Take A Look At Me Now. Miranda Dickinson

job at a time when so many people are unemployed.’ When I said it out loud, I realised I didn’t really have much to show for the last six years of my life. ‘That’s why it feels good to be here. Like I’m doing something positive.’

      Lizzie put her arm around me. ‘You are doing something positive. You can take your life in whatever direction you can from this point on. I think it’s exciting.’

      ‘It is. And terrifying not to know what’s coming next. But I’m lucky to have my lovely family to support me. Thanks Lizzie.’

      ‘My pleasure! So how do you feel about living back with your mum and dad?’ Groaning, she slapped her hand against her forehead. ‘Forgive me. What a daft thing to ask.’

      ‘Don’t apologise, it’s a valid question. Actually, I think I’m fine. It was a bit difficult losing my personal space and all that, such as it was – but they’ve been brilliant.’

      Lizzie offered to refill my mug but I declined. ‘And how did your housemates take the news?’

      I grimaced. It hadn’t been the easiest conversation I’d ever had but that was more to do with the fact they were going to be a quarter down on the bills than without someone they had shared a home with for five years.

      ‘They were a bit annoyed, obviously. And I think Sarah thought I was mad. But I don’t think they’ll miss me. They’re all nice people but it was more like being in university halls than living with great friends.’

      During the flight to San Francisco, I’d had time to reflect a little on my life. So much had changed since the day I lost my job but one thing I had realised was how little life I had actually lived before then. Everything had been a means to an end, an ‘I’ll-be-happy-when’ existence, as if I was holding on until the good stuff arrived. I had always been the sensible one, the girl who could answer the ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ time’ question at job interviews without stopping to think about it.

      So I’d moved into the dreary house-share in Woodford with people I had nothing in common with other than a shared kitchen and desire to live near a tube station, because it was the sensible choice, allowing me to save for a place of my own while I rented. I had taken a job in the well-respected London Borough Council and had remained there for six years, waiting for the next opportunity to arise. It made sense to stay there until I found something else. Or until Aidan and I decided to be together permanently, when two wages coming in each month might offer a little leeway for something else.

      Even though I had a secret dream career that bore no resemblance to planning law or development permissions, I hadn’t allowed myself to consider it because it was risky and had serious potential to fail. When I’d saved enough … when I was in a better position to make the leap … when I felt ready … then I might allow myself to pursue it.

      But losing my job had thrown everything into question: it had removed my sensible living arrangements, challenged my savings and absolutely, definitely, ruled out any future with Aidan Matthews. I was already in a risky situation with no guarantee of anything other than unemployment and two months to do whatever I wanted to. Given this, the playing field was open wide and anything was now possible …

      Lizzie squeezed my arm. ‘I’m going to make sure you have the best time here. And we’ll start by getting you something to eat.’

      If my grumbling stomach could have whooped for joy it would have done so with gusto at that moment. ‘That’s a fantastic idea. Where are we going?’

      Lizzie’s broad smile seemed to illuminate the room. ‘Only the best place in the neighbourhood! I’m taking you to Annie’s.’

      CHAPTER FIVE

       Welcome to the neighbourhood

      There are times in your life when you find yourself in exactly the right place. It might not make sense at the time, but deep down inside you feel it: you were always meant to be there, on that date, at that time. Walking into Annie’s diner on my first day in San Francisco felt like one of those moments.

      Annie’s was everything I’d hoped a true American diner would be. Nestled on the corner of Haight and Clayton Streets, it was a neighbourhood hub that had been feeding the good people of The Haight for nearly forty years. From the outside it was unremarkable, save for the pink and blue neon signs hung in its wide windows, which wrapped around the corner that joined the two streets. The wood panelled frontage was painted the colour of very milky coffee and bore the scars and scrapes of years of weather, traffic and city air. Had it been in England, it would probably have been dismissed as a ‘greasy spoon’ café and avoided. But here in San Francisco, its time-earned war wounds of standing proud in the city merely added to its charm. I could imagine a scene from a US cop drama set here – where the hard-bitten detective would arrange a secret rendezvous with one of his illicit moles, dishing the dirt on a crime gang over huge stacks of pancakes and coffee so strong it could melt spoons …

      Lizzie laughed when she saw me taking in all the details of Annie’s exterior. ‘Your face – anyone would think I’d taken you to Disney World for the first time. It’s just a diner. A great diner, mind you, but still a regular, Stateside eatery.’

      Now it was my turn to giggle. ‘You said eatery … You’re such a Yank now!’

      But Lizzie was wrong. Annie’s was so much more than just a diner. I was later to learn what an institution it was in the community and how even people who had moved out of The Haight faithfully made the pilgrimage back here every weekend for brunch. The whole building smelled of coffee, sugar, vanilla, the delicious aroma of pancakes and frying steak, which wrapped around our nostrils. We approached the polished chrome counter, where customers were hunched on bottle-green leather bar stools over enormous cups of black coffee and gargantuan portions of food that made your eyes water as much as your mouth. Faded black and white photographs of past customers and staff peppered the red-painted walls, the smiling faces and bulging brunch plates in them no different from those filling the diner today. It was as if history hung heavily around the current customers, the eyes of the past bestowing their blessings on the faces of the present.

      ‘I’ve been coming here since my first weekend in San Francisco,’ Lizzie said. ‘You have to try the French toast – it’s pretty much legendary in The Haight.’

      ‘Hey Lizzie! You on a loyalty bonus from Annie now?’ shouted a broad-backed, balding man from the far edge of the counter.

      Sat next to him, a man of similar build with an impressive bushy beard but less hair chuckled. ‘Yeah – she’s on a short-stack bonus. One more customer introduced and she finally makes the three-stack!’

      ‘You wish,’ my cousin called back, as several other diners raised their heads in greeting. ‘Marty, Frankie, this is my cousin Nell from England. She’s here for a couple of months so you’d better get used to another Brit in the joint.’

      Marty – the one sans beard – raised his hand in greeting. ‘Well hello, Nell-from-England. This your first time here?’

      ‘It is, yes.’

      ‘You gotta be gentle with her, Marty,’ Frankie said, wiping ketchup from his beard with a paper napkin. ‘Annie’ll skin ya alive if you spook any more customers outta here. Nell, nice to meet ya. Don’t you listen to a word Marty says and you’ll fit right in.’

      I laughed. ‘I’ll remember that, thanks.’

      A couple moved from a table near the counter and Lizzie grabbed it quickly. ‘Marty and Frankie are cab drivers,’ she informed me, holding a menu up to her face to shield her words, ‘and our resident philosophers. Anything you want an opinion on, they’re your men.’

      I looked at the considerable array of options on the laminated menu card, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the tables of Al’s Diner in Happy Days. ‘Wow, when you said French toast