. Dan was in the stockroom. She was on her
own.

‘Giz a kiss,’ the drunk lunged.

Shame burned up her body and then ignited into anger. Wrenching her hand free, she sent the fruit toast flying toward him. ‘Get lost!’

Alerted by the disturbing sound of an employee raising their voice, Dan bustled into the cafe, oozing toward the drunk. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I’m sure
Freddie here can help.’

What the…‘Are you suggesting I prostitute myself for a piece of sodding fruit toast?’

Milena swung through the glass door – had she seen?

‘Our Freddie, ever the joker!’ Dan laughed like a screaming kettle.

‘Sir, I make you some new toast, please, have a seat. I bring it over.’ Milena’s megawatt smile blindsided the pink-eyed man.
‘Sure,’ he swayed.

‘The customer is always right,’ Dan glared at Freddie.

How the hell was this her fault? ‘But he…’

‘I don’t care, Freddie. You need to see the positives in all customers.

Visualise them as your close personal friend.’

‘That’s what I was sodding worried about!’

‘Espress-oh partners don’t use language they wouldn’t feel comfortable saying in front of their mothers,’ Dan stage whispered.

Flinging her arm in the direction of the drunk who was now face down asleep on the counter, a puddle of drool spreading toward the discarded fruit toast, Freddie screamed: ‘If my mum was here
she’d tell that dirty bastard to fuck off!’

‘Enough! Take your break! Now!’

Furious, she smacked her palms hard against the glass door and powered toward the train platforms. A few hardy souls were bundled, with suitcases, on the cold metal benches, waiting for
the first Eurostar. All this money regenerating the station and they forgot to put doors on? Yet another deterrent to Kathy and her homeless mates. Barely more appealing than metal spikes. She
was heading to the taxi rank where she could bum a cigarette off a cabbie, when she saw her:

Nasreen Cudmore.

They’d played together virtually every day since they were six, until…she couldn’t deal with thinking about that now. Eight years ago. Must be. Nasreen looked the same. No, different. There was no puppy fat, and she was tall too, like her dad. Five foot eight, at least. She’d cut that ridiculous waist-length black hair. It now hung in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Perfect against her milky coffee skin. With both pride and pain, Freddie acknowledged Nasreen Cudmore had grown into a beautiful woman.

What the hell was she doing here at this time in the morning?

Wearing a hoodie and jeans, Nasreen was stood with a group. All dressed casually. Most looked to be in their twenties or thirties.

One guy, slightly older, early forties, broad shoulders, Bruce Willis buzz cut, was wearing a blue down puffa jacket zipped up over a tight white T-shirt. Friends’ night out? One of those godawfulsounding corporate away-days?

Freddie remembered seeing Fiona Cogswell at a pop-up Shoreditch tequila bar. Among the inane drivel about what every Pendrick High alumnus was now doing – mostly out of work management consultants, or pursuing worthless PhDs until the economy recovered – there’d been one lime wedge of interest: Nasreen Cudmore had joined the police.

She looked again at Nasreen’s group: men, all with regulationneat haircuts. Police. Undercover? A bust? Seize the story. Neil’s advice echoed in her head. Behind her, Dan was waiting for a
grovelling apology.