know it’s still early days, but already the differences between them are stark. Joseph’s got all the enthusiasm and Lou’s probably got all the skill. I just hope they draw even by the time we open.
Joseph goes behind the bar to wait for instructions. ‘Lou, pretend you’re a customer,’ I say, ‘and order anything we’ve practised today. Joseph, treat Lou like a real customer, not like Lou, okay?’
‘Yes, madam, what would you like?’ he says, imitating Pablo’s prayer hands.
Lou thinks for a moment. ‘A half-caff double-shot no-foam fat-free latte.’
‘Boss!’ Joseph whines. ‘Tell her she can’t do that.’
‘Sorry, Joseph. She’s the customer. Did you write it down? Lou, that’s cruel.’
‘The customer is always right,’ she says.
I go behind the bar to help Joseph, who’s starting to sweat. ‘Lou, find a table, please. Joseph will bring your order when it’s ready.’
She looks doubtfully at all the pastel before scooting into a booth. ‘Those are nice.’ She takes one of Mum’s fancy teapots off the shelf above her head, turning it over to look at the maker’s name. ‘You’ve got a lot of these.’
‘More than twenty. They’re all my mum’s. She’s got a thing for old Staffordshire teapots. There’s not really room for them at home so she’s letting me use them to decorate in here. I’m not sure about using them for the customers, though. I’d hate to break one.’
‘Why have them if you don’t use them? You may as well sell them otherwise. They’re probably worth something. Have you checked? I could look online for you.’
Alarm bells start ringing. I don’t want Lou valuing my mother’s teapot collection. What if that’s why she’s in trouble with the Old Bill? She might have been arrested for fencing fancy teapots. And I’ve plonked her right in the middle of another potential heist. ‘They’re quite fragile,’ I tell her. ‘I promised Mum we’d keep them on the shelf.’
That’s a lie, but she takes the hint and puts the teapot back. Now I’m worried they’ll get nicked.
Joseph finally gets the coffee right after the third go, but the whole order takes about ten minutes. Which is fine if we’re only planning to have one customer at a time in the café. ‘Good,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll work on that some more, okay? Go give Lou her coffee.’
Carefully he carries the cup to her table.
She sends him back for a spoon.
‘Certainly, madam, anything you want.’ He gives her the spoon with a flourish.
‘And a serviette? You’ve spilled a drop here.’
He trudges back to the bar for serviettes. ‘Anything else?’ he calls.
‘No.’
He brings the serviette.
‘Except sugar.’
‘Boss!’
‘Lou, thank you for making the important point that we’ve got to anticipate the customer’s needs. Now it’s your turn. Up here, please.’
Joseph can’t stop grinning about their role change.
‘What do you want?’ Lou asks him.
‘That’s how you ask a customer for their order?’ I say. ‘I thought you said you were used to looking after people. Maybe you could be nicer.’
‘This is me being nicer.’
‘Then pretend you’re talking to Father Christmas. Be that nice.’
‘I’ll have the same as you,’ Joseph says. ‘Half-caff no-foam fat-free latte, only don’t make the coffee too hot and I’ll have a triple shot. I’ll just be over here when it’s ready.’
He strolls to a table, brushes off the seat and sits down.
Lou’s just about to start the grind when her phone starts ringing. ‘Yeah? Okay. No, don’t. I will.’ Hanging up she says, ‘I’ve gotta go.’
‘But we’re not finished yet. We’re still training.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to. Really, I’m sorry.’
‘Are you okay, Lou? You look a bit–’
She rushes from the café.
Frantic.
‘I hope she’s not going to do that all the time,’ says Joseph. ‘It’s hard to keep good help these days. But I can still get my coffee, yeah boss?’ He nods towards the Gaggia, sending me off to make my trainee’s half-caff no-foam fat-free not-too-hot triple-shot latte.
I’m welling up again. This has been happening all the time lately. It doesn’t even have to be one of those appeals on telly about the plight of orphaned children. An M&S food advert will do it. I made the mistake of watching Four Weddings and a Funeral the other day and it took me hours to recover.
Get hold of yourself, Emma, it’s only bunting. ‘A bit higher if you can,’ I tell Kelly.
She stretches from the top step of the ladder. ‘I’m as high as I can go.’ She nails in the tail of the bunting. ‘Which means it’s as high as it can go. It looks good, Em.’ She climbs down. ‘Really good.’
I glance around my nearly-decorated café. It’s hard to remember what it was like when I first walked in here. That was just before the wedding, nearly two years ago, when I was searching for a loo option on Carlton Square to keep my in-laws from having to squat behind the bushes at the reception. It was nondescript from the outside – clearly an old pub but long unused as one – with a few tables and chairs scattered inside and only a Daily Specials blackboard to hint that it had recently tried to be a café.
Not that I was thinking of being a business owner then. I’d had quite enough on my plate – an eat-all-you-like buffet piled with second helpings and a big fat bap teetering on top. Besides, I was still naïve enough to think that I could find a job to fit around my soon-to-be-born twins. Like I’d be able to stash them in my office drawer and take them out for a feed when I had my cup of tea for elevenses.
But how was I supposed to get interviews, let alone go to them, when I didn’t even have time for a bath?
They say people often invent things to solve a problem they have. If that’s true, then most inventors are probably new mothers.
There I was, at the mercy of two very demanding people who were at least fifteen years too young to be left on their own. I wanted work using the degree I’d just spent five years studying for. And I was running 24-hour room service for the twins anyway, so I knew something about catering
