Adriana's Corner

Chapter One

I have goose-bumps on my goose-bumps.

That's how cold it is.

London is drab enough in summer but it's winter now.

The middle of winter to be precise but do not be fooled! This isn't a postcard-looking winter wonderland.

There is no white blanket of snow that looks like it's just come out of the wash and been spread across the city.

There are no laughing children throwing snow-balls or doing snow-angels.

There are no picturesque snowflakes twisting magically in the air.

The snow is grey, slippery, gluggy and wet, and there are no children, only grumpy Londoners trudging the bleak pavement aggressively, shivering dark words to themselves. It's weather like this that makes people who are usually happy with their lot in life want to pick on the little things. I decide to join them:

My coffee's finished.

The muffin didn't have enough jam and cream cheese in the middle.

The letter from my sister was too short.

Miles is working.

And I only have ten minutes left in my break.

My coffee break to me is the most important meal of the day. Breakfast is an on-the-go-thing, lunch...lunch? That's the elusive meal when everyone calls me because they have a half an hour break. And dinner is an unglamorous microwave meal with a glass of wine.

I can live life like this happily and have done so for many years but if I don't get my morning coffee break...well, I don't know what would happen if I didn't have it because I've always had it.

I may not have time for a dog or a husband or kids or a social life, but if I can't find my twenty minutes to have my coffee and cake then what's the use of living? It has to be a good coffee too: stronger than steel, blacker than coal and sweet enough to make a diabetic slip into a coma at the sight of it.

This is where Miles comes in.

He is the rather lovely and dependable man who provides me with my coffee's, muffins and intelligent conversation.

The twenty/thirty-something year old isn't like most that age: cocky, overconfident and flirty. He's an unimposing, calm man with a sensible head on his shoulders and a knack for making the best coffee I've ever tasted.

It's a pity he's too young really. If I don't have time for a man my own age, I definitely don't have time for one younger. Today, though, the café is packed full of frozen customers he has to serve so it's just me and my sister's letter. They're getting shorter every time which is. . . worrying.

My break, as usual, is interrupted by my phone. To give you an idea how often my phone goes rings, this last month I've had four different ring tones.

All had to eventually die because I got so sick of hearing them. This even happens to tunes I didn't think I could ever get sick of like 'China Girl' and 'Benny and the Jets'. Both fantastic songs but if I do hear them one more time, I may throw something large and hard in the direction it is coming from. This week's ringtone is some French song. I picked it solely for the purpose that when I get sick of it (and I will), at least it can't haunt me in the elevators or supermarket aisles.

After licking the jam from my fingers, I answer it, leaning back into the sofa; my usual spot, set aside for me by the aforementioned coffee man.

"Nina speaking."

"Hey boss, just me!" the voice of my receptionist chirps "Guess what?"

"What?" I ask, ignoring her blatant use of the word 'boss' regardless of the number of times I've told her not to.