‘Yes. Like I said, Livy. I made your favourite.’
‘But my favourite’s lemon cake, Nan. You know that.’
She doesn’t falter in her serving, bringing the two bowls to the table and setting them down. ‘Yes, I do. That is why I made you lemon cake.’
I flick a glance across the kitchen again, just to check I’m not mistaken. ‘Nan, that looks like pineapple upside-down cake.’
Her rump hits the chair, and she looks at me like I’m the one losing my mind. ‘That’s because it is pineapple upside-down cake.’ She plunges her spoon into the bowl and slurps off some coriander soup before reaching for some freshly baked bread. ‘I made your favourite.’
She’s confused, and so am I. After that last few seconds’ exchange, I have no clue what sort of cake she’s made, and I don’t care. I look across at my dear grandmother, studying her feeding herself. She seems okay and doesn’t look confused. Is this the beginning? I lean forward. ‘Nan, are you feeling okay?’ I’m worried.
She starts laughing. ‘I’m pulling your leg, Livy!’
‘Nan!’ I scorn her, feeling immediately better. ‘You shouldn’t do that.’
‘I’m not losing my marbles yet.’ She waves her spoon at my bowl. ‘Eat your supper and tell me how you got on today.’
My shoulders sag dramatically on a sigh as I stir my soup. ‘I can’t get on with that coffee machine, which is a problem when ninety per cent of customers order some kind of coffee.’
‘You’ll get to grips with it,’ she says confidently, like she’s an expert on the damn thing.
‘I’m not so sure. Del won’t keep me just for clearing tables.’
‘Well, apart from the coffee machine, are you enjoying it?’
I smile. ‘Yes, I really am.’
‘Good. You can’t look after me for ever. A young thing like you should be out enjoying herself, not tending to her grandmother.’ She eyes me cautiously. ‘And I don’t need tending to, anyway.’
‘I like looking after you,’ I argue quietly, bracing myself for the usual lecture. We could argue about this until we’re blue in the face and still be in disagreement. She’s fragile, not physically but mentally, no matter how much she insists she’s okay. She draws breath. I fear the worst. ‘Livy, I will not be leaving God’s green pastures until I see you pull things together, and that’s not going to happen if you spend all your time henpecking me. I’m running out of time, so get your skinny little arse in gear.’
I wince. ‘I’ve told you. I’m happy.’
‘Happy hiding from a world that has so much to offer?’ she asks seriously. ‘Start living, Olivia. Trust me, time soon passes you by. Before you know it, you’re being measured for false teeth and you won’t dare cough or sneeze through fear of pissing yourself.’
‘Nan!’ I choke on a piece of bread, but she’s not amused at all. She’s deadly serious, as she always is during these types of conversations.
‘True story,’ she says on a sigh. ‘Get out there. Take whatever life throws your way. You’re not your mother, Oliv—’
‘Nan,’ I warn slowly.
She visibly slumps in her chair. I know I frustrate her, but I’m quite happy as I am. I’m twenty-four, I’ve lived with my nan since I was born, and as soon as I left college, I made my ex-cuses to stay at home and keep an eye on her. But while I was quite happy looking after my nan, she was not. ‘Olivia, I’ve moved forward. You need to, too. I should never have held you back.’
I smile, not knowing what to say. She doesn’t realise it, but I needed holding back. I’m my mother’s daughter, after all.
‘Livy, make your nan happy. Put some heels on and go out and enjoy yourself.’
It’s me slumping now. She just can’t stop herself. ‘Nan, you’d have to pin me down to get me in heels.’ My feet ache at the very thought.
‘How many pairs of those canvas things do you have?’ she asks, buttering me yet more bread and passing it over.
‘Twelve,’ I answer, completely unashamed. ‘All in different colours.’ I plan on buying them in yellow on Saturday, too. I take the bread and sink my teeth in, smiling around my bite when she huffs her displeasure.
‘Well at least go out and have fun. Gregory’s always offering. Why don’t you take him up on his constant offers?’
‘I don’t drink.’ I wish she’d stop with this. ‘And Gregory will only drag me around all the g*y bars,’ I tell her, raising my eyebrows. My best friend sleeps with enough men for both of us.
‘Any bar is better than no bar. You might like it.’ She reaches over and brushes some crumbs from my lips, then strokes my cheek softly. I know what she’s going to say. ‘It’s frightening how similar you are.’
‘I know.’ I rest my hand over hers and hold it in place while she silently reflects. I don’t remember my mother very well, but I’ve seen the proof; I’m a carbon copy of her. Even my blond hair falls strangely similarly into waves that cascade over my shoulders, almost making it seem like too much hair for my tiny body to carry. It’s incredibly heavy and only behaves if rough dried and left to do as it pleases. And my big navy-blue eyes that match my grandmother’s and my mother’s have a glassy reflecting quality. Sapphire-like, people have said. I don’t see that part. Make-up is a pleasure, not a necessity, but it’s always minimal on my fair skin.
Once I’ve given her enough time to reminisce, I take her hand and place it by her bowl. ‘Eat up, Nan,’ I say quietly, continuing with my own soup.
Dragging herself back to the here and now, she carries on with her supper, but she’s quiet. She’s never got over my mother’s reckless lifestyle – a lifestyle that stole Nan’s daughter from her. It’s been eighteen years and she still misses my mother terribly. I don’t. How can you miss someone you hardly knew? But watching my nan slip into these sad thoughts every now and then makes it just as painful for me.
Yes, there’s definitely something to be said about making the perfect cup of coffee. I’m staring at the machine again, but today I’m smiling. I’ve done it – the correct amount of foam, the smoothness like silk and the little dusting of chocolate, forming a perfect heart on the top. It’s just a shame that it’s me who’s drinking it, not an appreciative customer.
‘Good?’ Sylvie asks, watching with anticipation.
I hum and gasp, setting the cup down. ‘The coffee machine and I are now friends.’
‘Yay!’ she squeals, throwing her arms around me. I laugh and match her enthusiasm, looking over her shoulder as the door to the bistro swings open.
‘I think the lunchtime rush is about to start,’ I say, breaking free from her grip. ‘I’ll get this one.’
‘Oh, she’s full of confidence,’ Sylvie laughs, moving to give me access to the serving counter. She beams at me as I make my way over to the man who’s just arrived.
‘What can I get you?’ I ask, getting ready to jot down his order, but when he doesn’t answer, I look up and find him watching me closely. I start shifting nervously, not liking the scrutiny. I find my voice. ‘Sir?’
His eyes widen a little. ‘Er, cappuccino, please. To take away.’
‘Sure.’ I snap into action, leaving Mr Wide Eyes gathering himself, and take myself to my new best friend, loading the handle thingy and securing it successfully into the holder – so far so good.
‘That is why Del won’t sack you,’ Sylvie whispers over my shoulder, making me jump slightly.
‘Stop it,’ I say, retrieving a takeaway cup from the shelf and placing it under the filter before pressing the correct button.
‘He’s watching you.’
‘Sylvie, stop it!’
‘Give him your number.’
‘No!’ I blurt too loudly, quickly checking over my shoulder. He’s staring at me. ‘I’m not interested.’
‘He’s cute,’ Sylvie concludes, and I have to agree. He’s very cute, but I’m very uninterested.
‘I don’t have time for a relationship.’ That’s not strictly true. This is my first job and before this I spent most of my adult life caring for Nan. Now I’m not sure whether she really does still need the care, or whether it’s just my excuse.
Sylvie shrugs and leaves me to finish my second round with the machine. I finish up, smiling as I pour the milk into the cup before releasing a drop of dust on the foam and securing a lid. I’m far too proud of myself and it’s obvious on my smiling face as I turn to deliver the cappuccino to Mr Wide Eyes. ‘Two pounds eighty, please.’ I go to place the cup down, but he intercepts me and takes it from my hand, ensuring contact as he does.
‘Thank you,’ he says, pulling my eyes up to his with his soft words.
‘You’re welcome.’ I slowly take my hand away from his, accepting the tenner he hands me. ‘I’ll get your change.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He shakes his head mildly, running his eyes all over my face. ‘But I wouldn’t mind your phone number.’
I hear Sylvie chuckling from the table she’s clearing. ‘I’m sorry, I’m in a relationship.’ I punch his order through the till and quickly collect his change, handing it over to him and ignoring Sylvie’s snort of disgust.
‘Of course you are.’ He laughs lightly, looking embarrassed. ‘How stupid of me.’
I smile, trying to ease his awkwardness. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I don’t usually just ask any women I meet for their number,’ he explains. ‘I’m not a creep.’
‘Honestly, it’s okay.’ I’m feeling embarrassed myself now, and I’m silently wishing he’d leave before I throw a coffee cup at Sylvie’s head. I can feel her staring at me in shock. I start to rearrange the napkins, anything to take me away from the uncomfortable situation. I could kiss the man who walks in behind, looking like he’s in a hurry. ‘I’d better get this.’ I indicate over Mr Wide Eyes’s shoulder to the harassed-looking businessman.
‘Oh, yes! Sorry.’ He backs away, holding up his cup in thanks. ‘See ya.’
‘Bye.’ I lift my hand before looking to my next customer. ‘What would you like, sir?’
‘Latte, no sugar, and make it quick.’ He barely even looks at me before he answers his phone and walks away from the counter, dumping his briefcase on a chair.
I’m only semi-aware of Mr Wide Eyes leaving, but I’m more than aware of Sylvie’s biker boots marching up to me, where I’m tackling the coffee machine again. ‘I can’t believe you declined!’ she whispers harshly. ‘He was lovely.’
I make quick work of my third perfect coffee, not giving her shock the attention it deserves. ‘He was okay,’ I reply nonchalantly.
‘“Okay?”’
‘Yes, he was okay.’
I’m not looking at her, but I know she’s just rolled her eyes. ‘Unbelievable,’ she mutters, stomping off, her voluptuous rump matching the side-to-side sway of her black bob.
I’m smiling in triumph again as I deliver the coffee, and my grin doesn’t even fall away when the harassed businessman thrusts three pounds into my hand before snatching his cup and marching out, without so much as a thank you.
My feet don’t touch the ground for the rest of the day. I fly in and out of the kitchen, clean endless tables and make dozens of perfect coffees. On my breaks, I manage to check up on Nan, being told off each time for being a whittle-arse.
