When London Snow Falls

WHEN LONDON SNOW FALLS is a contemporary queer romance between a music-loving barista and an indie rocker. While an overall fun read, the story includes elements that might not be suitable for all readers. Mentioned are the illness/death of a parent, family conflict, homophobic parents, anxiety and panic attacks, depression, a possessive ex, alcohol use, and past drug addiction. Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note.

For my friend A., who liked to have a laugh, too.

Chapter One

There’s no such thing as bad weather, just unsuitable clothing.

So they say, anyway. Whoever they are, wherever they are, they sure have a lot to answer for. Like the literal arsehole raincloud that burst open with passion over London about three seconds ago on my way to the café. In moments, the late November rain soaks my wool winter overcoat and my favorite thrifted cotton velvet jacket—which is usually quite warm when not absorbing water like a towel.

I probably look like a waterlogged cat after a bath. Or three vigorous baths.

Squelching into the stockroom of the café where I work in London’s Soho, I hang my coat and jacket and find some paper towels to mop the worst of the deluge from my hair, combing it with my fingers more or less into place.

If there’s anything I learned as a member of the Renfrew family growing up, it’s that appearances matter. Always. Doesn’t matter what the weather is or if you’re working at a café or attending a posh dinner party.

I also learned that, sometimes, the indoor storms that catch people off-guard are the toughest.

Thankfully, my phone still works, confirmed after a quick check. I’ve got five minutes before my shift starts to call my friend Emily, over in Wales, and our two-year-old daughter, Carys.

The phone rings four times before Carys answers, peering into the phone from Emily’s lap. Daddy!

At least my soggy appearance hasn’t put Carys off. I can’t help but brighten when I see her. Carys’s hair floats in a cloud of baby fine waves and she has an intense gaze with her blue eyes like mine. Her fingers grip the screen and the phone moves wildly about, leaving me a little motion sick. Emily’s laughing.

You need to hold the phone like this to see Daddy properly, Emily explains, holding the phone for Carys. Hi, Charlie. We tried answering the phone together.

Success, I’d say. How’re things? I have a couple of minutes before my shift and thought to say hi.

Good—

Play wif me, Carys demands.

I wish I could. I have to work today.

I’ll play with you, Emily tells Carys quickly. She eyes me through the phone screen. You look terrible, by the way.

Thanks. Trying out a new look. I call it River Thames chic. Take that, Oxford Street. Like it?

Love it. You’ll be a hit out there with all the boys.

I laugh at that. You know I have no time for that. Not anymore. And probably never again.

The phone gets yanked again by Carys. Play now?

Let’s go get your stuffies, Emily tells her.

The phone swings wildly. Bad dawg! Carys calls offscreen in a triumphant cry.

Bad dog? Last I knew, Emily didn’t have a dog.

There’s a loud thump as the phone drops on her end and then the sound of shuffling. Carys giggles wildly while Emily retrieves the phone.

I run a hand through my wet hair, amused despite the headache pressing behind my eyes. Hell if I know what most of that was.

The abridged summary is that her dog stuffie, Mr. Ruffles, fell in the mud at the park yesterday when Carys dropped him. Then when we were home, we sat together and watched him go around and around in the washer. She refused to move or let me leave, either. Like this was my fault.

Laundry trauma lasts a lifetime, Em.

It wasn’t you sat on the floor for an hour. At least she agreed to read stories. The smile in her voice gives her away—she’s not as bothered as she’s trying to convince me she is.

I laugh, something bittersweet caught in my chest. It sucks they’re so far away, and I don’t get to Wales as often as I would like. They’re my true family. Emily and I weren’t ever together, before or after Carys, but we are close friends, and equally devoted to our girl. Even with the big ups and downs of having had a child young, something neither one of us bargained on. The truth of it is that we’re both wild for Carys. She comes first, today and always.

I’ll be there for Christmas. I know it’s not soon enough…

She gives me a pointed look. We’ve been over this before. We’re fine, Charlie. And you’re about to be late for work.

Emily always was the stable one. I’m kind of like the one misfiring synapse in someone’s brain—some genius moments and some moments we could all do without.

Talk later. Love you both. I blow a kiss as I hang up.

If I can’t be there, I do the next best thing, which is send them everything I make to support them, outside of school costs.

Today is my last shift of my usual thirty-hour week. That’s on top of studying full-time at University College London and going to band rehearsals whenever we can squeeze one in. Those are at least a bit of an escape from the usual hectic pace, though we’ve been ramping up the frequency as we book more gigs. There’s also the weekly check-in with my therapist and, when they get their way, Sunday dinner with my family.

It’s…a lot.

Lately, I’m so exhausted in lectures that everything goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve usually either rushed to class from the café or needed to go straight to a shift or rehearsal right after. At night, I try to go through the lectures again to figure out what I’ve missed. The term’s been a total muddle.

I rake my hands through my hair a third time for luck, grab an apron, and head into the front of the café.

The screech of the steamer does my head in. Never mind the strip lighting. While I’m warm and dry indoors today, give me November gray and rain. For my headache, dark and dreary lighting, please. And silence.

But the customers queuing for their Saturday morning coffees don’t care about the state that exhaustion and Friday night’s left me in. I’m not sure if it was the single pint I drank that packed a wallop, the lack of proper sleep for days, or the press of what might be a migraine from too much stress. Or maybe it’s that last night’s gig still rings in my ears. Luckily, most of the customers so far this morning are regulars. There’s little talking, punctuated with occasional nods and gestures at the pastry display.

Your order’ll be up in a couple of minutes, I say in the brightest customer service voice I can manage to the woman I’ve just finished helping at the counter.

Jasmine pauses beside me with a ruthless grin. You sure you don’t want to be on food orders, Charlie? Behind her, Lars smirks at the espresso machine as he wipes down the steamer for the next drink, doing a poor job of pretending not to listen.

I shudder at the thought of frying eggs—frying anything, really. Any sort of greasy or fatty food is out, too. Brioches. Croissants. And never mind salads. Too leafy. The offensive crunch of celery, and the tyranny of raw vegetables on an unsuspecting stomach. It’s a total nightmare. The till is the safest here, even with the glare of the lighting overhead. Safer yet would be the luxury of lying absolutely still in my own bed with the pillow pressed over my face, but I need the pay. Every penny counts.

Fuck no. An involuntary shudder ripples through me.

They’re convinced I’m hungover. Which has happened before, sure, but I haven’t had time or money for drinking in a long while. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Like malaria. Or dysentery. Or the galloping consumption, which would be at least useful for my English literature essay, and appropriately Victorian. Maybe I can get a sick note and an extension again.

Let me know if you change your mind. Jasmine flounces off in a cloud of curls and irreverence. Bloody typical.

Beyond her, the café’s full of university students and tourists. It’s the students that I especially notice, mostly head down over their textbooks and laptops. Like I should be, because I’m always way behind with my assignments and studying. That’ll be me the moment I’m done with my shift tonight. The closest student has a daunting stack of economics books, enough for my blood to run cold as an English student. At any rate, exams are breathing down my neck as I get the last of the term’s assignments in. Plus, I’ve got two assignments to finish up over the holidays on a special extension after some passionate groveling to my tutors.

Another group of students, a trio of guys, talk about their big night out plans for later tonight. Dinner, drinks, dancing. Sounds amazing. Sign me up. Except I’ve got no cash for a big—or small—night out, loads of homework, and precisely no dancing lined up. My band has a gig later but it’s work, too, so I’ll already have less time to study than usual on Saturday night.

With a sigh, I squint against the light for the next customer. They’re somewhat man-shaped at first glance. He says something that I don’t quite catch. He’s nothing but a dark silhouette with far too much bright light blasting my eyes from behind him.

Then he slides cash—cash!—across the counter in an offhand way. Like we do this routinely and have the drill down.

Now I’ll need to do sums. Perfect.

What sort of wanker or monster uses cash these days? It tumbles out before I can stop myself.

A wanker or monster that’s lost his wallet and bank cards. That sort, says the shadow mildly. Scottish accent of some kind. Also, criminals and people who want to stay off the grid. You’ll just have to guess which sort of monster I am.

Frowning, I lift my head and look at the customer more closely. Screw the bright light.

He’s about my age, early twenties. Lean. Lip ring. Bleached, streaked, and disheveled blond hair. Multicolored jumper under a leather jacket with matching long scarf. He’s grinning. Very fuckable. I haven’t seen him here before, but he looks familiar. But from where? He’s a face out of place, without context.

Sorry. Didn’t think you’d hear. Bad habit, me running my mouth off and sticking my foot in it. Jasmine’s entertained on a regular basis. Emily’s taken me to task over it for years. I really do know better. Current me is only bothered enough to serve hipsters hot drinks in a passable enough way to pay the bills. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like Carys and Emily. And tuition. Real world worries.

My hearing’s not bad. Youth and all. He stuffs his hands deep into his jacket, smiling, a bit bleary-eyed. Even still, he’s appealingly lickable. I can take a moment to imagine that, even if it isn’t Friday night—the only night of the week I allow myself to interact with potential hookups. The guy won’t know. And I can delude myself for at least five minutes.

Spry. Good. I like that. But… I glance down at the cash, crumpled from his pocket. It’s the side with Jane Austen demurely facing out, a reminder of my reading and essay waiting at home. Wuthering Heights waits for no one, least of all me. Only old people carry money. How did you get money if you lost your wallet?

Old people! A laugh follows. I’m here for a coffee, not an interrogation about how I manage my money. Or about what I keep in my wallet. But like I said, I could be a criminal or someone keeping off the grid. He leans in ever so slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. Maybe you shouldn’t push too hard.

Thank God he’s amused and not offended. And that my manager is nowhere in earshot for this exchange. Lars and Jasmine are lapping this up, from what I can see out of the corner of my eye. I never get flustered by customers, so no doubt I’ll be hearing about this after.

Sorry. My face burns. None of my business, is it? You’re right.

Well, it is your business if you’re calling monsters out on their monstrous affairs. Never mind their wanking. If anything, his grin broadens. The effect is devastating. I could’ve paid in change. For all you know, my pocket is full of pennies.

My face burns even hotter at the thought of him in any number of compromised scenarios I can vividly imagine. Focus, Charlie. Please don’t, I beg. It’s too much to count. If you’ve ever worked retail, you’d get it, I swear. I haven’t got time for that.

He pretends to consider. So, what you’re saying is that you want to hurry me along?

No! Oh no. I mean, no, of course not. Take your time. Shit. I’m sorry.

He laughs. I’ll stick with paying with the ten-pound note, then. Since it’s less counting for you.

I’m wrecked from the week and my headache continues to press behind my eyes. And yet some weird part of me thrills at this rather odd conversation with this new customer. Thanks. That’s very humane.

He leans against the counter, eyebrow raised. I hate to be obvious about it, but you could enter the amount into the cash register and it’ll tell you the exact change. No need to count anything out, the young man says helpfully. Completely efficient. Unless…you like counting?

Oh no. You should see me cash out sometimes. Better thought—maybe you shouldn’t. It’s probably frowned upon, keeping a customer in the shop at closing, actually.

At least he’d be interesting company if he was there when I closed the shop.

Especially if I’m a criminal. His eyes dance.

I peer at him. "Are you?"

Could be. I mean, you don’t know, do you? I could be an accomplished thief.

True, I say. But also, I don’t know if you’re the off the grid type. Do they wear leather jackets, colorful jumpers, and bleach their hair? You seem very city to me. Like you’ve escaped from Shoreditch or some other hipster enclave.

Depends, I’d say. You can’t assume anything in today’s world, like where one keeps their hipster enclave. City or country, who can say? He shrugs.

You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?

Afraid not. This is far too much fun.

Clearly, he’s having a great time.

And something weird has happened: I’m smiling, too.

What would you like? I ask at last, after a long moment passes where we just look at each other.

An Americano the size of my head. And that brioche. He points, then gazes at me, probably memorizing my description to tell my manager what an arse I’ve been, which would be a fair point, because I have been a bit of an arse, calling him a wanker out of the blue. He nods at a man standing further back in the queue, absorbed by his phone. Longish hair obscures his face. And, for the record, my bandmate spotted me the cash.

I hesitate. He’s in a band? Something odd like a moment of conscience rises. Or maybe it’s something else, lower and more primal. Get a grip. Maybe dating austerity measures have taken more of a toll than expected.

How about you keep your tenner? Your drink’s on the house. I insist. For probably being the worst sort of service person in Soho this morning.

I think I had worse counter help somewhere else last weekend. He laughs. If it makes you feel better.

It really does, I agree solemnly. I like to be at least one rung up from mediocre.

You might be at least adequate, if not competent, he assures me merrily.

I aim for purely serviceable.

My face flares with heat. Did I really just say that?

He taps his fingers against his lips, smiling. That’s very interesting.

I’m full of wonders.

I agree. You do seem full of wonders. And there’s a lot to admire about a man who can think on his feet.

Something in my gut thrills, a secret part of me that actually does care very much about what other people think. What he thinks. And that secret part of me is all-in with the rare attention. It’s got to be the banter, even with feeling rough. There’s something brilliant about the unexpected simple pleasure of trading nonsense with a stranger on an otherwise dull morning.

If only I could figure out why he looks so familiar. I must have seen him play at some rock club. Maybe at some armpit of a dive in Camden or off in the far-flung reaches of Brixton. If only I could remember which gig. Obviously, he’s hot. And distracting. That’s two points for science. It can’t be a past hookup because I wouldn’t forget him.

Forget all of that. I need to get through the next few crucial seconds without shaming myself by pushing my average-to-subpar social skills over into total disaster.

Of course, nobody’s particularly arsed about the ex-virtues of one Charlie Renfrew.

Right, where were we? I flail about in the conversation, unsettled by his rapt gaze. Quickly, I look down, anywhere but at him. The tenner is still on the counter. You’re not paying. I insist, man.

His gaze only gets more intense, if that’s possible. I feel terrible about giving the staff a hard time and coming away with free food and drink, and you get nothing out of it, he says. It’s a tip, then.

No tip. Besides, I’ve got a gig later and I’ll get cash from that. And I wouldn’t say I got nothing out of this. I learned about the criminality of hipster monster enclaves, probably in urban settings. I mean, that’s good stuff, right?

Right. He’s looking far too amused. Gig, huh?

Yeah. My band. Unnerved, I’m fresh out of witty banter, or even the non-witty banter I’m also very capable of providing.

What’s your band called?

Err, The Screaming Pony.

He grins broadly at me, nodding his approval. Good name.

Thanks.

Well, I guess I’ll need to find some other way to spend my money. He’s about as irreverent as Jasmine from a couple of moments ago. The cheeky bastard. He pockets the money. Thanks.

You’re welcome. You can come back and spend it some other day. Hopefully when I’m not on shift, because I’m fairly certain I’ve made an utter arse out of myself. No need for a repeat performance.

Quickly, I make myself busy by neatening things around the till.

He doesn’t move.

Why doesn’t the arsehole step to the side and wait for his order like any other sensible human? I glance at him. You can wait at the other end of the counter. You don’t have to watch me clean.

I know.

Our gazes linger, and despite my head aching and my embarrassment levels being at an all-time high, I don’t want this moment to end. At last, we exchange nods before he steps back and heads to where Lars does his thing behind the counter.

Then, it hits me why he looks so familiar but out of place: he’s Ben Campbell, the frontman of one of London’s hot upcoming bands, Halfpenny Rise.

Oh, help.

He’s fire on the guitar, of course. And vocals.

And he’s even more stunning in person than in the gig photos I’ve seen online or in the couple of live shows of his that I’ve caught around London.

Bloody hell. I’ve made a complete fool of myself when I ought to be licking his boots. Or have him lick mine. Whatever. I’m not fussy. As long as there’s someone licking something, I’m in. Especially if it involves music. And him.

My eyes widen. Wait. Fuck, did I actually just tell Ben Campbell about my band?

There’s no way to come back from the disaster I’ve made of taking his order, never mind asking him about what it’s like fronting for Halfpenny Rise or how to play lead guitar like he does, in a way that tears my heart out and shoves it into my mouth for the finale under some epic pyrotechnics display.

At any rate, Ben Campbell’s now safely over in Lars’s queue to pick up his drink, at the far end of the counter behind the pastry display. And Friday, the authorized night for fun, is nothing but a memory. The window for fun has closed.

I would rather like to order a coffee, says a silver-haired woman curtly, with no time for my waywardness. She stares hard at me, as if she’s had a private tour of my thoughts from the last five minutes.

Sorry, I say, for the third time in five minutes, springing into action like a semi-competent barista.

Focus. Onto the next customer if I don’t want to get fired. Getting fired would ruin the balancing act I’ve got going on in my life. Forget distractions, even the temporary kind.

Even distractions as dangerously tempting as Ben Campbell.

Chapter Two

Cold rain pours down on me again as I rush for the bus after working a long shift, shivering and starving. I’d give anything for a steaming hot drink about now. The coffee I made earlier during my shift at the café is long gone. It’s past proper dinnertime now. The Saturday afternoon shoppers are going home, and the people headed out for the night in the West End are off to theaters and bars. Because their windows for fun are wide open.

Anyway, none of that matters right now.

I’m late.

At least it’s not terribly far from where my band’s playing at tonight. Some private holiday party for the something-or-other society of artists. Or was it publishing? Designers? I can’t remember.

I don’t have time for this gig, but I’m strapped for cash. On top of the usual I send Emily every month, I’ve got to buy Carys a new stroller since the axle broke on the old one. My student loan only goes so far, along with the money from the café, even with working nearly full time. Despite being permanently skint, there’s absolutely no way I’m asking my parents for help. I’ve only got about a year left at uni before I finish my English degree, and they’ve already told me loads of times how useless that’ll be when it comes to a future career.

But I don’t have time to think or worry any longer about strollers or money or the fact I’ve just spent three years of my life working toward a degree that won’t improve my situation.

Once onboard, I text our singer, Briar, that I’m on my way. I wolf down the tomato and cheese sandwich from work with a quick scroll through stroller reviews on my phone. Three stops later, through crawling traffic, and I’m in East London arriving at Shoreditch Town Hall. At the small venue for the Saturday night show, I weave through the queued crowd.

There’s no separate way into the basement where we’re playing that I can see. Or maybe I don’t know how to find it, so I’ve got to come through the main entry like everyone else.

I’m with the band, I say apologetically, cutting in line amid glares. I gesture at the guitar in hand as my alibi.

What I ought to be doing instead of rocking out tonight is reading Wuthering Heights for the essay due on Monday. I haven’t had a chance to start, not properly, and I really want to dive in with a big pot of tea. I tried starting last night, only to wake faceplanted in the book, strange dreams of a severe but super sexy Mr. Heathcliff and haunting landscapes dancing around my brain like sugar plum fairies.

My friend Aubrey, who owns a bookshop despite only being a couple of years older than me, sold me a second-hand copy yesterday with a student discount. We met in a lecture a couple of years ago before he had to drop out and run the family