Chapter 4 Shaun
Shaun
The bell rings behind me, followed by footsteps as someone shuffles inside.
“Be with you in a second!” I call from my crouched position behind the counter.
“No problem,” a cool voice replies.
A plastic tray rests precariously on my knees, piled high with sandwiches. They’re not pretty, but I threw together what I could in time for the lunch rush. Chicken and pesto, pastrami and emmental, halloumi and… something.
Shit, my brain is fried. I’ve struggled to remember people’s orders all morning and the thought of tackling the lunch rush alone fills me with dread.
All my hopes lie with the job ad taped to the front door.
No applicants yet but, at this rate, I’ll hire anyone if it means making my life even the tiniest bit easier.
I sense the customer sidling up to the till. No time to make the sandwiches look pretty so I shove them all onto the bottom shelf of the fridge for now. Scrambling to my feet, I toss the tray into the sink and turn to greet them.
“Sorry about that. Sitting in or taking away?”
A strikingly handsome, if a little scruffy, twenty-something guy looks up at me. He grins, a white flash of teeth between bow lips, surrounded by a dusting of golden stubble.
“Neither,” he takes a step forward. “Actually, I’m here about the job.”
“The… job?” I say, a little disarmed. A wire seems to have come loose in my brain.
I’m not into guys, but anyone could see this is a very good-looking chap.
Apparently, disarmingly so. His features are sharp and chiselled, the kind you might see on a magazine cover model.
A slim nose turns up slightly at the end in a soft point.
A pair of ice-blue eyes shimmer like the surface of a paddling pool.
His smile is mischievous, but genuine, like a schoolboy, and his hair, a thick tangle of ash-blonde locks, is tied back in a messy bun behind his head.
Wow. No missing pieces in his assembly kit, that’s for sure.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so pretty.
He raises an eyebrow, expectantly. “Yeah. The one in the window?”
“Right!” My brain reboots and I quickly try to course-correct. “Sorry, it’s been a wild morning. I’m Shaun. I’m the manager.”
Remembering the etiquette, I extend my hand to shake and he takes it.
“Freddie.”
He gives my hand a squeeze, rough, callused fingertips brushing my palm. His grip is surprisingly strong.
“Nice to meet you, Freddie.” I realise we’ve been shaking too long and drop his hand like a hot pan. “So, uh, have you worked in a café before?”
“Not exactly,” he gives an apologetic little smile. “But I’m a fast learner.”
He places a grubby piece of A4 paper on the counter and slides it towards me. Why is it so wet?
“My resume,” he says, proudly rolling his r’s in a soft local accent.
I give it a quick skim. Freddie Young, twenty-two. No real hospitality experience, but my eyes are drawn to the second entry on his job history.
“Mason & Ward?” I ask. “Were you a banker?”
“Ah, no,” he shakes his head. “Interning. Got a taste of office life and decided it wasn’t for me. Know what I mean?”
I nod, remembering the mind-numbing admin roles I got fresh out of uni.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
I flip Freddie’s CV over to see if there’s any more to it.
As expected, the reverse side is blank. To say his experience is sparse would be putting it kindly, but my headache is reaching critical mass and there’s a pre-lunch lull at the moment.
If I’m quick, I can give him an impromptu interview right now.
It might give off desperate vibes, but I’m long past pride.
If he’s keen, available, and passably sane, he’ll do.
“Feel free to say no,” I say, gesturing to an empty table, “but how would you feel about a quick interview?”
“Now?” he asks, though he doesn’t seem too flustered by the prospect.
I nod. “Why not?”
“Well, I’m not exactly dressed for an interview,” Freddie gestures to his outfit: ripped jeans, a black leather jacket, frayed at the cuffs and elbows, and a jumper so distressed it’s on the verge of a full-on breakdown.
To be fair, he’s right, but I’m not one to talk with my own stinky ensemble.
I’ve played rugby matches that left me feeling cleaner than I do right now.
“I don’t mind,” I say, grabbing my notepad and walking around the counter to join him. “Plus, in twenty minutes we’ll be mobbed and I’m not even sure I’ll make it through that in one piece. It could be now or never.”
Freddie chuckles. “Okay then, Shaun. That would be rad.” He flashes me that mischievous grin.
I smile back, stupidly. He’s a charming little bastard.
I usher Freddie towards one of the empty two-tops.
He takes the far seat but I make him swap so I can keep an eye on the counter.
There are only a few people in here, but the curse of every café is that a queue magically appears the second you let your guard down.
I swear customers do it on purpose, hiding in the bins until I’m not looking.
As I sit down, I take a couple of steadying breaths. I always get nervous doing interviews. No matter what anyone says, being the interview-er is just as scary. But for some reason, I’m more nervous now than in any of the others.
Perching myself on my chair, I clear my throat which has gone dry all of a sudden. Damn. I should have brought us some water. It’ll be awkward if I go all the way back now. Unless…
“Would you like a water, Freddie?”
“Nah, I’m fine, thanks.”
Bugger.
Trying not to cough, I place my notepad on the table and flick to a blank page, mentally rehearsing all the interview tips I’ve memorised from books and blogs.
“So, Freddie, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Freddie shrugs. “What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you like. Imagine you had thirty seconds to give someone a good impression of you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Kind of like speed dating?”
I swallow, dryly. “If you like.”
Freddie thinks for a moment, his long fingers drumming a rhythm on the table. “Okay, well my name's Freddie and I'm unemployed.”
I chuckle at the joke, though I’m secretly relieved. Unemployed equals no notice period.
“I'm a West Marbank boy, born and raised. I’m pretty good on guitar and my brother says my singing is ‘not completely shit’. Oh, and I'm single.”
“Huh?” I say, taken aback.
Freddie winks at me. “Speed dating, remember?”
“Right!” I say, pretending to write something down on my pad. Why are my hands so tingly? “Singing huh? Is that a hobby?”
He shrugs. “For now. Maybe something more one day.”
My smile tightens. Great, another performer. Hopefully the fact he's looking for a café job means he's not got a record label champing at the bit to sign him. Still, I don't want to end up in the same sticky situation I'm in right now. Maybe he's a talentless hack. Not that that stopped Kyle.
“That’s cool,” I say, fighting the tickle in my throat. “I can’t sing at all.”
Freddie puffs out his chest. “Maybe I can teach you? Only if you give me the job, of course.”
I chuckle. “Well, can you tell me why you think you’d be a good fit here?”
He ponders for a moment.
“I mean, obviously I haven’t worked in a coffee place before, but I learn fast and I get on well with most people I meet. Old ladies love me.” Freddie gestures to the counter behind him with his thumb. “Plus, those fancy machines look fiddly and, being a musician, I’m pretty good with my hands.”
He holds my gaze for a second, his teeth grazing his bottom lip.
“Mhmm,” I look down to make a few random ticks in my notebook. “And what would you consider—”
The cough explodes from my mouth like a cannon blast. Then another, and another. I cover my mouth with my sleeve and wait for them to stop, but they don’t. My eyes start to water.
“Do you need a drink?” Freddie asks, but I’m coughing too much to speak.
A scrape of wood as Freddie pushes his chair back from the table.
He hops up and strides over to the counter where glass bottles of tap water are lined up for people to help themselves.
Picking up a bottle with one hand, he reaches behind the counter with the other and plucks a clean glass from the shelf.
Without spilling a drop, he quickly pours out the water as he strides back to our table, setting a full glass in front of me.
Impressed, I take a swig as Freddie settles back into his chair.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you!” I take a second to regain my composure. “So sorry about that. Frog in my throat.”
“No problem. You were saying?”
“Y-yes!” I stammer, trying to remember where we were. “Right, so, what would you consider to be your greatest strength?”
“Hmm,” I take another sip while Freddie thinks. “Probably… my abs?”
“Your—?”
Freddie lifts the hem of his T-shirt to reveal a slice of washboard midriff. I sputter my water and, to my horror, feel my face flush warm with embarrassment. Freddie chuckles, dropping his shirt and leaning back in his chair.
“Too literal?” he asks.
I’m disarmed by his boldness, shocked that someone conscientious enough to bring their interviewer a glass of water would also be unhinged enough to flash them his body. I have no idea what to say so I settle for the good old British fallback of pretending it didn’t happen.
I wipe droplets of water from my beard with my sleeve. “And, um, your greatest weakness?”
Freddie sucks his teeth. “Probably my interview skills.”
I laugh in disbelief. “You can say that again.”
Freddie gives me a cheeky wink. I flick my gaze down to my notepad, pretending to write again while I think.