Late evening in a little corner café on Abbey Street. The walls are a warm ochre, rain drips lazily down the pane, and three coats hang on the hooks by the door: a light one, a grey one and a third with a stripe on the lining. Inside its dry and cosy, the air scented with fresh scones and tea. The waitress glides between tables almost unnoticed. By the window sit three friends: Ian, Sam and Andy.
Ian arrived firsthe hates being late. He sheds his coat, folds his scarf neatly and immediately pulls out his phone to skim work emails, trying not to think about tomorrows planning meeting. His hands are still cool from the street; the room is warm, the windows fog up from the temperature clash. Ian orders a pot of green tea for everyonealmost every reunion starts this way.
Sam slips in almost silently: tall, a touch hunched, eyes a little tired but a lively grin. He hangs his jacket on the next hook, sits opposite Ian and gives a brief nod.
Whats the news? he asks.
Nothing much, just chipping away, Ian replies, measured.
Sam orders a coffee for himselfhe always has one in the evening, even though he knows it will keep him up later.
Andy is the last to arrive, a little winded after a brisk walk from the bus stop. His hair is damp under the hood. He flashes a wide smile at his mates, as if everything is fine, but his eyes linger over the menu longer than usual; instead of his usual slice of cake he just orders a glass of water.
They meet here once a monthsometimes they miss a turn because of work or a sick child (Sam has two boys), but the habit has endured for thirty years, ever since they were physics undergraduates at Leeds. Now each has his own life: Ian is a senior manager at a tech firm, Sam teaches at a sixthform college and does some tutoring on the side, Andy recently ran a small electronicsrepair business.
The evening starts in the usual fashion: they chat about where work has taken them, how the kids are getting on, which series theyre bingewatching, and the odd workplace mishap. Andy listens more than he talks, jokes sparingly; occasionally he stares out at the rainslicked street so long the others glance at each other.
Ian is the first to notice a shift: Andy doesnt laugh at the old university anecdotes; when the talk drifts to new smartphones or a holiday abroad, he steers the conversation elsewhere or forces a smile that doesnt quite land.
Sam picks up on it too: when the waitress slides the bill over with Split it or together? Andy fidgets with his phone and says hell pay his share laterthe apps acting up. Usually hed have covered it straight away or even offered to foot the whole tab.
At one point Sam tries to break the tension with a joke:
Whats got you so serious? Did the tax man bite again?
Andy shrugs.
Just a lot of things piling up.
Ian chimes in:
Maybe you should switch lanes? You could pick up an online course, do a bit of freelance
Andy forces a smile.
Thanks for the tip
A pause stretches; none of them knows how to move forward.
The café darkens quickly: the lights sharpen, the street disappears behind a foggy pane, only the occasional silhouette of a passerby flickers in the lamp opposite.
They try to coax the conversation back to lighter ground: sports updates (which bore Ian), a new law theyre all halfheard on (Andy stays quiet). Yet the strain between them grows palpable.
Soon Sam cant hold it in:
Andy if you need cash, just say it. Were your mates.
Andy looks up sharply.
You think its that simple? You think just asking will lift the weight?
His voice trembles; its the first time hes spoken so loudly all night.
Ian steps in.
Were just trying to help! Whats the big deal?
Andy glances at both of them.
Help with advice? Or to remind me forever of a debt I cant repay? You dont get it!
He bolts upright, the chair screeching across the floor. The waitress watches from behind the bar, eyebrows raised.
For a few heartbeats no one moves; the air feels heavy, as if the tea is cooling faster. Andy grabs his coat from the hook and storms out, slamming the door a touch too hard.
Two remain, each feeling a sting of guilt but too wary to speak first.
The door shuts, a draft sweeps over the window table. Sam watches the fogged glass where the streetlamp glints, and Ian absentmindedly stirs his spoon in the cup, hesitant to break the silence. The tension hangs, oddly necessary nowlike a backdrop to any real resolution.
Sam finally cuts the quiet.
Maybe I overreacted Im not sure what the right thing is. He sighs, looking at Ian. What would you have said?
Ian shrugs, his voice unusually firm.
If I knew how to help, Id have already done it. Were all adults but sometimes its easier to step back than to say the wrong thing.
They fall silent. At the counter the waitress slices a fresh cake, and the smell of warm pastry drifts back into the room. Outside, Andys silhouette appears under the awning, hood pulled up, scrolling his phone. Deciding, Ian rises.
Ill go get him. I dont want him to walk off like that.
He steps into the vestibule where cool air mixes with the lingering dampness of the street. Andy stands with his back to the door, shoulders slumped.
Andy Ian stops beside him, not touching. Sorry if we went overboard. Were just worried.
Andy turns slowly.
I get it. But you dont tell me everything either, do you? I just wanted to sort it out myself. It didnt work, now Im left with shame and a bit of anger.
Ian mulls the words, then after a pause says:
Lets head back to the table. No ones forcing you. We can chat or stay quietyour call. Just one thing: if you need real help, tell us straight up. As for money I could chip in something specific, but only if it doesnt turn into an awkward debt.
Andy meets his gaze, relief and fatigue mixing.
Thanks. Id just like to be here with you, no pity, no extra questions.
They walk back together. The table already holds a warm slice of cake and a little pot of jam. Sam smiles, a little awkwardly.
Got the cake for everyone. Figured I could actually do something useful tonight.
Andy sits down and murmurs his thanks. For a while they eat in silence; someone taps sugar into tea, crumbs gather on napkins. Gradually the talk softensno longer about problems, but about weekend plans and new books for Sams boys.
Later Sam leans in gently.
If you ever need work advice or a contact, Im happy to help. 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 like I owe you anything.
The pause no longer feels oppressive; each seems to have accepted an unspoken rule of fresh honesty. They agree to meet again next month right here, no matter what news each brings.
When its time to leave, each pulls out his phone: Ian checks a reminder for tomorrows board meeting, Sam replies to his wife with a quick All good, Andy lingers a moment longer on the screen before slipping it back into his pocket without fanfare.
Only two coats remain on the hooks now: Ians grey one and Sams light one. Andy has already put his on after his brief trip outside; now they dress slowly, each helping the other with a scarf or a button, as if reclaiming the easy camaraderie through small acts of care.
Outside the drizzle thickens; the streetlamp reflects in a puddle right by the cafés entrance. The friends step together under the awning, a cold gust rushing past their faces.
Sam is the first to move forward.
Next month then? If anything comes up, ring me even at midnight!
Ian claps Andy on the shoulder.
Weve got your back, even when we act a bit daft.
Andy offers a shy smile.
Thanks, both of you really.
No grand promises are needed now; each knows the limits of their involvement and the true worth of the nights words.
They part ways at the doorway: some head for the tube through the rainlit streets, others turn into the quiet lanes toward home. The tradition enduresnow with a little more honesty and a bit more care for each others hurts, and thats what keeps it alive.
