Late evening in a corner cafe on Camden High Street. The walls are painted a warm ochre, rain beads slide lazily down the pane. Three coats hang on hooks by the door: a light trench, a grey overcoat and a third with a striped lining. Inside its dry and snug, the air scented with fresh scones and tea. The waitress glides between tables almost unheard. At the window table sit three men: Ian Clarke, Sam Whitaker and Andy Brooks.
Ian was the first to arrivehe hates being late. He slips off his coat, folds his scarf neatly and pulls out his phone, scrolling through work emails, trying not to think about tomorrows board meeting. His hands are still cool from the street; the room is warm, the windows fogged by the temperature clash. Ian orders a pot of green tea for everyonealmost every reunion starts this way.
Sam slips in almost silently: tall, a little hunched, eyes tired but a lively smile. He hangs his jacket on the neighbours hook, sits opposite Ian and nods briefly.
How are you? he asks.
Just getting by, Ian replies, restrained.
Sam orders a coffee for himselfhe always drinks it in the evening, even though he knows it will keep him awake.
Andy is the last to walk in, slightly out of breath after a brisk walk from the tube. His hair is damp under the hood. He grins at his friends so broadly it looks like everythings fine. Yet his eyes linger over the menu longer than usual; instead of his usual slice of cake he opts for just water.
They meet here once a monthsometimes they miss a session because of work or a childs illness (Sam has two boys), but the habit has survived thirty years since they first shared lectures in the physics department at Cambridge. Now each leads a different life: Ian is a senior manager at a tech firm, Sam teaches at a furthereducation college and tutors on the side, Andy until recently ran a small electronicsrepair business.
The evening begins as always: they trade newswhos travelling for work, how the kids are doing, what theyre reading or bingewatching, the odd workplace mishap. Andy listens more than he speaks, jokes rarely, and watches the rain through the window so long that the others exchange glances.
Ian is the first to notice change: Andy no longer laughs at the old university anecdotes; when the chat drifts to new phones or overseas holidays he changes the subject or forces a halfsmile.
Sam sees it too: when the waitress brings the bill and asks, Split or together? Andy fumbles with his phone, claiming an app is glitching, and offers to pay his share latersomething he never did before.
At one point Sam tries to lighten the mood with a joke:
You look serioustaxes got you again?
Andy shrugs.
Just a lot on my plate.
Ian leans in.
Maybe you should switch tracks? You could do something online, take a short course
Andy forces a smile.
Thanks for the advice
A heavy pause follows; nobody knows how to move forward.
The cafe grows dimmer; the light sharpens, the street disappears behind the smeared glass, only distant silhouettes of pedestrians flicker outside the streetlamp across the road.
They try to steer the conversation back to lighter topics: sport scores (which bore Ian), a new law (which Andy barely comments on). The tension between them thickens, palpable.
Finally Sam cant hold back.
If you need cash, just say it, Andy. Were your mates.
Andy lifts his gaze sharply.
You think its that simple? You think asking makes it easier?
His voice quivers; hes speaking louder than he has all night.
Ian interjects.
Were just trying to help. Whats the problem?
Andy glances at both of them.
Help with advice? Or to be reminded forever that I owe you? You dont get it!
He springs from his seat, the chair screeching against the floor. The waitress watches from the bar, eyes narrowed.
For a few seconds nothing moves; the air feels thick, as if the tea is cooling faster. Andy grabs his coat from the hook and storms out, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Ian and Sam remain, each feeling a pang of guilt but too reluctant to be the first to speak.
The doors slam sends a brief draft that cools the window table. Sam watches the rainstreaked glass, the streetlamps glow reflected in it, while Ian absentmindedly twirls a spoon in his cup, unwilling to break the silence. The tension lingers, now almost a necessity, as if without it nothing could be clarified.
Sam finally breaks the quiet.
Maybe I overreacted Im not sure what the right thing is. He sighs, looking at Ian. What would you say?
Ian shrugs, his voice unusually firm.
If I knew how to fix it, Id have already done it. Were all adults but sometimes its easier to step back than to say something stupid.
They fall silent. Behind the bar the waitress slices a fresh scone, and the smell of baked goods fills the room again. Outside a shadow flickersAndy under the awning, hood pulled low, scrolling his phone. Ian rises.
Ill go get him. I dont want him walking away like that.
He steps into the vestibule where the cool, damp air mixes with the lingering street mist. Andy leans against the door, shoulders slumped.
Andy Ian stops beside him, not touching. Sorry if we went overboard. We were just worried.
Andy turns slowly.
I get it. But you dont tell me everything either, do you? I just wanted to handle it myself. It didnt work, now Im left with shame and anger.
Ian considers this, then after a pause says:
Lets go back to the table. No ones forcing you to do anything. We can talk or stay quietyour call. Just one thing: if you need real help, say it straight away, and about money I could sort something out, but only if its clear and fair for all of us.
Andy looks at him with relief and fatigue.
Thanks. Id just like to be with you guys now, without pity or odd questions.
They return together. Their table already holds a warm slice of cake and a small bowl of jam. Sam forces an awkward grin.
Got the cake for everyone. Figured I could at least do something useful tonight.
Andy sits down, murmuring his thanks. For a while they eat in silence; someone stirs sugar into tea, crumbs gather near napkins. Gradually the conversation softensno longer about problems but about weekend plans and new books for Sams boys.
Later Sam leans in.
If you ever need to bounce work ideas or look for options, Im happy to help. As for money you decide when youre ready to bring it up.
Andy nods gratefully.
Lets leave it as it is for now. I dont want to feel indebted or out of place with you.
The pause no longer feels oppressive; each of them seems to have adopted an unseen rule of honesty. They agree to meet again next month here, whoever comes with whatever news.
When its time to leave, each pulls out a phone: Ian checks a message about tomorrows meeting at the office, Sam sends a quick All good to his wife, Andy lingers a moment longer on his screen before slipping it into his pocket without fuss.
Only two coats remain on the hooks now: Ians grey overcoat and Sams light trench. Andy rehangs his at the exit after returning from the vestibule; they now help each other fasten a scarf or button a cuff, as if reclaiming the ease of old friendship through simple, caring gestures.
Outside the drizzle thickens; a streetlamp reflects in a puddle right by the cafés doorway. The friends step out together under the awning; the cold air rushes across their faces through the open door.
Sam steps forward first.
Next month, then? Call me even if its at night!
Ian pats Andy on the shoulder.
Were here for you, even when we act a bit daft.
Andy smiles, a little embarrassed.
Thanks, both of you really.
No grand promises are needed now; each knows his limits and the worth of the nights words.
They part ways at the entrance: some head for the tube through the wet glow of lamps, others turn down the quiet lanes toward home. The tradition enduresnow demanding more honesty and sensitivity to each others pain, and that is what keeps it alive.
