. . . a dead-end job #2
‘You just don’t stick to things!’ Sara continues. ‘And it’s a shame because you’re so, so talented. Remember when you used to run that coffee page?’
‘A Latte Love!’ Paige recalls this with glee. ‘Ugh, I lived for your recipes. The weird syrups, the niche coffees from different countries . . . Who knew coffee could get so creative?’
‘Weren’t you even getting paid?’ Sara asks.
‘I had a couple of collabs,’ I say bitterly.
A Latte Love started purely out of boredom one day when I was on a super-slow shift at work.
I filmed an extremely silly video of me attempting to make a Swedish Egg coffee the evening after a customer requested one.
You blend raw egg with the grounds before brewing the coffee to help them float to the top and make your drink less bitter.
But I seemed to miss the step where you sift those clumps out.
I drank coffee-infused egg clumps on camera and attracted a large audience of sadists who revelled in my misfortune.
Emboldened by the sudden attention and desperate need to feed my ego, I made another speciality coffee, and another, until it became my shtick.
Within six months I was sitting on just shy of twenty-five thousand followers with a fair few brands reaching out for coffee-based sponsorships.
‘And where is it now?’ Sara’s pulled out her phone. ‘No videos since . . . wow. March last year.’
She flashes the page at me, a ghost of what it once was. Follower count dropped by at least 3K.
‘I’ve been super busy.’ I’m muttering.
‘Yes, on your six nights out a week with the same three people on repeat – we’ve been through this,’ she says sternly. ‘I just feel like you could use some direction.’
And I feel like they should both mind their own business.
I scoff. ‘A speciality-coffee account is not direction.’
‘But it was something,’ Sara huffs, now attacking the chocolate fudge. ‘And it’s certainly more than what you’re doing right now.’
‘Okay, Sar, that’s enough,’ Paige says.
‘I’m just saying!’ She holds up her hands in protest. ‘We’ve tried gentle parenting; she needs some tough love.’
‘You’re not my parents,’ I say, at which they both roll their eyes.
‘You live in my house rent-free, I cook you special veggie meals and check you’re home safe without so much as a thank you .
. . I basically am your parent.’ Sara pushes the cake back towards me, officially giving up.
‘But if you want to move back in with Dad, then . . .’ She trails off threateningly.
‘Back to Brighton?’ I grimace. ‘I’m a London girl now.’
‘Then do something, Squeak! Prove you moved here for a reason! This café is lovely, but it’s not what you came to this city for.’
I cringe at Sara’s somewhat aggressive use of my childhood nickname, the words surrounding it sticking with me through the second half of my shift and all the way to the Sunday close.
I load the dishwasher with extra vim as I recount the conversation to Jane, who listens dutifully as she wipes down the side.
She fills the story with her fair share of ‘ah’s and ‘mmhmm’s, but I notice her grow silent the longer I speak.
By the time I’m done I have to look her dead in the eyes to get her to say anything at all.
‘She was harsh, yes . . .’ Jane finally replies, her voice hesitant.
We sit down at a table, pausing our Sunday clean to tuck into a blueberry scone that didn’t sell.
‘But?’ I ask.
She pauses for a moment, distractedly crumbling a piece of stale dough between her fingers before I do the same.
‘Sorry, but she kind of has a point. When you got here you said you were going to be a freelance writer, but it’s been what? Five years?’
‘Four and a half,’ I say sulkily.
‘And as your friend, you know I don’t care what you do with your life as long as you’re happy with the choices you’re making.’ She swallows her bite. ‘But are you happy?’
I can see her bracing herself for my response. Jane, bless her, has never been the type for confrontation. It’s a wonder she’s lasted as long as she has in a customer-facing job.
‘I am happy.’
‘Okay.’
She has a terrible poker face.
‘So, you think I’m not happy?’ I ask, taking another piece.
She swallows. ‘I don’t know . . . Sara might have been right. You seemed happier when you had that coffee account. I loved that coffee account.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Everyone seemed to love that coffee account.’
‘Including you! Remember when Nespresso gifted you that machine? I’ve never seen you so proud.’
I nod. ‘And then I got those syrups.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, my gosh, the syrups! So many fancy French flavours, each one of them divine.’
We both sigh with pleasure as we think back to that time and then giggle at our matched fondness for it all.
I remember how the staff would gasp when I showed them my hauls, and the way Sara boasted to her friends about all of my samples.
I felt needed back then, like I gave something back and wasn’t just the parasite that paid no rent and increased her heating bills.
I don’t even know why I stopped; I guess I just fell out of love the way I seem to do with most things. It started to feel like work and, before I knew it, I missed an upload, then another, until I barely checked the account.
That ends today. I spring to my feet, whip off my polo and scramble for my hoodie as Jane looks on at me in confusion.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I pull my hoodie over my head, let my curls out of their food-safety-mandated scrunchie and start preening in the distorted reflection of the coffee machine. Jane creeps closer, intrigued, as I start to apply a hefty layer of lipgloss. I reach my phone out to her.
‘How do you fancy being a human tripod? I’m gonna get us some more syrups.’