not overly emotional sharers either. I’m still getting used to hearing Daniel talk like this.
His hands cradle my face. ‘I’m rahly proud.’ His kisses veer from appreciative to deep and urgent. ‘Rahly, so proud.’
I kiss him back. How long has it been, actually, since we’ve had sex? Too long, if I can’t remember.
‘Sir, calm yourself in front of the children,’ I tease. ‘There are impressionable minds in the room.’
‘We’re good role models for them,’ he says. ‘Mummy and Daddy love each other. Let’s put them to bed so I can show you how much.’
Grace releases a noise that makes us both turn to our daughter. She’s squatting, sumo-style. It’s her favourite position when she really wants to cut loose.
Oscar points at his sister, as if we don’t notice her filling her nappy.
‘Do you want to flip a coin for it?’ I ask.
‘I did get flowers. And wine,’ he says.
Patting his knee, gently I shift Oscar to his lap. ‘I’ll do it.’
As I lift Grace into my arms, Daniel says, ‘I shouldn’t be jealous of my own children, should I? That’s not nice to admit.’
‘It’s just that they need me.’
‘I need you too.’
That’s pretty obvious from the way he’s shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, but they need me to wipe their arses. It’s a bit more urgent, don’t you think?’
Does he think I like being at the beck and call of these mini tyrants? ‘This isn’t my first choice for entertainment either. We may as well get them into the bath,’ I say, and the first spark of romance we’ve had in months goes out with a soapy wet fizzle.
‘Romance? You are joking,’ Melody says the next afternoon at Samantha’s. ‘With Eva and Joy sleeping with us?’
We’re sitting on Samantha’s pristine leather sofas in her minimalist white cube of a house. I’ve often wondered what these old warehouses looked like inside, but Samantha’s isn’t a good example since they wanted all the space but none of the original features.
‘Just be glad he’s trying,’ Samantha says, reaching for another chocolate croissant as I pull Oscar onto my lap. ‘What I wouldn’t give for those days again.’
This is the only time we ever see Samantha vulnerable, though she tries to turn it all into a joke – how she once wore a net body stocking under her dress to dinner and ended up looking like she’d been sleeping on a bed of tennis rackets. Her husband had teased her so much about the all-over red diamond pattern that the moment totally vanished. None of us can understand what’s wrong with him, especially since Samantha will try anything to get him to sleep with her. What’s great for our weekly conversations isn’t so great for our poor friend’s self-esteem.
‘Couldn’t you have taken care of the children and then gone back downstairs to Daniel?’ Emerald asks. ‘I mean, as long as the oven was already pre-heated, so to speak.’
‘That’s what I would have done,’ says Garnet. ‘Though I don’t have to worry too much about missed chances with Michael.’ Her smile is filthy, just in case we don’t get her meaning.
‘I know what you mean,’ Emerald counters. ‘Sometimes I wish Anthony wasn’t so romantic.’ Always a gold standard humble-bragger, she is. ‘But we’ve got to remember that this isn’t about us, Garnet, it’s about Emma. We know we’re okay. Are you okay, Emma?’
‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ I tell them. ‘It was just disappointing, that’s all.’
‘Ha, welcome to my world,’ Samantha says, reaching for another croissant that, along with her frustration, she’ll work off later at yoga.
What do you get when you cross a vain Italian with someone who’s probably drunk coffee from his baby bottle? Hopefully someone who can teach us how to use an espresso machine. The gleaming Gaggia has been hogging up bar space ever since the catering company delivered it last week. So far I’m hiring a machine to mock me in my own café.
I sneak another glance at Pablo, but he’s too busy gazing at his reflection in the advertising mirror beside the bar to notice. Flick, flick, his hand tweaks another lock of expertly gelled dark hair till he gets the exact quiff he’s going for.
Before Pablo turned up this morning, I’d never seen a man who plucked his eyebrows. Or one with such flawless skin. He looks like he’s been airbrushed.
I really don’t mind that he’s so much prettier than me, as long as he’s as good at coffee as he is at grooming.
‘About those coffee supplies we’ll need,’ I say. ‘You will have everything delivered in time? Because we open in–’
‘Do not worry,’ he says, smoothing the front of his perfectly ironed shirt.
Wrong answer, Pablo. I do not worry if I’m sunning myself on holiday in the Med. I do worry when I need coffee to serve to my customers in less than three weeks.
‘Okay, I won’t worry… But you will have everything delivered?’
‘Carina mia, you should listen to the great Ravi Shankar. “Worry is the enemy of love.”’
Yeah, well Ravi wasn’t about to open his café without any coffee. ‘I don’t need to love coffee, Pablo, I just want to make sure it’s delivered in time.’
His smile makes the Mona Lisa look like an open book.
‘Well, anyway, Lou and Joseph should be here soon,’ I tell him, checking my phone. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea while we wait? Sorry there’s no coffee. That’s why you’re here!’
‘I am fine, thank you.’ He runs his index fingers along his eyebrows, in case a hair has dared to move out of place.
‘You probably don’t drink tea,’ I say.
‘I am Italian.’ He couldn’t sound more insulted by my offer.
All right, steady on, Pablo, I’m only suggesting tea.
He goes back to staring at his reflection and I go back to panicking.
This sounded easy when I first thought of it: open a café, train kids to serve good coffee, tea and food. Now I’ve got the café. I’ve got the kids, when they turn up. There’s just the small issue of the coffee, the tea and the food.
The catering company that’s supplying the Gaggia is also supplying Pablo. The days of sprinkling a few granules into hot water are long gone. Now, everyone supposedly wants fancy coffee from the other side of the world. If it’s not harvested from an Indonesian cat’s poo or a Thai elephant’s dung or from a tiny volcanic island visited by Napoleon
