The Way It Never Was (3 page)

I grab his luxurious wool arm and make him stop. ‘You are joking me? I have introduced her to you before! You remember, my Canadian friend from Australia days? Last time you saw her at my birthday, you annoyed the hell out of her. She said you just prattled on about how great you were all night. Didn’t ask her one single question. Nah, stick to the bland girls hanging off your every word Dan. You couldn’t cope with Liv!’

Dan looks momentarily thoughtful. ‘Nope, not ringing any bell.’ Clearly, my brother must have bored the pants off a whole load of women in his time.

‘You know,’ I persist, as we slowly meander through the crowds in Piccadilly Circus. ‘The one who is now pregnant and having a baby on her own.’

‘Oh, wait there,’ he slaps his forehead. ‘Gotcha. I remember her. Nope, don’t do single mothers.’

I thump his arm. ‘Did you really just say that? Oh Dan, you can be so obnoxious!’ I shriek. When Dan’s not tackling me on big subjects that I’m not really in the mood to talk about, he’s making disparaging comments about my friends. While I know much of it is tongue in cheek, some of it I still take to heart. As we cross over the busy road, I mull over Dan’s evening ahead.

‘So a blind date huh? Does this mean that you might be finally getting bored with shagging every girl in London?’

Looking at the smirk on my face, Dan raises one eyebrow. ‘Like I say sis, my love life is out of bounds to you.’

Smiling, I shrug. ‘Whatever, I’ll find out, you always cave.’

Dan is the guy who has spent the last few years not even pretending to want go beyond a one-night stand; that doesn’t even pretend to want to see a girl for a proper
date
date. Such is his need for freedom, he is willing to leave key personal items at the girl’s house in preference to tracking her down to collect them. We stand there idly looking at our reflections in the beautiful window display at Fortnum & Mason.

‘Are you sure you don't want a serious relationship?’ I ask hesitatingly, to which Dan shakes his head.

‘Geez, I could say the same about you sis. You’re not exactly available if you know what I mean. You’ve spent however long pining after some chump you met in Oz.’

I interrupt. ‘Hey go easy, Joe wasn’t a chump.’

My brother puts his arm around me. ‘He must be, he let you go didn’t he? Chump!’ I grin, once more buoyed up by his unconditional loyalty.

We walk past the Ritz Hotel just as a few giggling women walk down the steps and do a double-take at my brother, before making our way to Green Park. ‘Did you get my email earlier?’ asks Dan. ‘Got some photos of you and Stan. Talking of which, how is he?’ That’s a good question, I think, as I haven’t a clue how my friend is – we don’t exactly have an everyday relationship anymore.

‘Not spoken in a while. Seeing him at Anna’s for dinner next week,’ I say.

Dan nudges me. ‘Still got her claws in, has she?’

It would be safe to say that my friend Anna’s brief fling with Dan didn’t end very amicably as they’ve not been nice about each other ever since. Having dropped her just as quickly as he had taken up with her, Anna didn’t take it too well, as I don’t think she’d ever experienced so much as a decline to a slow dance at a disco.

‘He’s got seriously major issues Kate,’ she said at the time. ‘I can’t believe you’re related.’

‘Anna’s another subject to best leave alone,’ I say. ‘Add it to the list.’

He shrugs. ‘Who you kidding sis? You love me bringing all this stuff up! No one else does!’ I smirk, all of sudden feeling real affection for this cocky son of a gun.

Dan then waves his Oyster card at me, by way of saying he’s about to disappear down into the Underground.

‘I must go. My blind date with ugly woman calls. Oh yes, while I remember, do you want to come to my work party? I need a date. You’ll meet nice tall men – eat lots of pointless canapés. Done deal no?’

Going
to
a
fancy
do
hey
? I think. I can’t remember the last time I looked, well, glamorous. I’ll be able to wear my big lycra pants and everything.

‘Okay I’ll do it,’ I say reluctantly, not sounding very enthused.

‘Jesus, Kate! There’s no need to sound like it’s a trip to the dentist.’ I laugh and give him a hug goodbye.

‘You know what, I really am proud of you for quitting your job,’ Dan says.

‘Thank you.’ I say a little embarrassed, as I don’t think I’ve ever heard my brother speak this way before.

‘Finally,’ he says.

‘Finally what oh wise one?’ I ask, not really wanting to know what his answer is going to be.

‘You are changing the record.’

As he starts walking away, I shout after him. ‘I’m now in a complete panic what to do next!’

Halfway down the steps Dan turns to salute me. ‘It’ll work out you know.’

‘How do you know?’ I ask. He sounds so sure.

‘Well, it can’t get any worse can it?’ he shouts over his shoulder. And with that, my brother disappears out of sight.

CHAPTER 3
- MINE’S A FLAT WHITE

My favourite place in the world is a ten-minute walk from the station – or two minutes if I ever decided to join the likes of every other person these days and drum up sponsorship for a very short charity run. Broadstairs is the town where I grew up and went to school and although I no longer have any blood ties here as my parents moved away, I decided to stay put. Despite a tiny part of me being a bit put out that they chose to move nearer my older sister Harriet in Norfolk, why wouldn’t they? Dan was abroad and looked like he was never going to come back home, while Harriet had married a really nice farmer Toby (who sported blindingly white teeth and a proper thatch). She then produced three children in quick succession, along with a penchant for blow-by-blow accounts of their births over dinner.

I, on the other hand, was showing no signs of settling down, and while I was ticking along just fine, was clearly not exactly setting the world alight in any areas of life, well, not enough for my parents to use for dinner party anecdotes. When Harriet decided she wanted to go back to work, I’m under no illusion that it only took a few open-ended statements along the lines of ‘oh poor me, how on earth am I going to bring in an income, Toby is only a farmer?’ and my newly retired parents came up with the idea of moving to be near her as though it was their idea all along. So I said goodbye to them, thanked my lucky stars I was no longer under their watchful – and ever so slightly panicking – eye and continued to base myself here, minus the obligatory Sunday lunch and the daily phone calls that have since become weekly. Let Harriet ring up and moan about the trials of having parents living nearby, I had done my time.

The Globe café is at the bottom of a narrow street that leads down to the harbour, painted a bright ocean blue with a distressed looking sign – sort of shabby chic meets seaside. In front of a backdrop of white walls displaying works of art for sale, interrupted by magazine racks bursting with old copies of
Vogue
, are dozens of wooden chairs and tables and long benches with little flowers in vases, on a wooden floor that has seen better days. Along the wall behind the counter is the most enormous chalkboard you ever did see, with ‘specials’ written in that beautiful chalk paint handwriting that I can never do. In the summer, the windows open right out so that people can enjoy watching the hustle and bustle while perching on stools under the windowsills. The bi-fold doors at the back open up to decking bordered by planters filled with herbs, all covered by a large awning. As an interior designer would say, ‘it’s the perfect inside outside space’ – and more importantly, it provides regular shelter from the somewhat temperamental English weather.

The main centrepiece of the café is a large wooden counter that curves round like a wave, showcasing fresh sandwiches and muffins piled up messily skewered by handwritten signs, alongside beautiful glass domes that house enormous cakes and glistening small jars containing chocolate treats that are fingerprinted by small children on a regular basis. Behind the counter, there is a glass cabinet with chilled drinks and right next to that is the most important piece of equipment in the whole café – the coffee machine that buzzes with activity all day long. Chipped china cups and saucers are stacked up on the top of the machine, with a big barrel directly underneath containing oily coffee beans that make you want to dunk your hand right in.

When I set foot in this café, something happens to my internal monologue. I just shut up. I focus on the here and now. I don’t think about the prospect of ongoing unemployment, but on the wonderful smell of coffee and cake in this beautifully chaotic environment. Everything always feels like it’s going to be okay. Once more it becomes about the small stuff.

Having cleared my throat at the counter, the owner Paolo steps out from the kitchen with a forehead so creased from frowning he looks like a bulldog. ‘I take it you want your usual. You’ll have to wait,’ he growls.

I do a ‘thumbs up’ sign, a little uncomfortable at his blunt delivery yet as always, slightly in awe of it. Paolo’s the kind of man where you think about what you’re going to say before you say it, because you don’t dare to trust your own spontaneity for fear you incite one of his frowns. If I was organised enough to have index cards with my script written on them when having to converse with Paolo, believe me I would.

Paulo is second generation Italian and must be in his late forties. He bought the Globe a few years ago – and what a nice surprise it was for me too, coming back from living in Australia to find somewhere that had a touch of Antipodean about it. The year I left, it was an entirely different story as Broadstairs had just one coffee place that was only popular as there was nowhere else to go. Luckily, we now have the Globe and I can’t imagine the town without it.

The only thing is – and it’s a very minor drawback – there may be an abundance of food and nice magazines but I wish I could say the same for the customers. The café is quiet –
very
quiet – and I’ve long since worked out why. Paolo is pretty rude. I don’t say this lightly as I’m used to the whole terrifying people thing, but he’s up there with the best of them. The other permanent fixture is equally obnoxious – Paolo’s wife Paula who swans in several times a day with their toddler son who goes by the imaginative name of Paolo Junior, or ‘PJ’ as he’s known. PJ is in desperate need of a haircut as he’s always getting mistaken for a girl. He also needs to learn the meaning of the word ‘no’. Like her husband, Paula doesn’t do niceties. Worse still, she is denial about her true bra size, sporting four boobs and designer sunglasses that should not be worn inside. Today, she has decided to put the little boy down onto the floor, in the hope he’ll stop trying to push all the food off the counter, only to then walk behind it and help herself to a piece of cake. Shoving it in her mouth, Paula then gives me a haughty look, as though to say, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Needless to say, our relationship hasn’t really evolved as I along with the rest of the general public, know my place.

As with all socially inept people in the service industries, family man Paolo uses this line of business to try and prove to himself that even his handicap in the interpersonal skills department can be turned into profit. But with the exception of the summer tourists, the café is never busy. Only faithful regulars come, as they know what I know – Paolo totally understands what a good café looks like. Yes, he may greet the world with a face like a slapped arse and offend people to the point of bankrupting his business, but just when you think he’s the biggest arsehole to walk the planet, he’ll make you the best coffee and all will be forgiven. That’s why a few people continue to sit in this environment; thick-skinned ones like me.

The Globe café’s other owner is my great friend Liv, who also happens to be rather pregnant.

‘Hey Katie Kate! Whatcha doing here at this time?’ she shouts over in her Canadian accent, waddling towards the kitchen with four plates precariously balanced up her arms.

‘I’ll fill you in when you’ve not got your hands full,’ I say as casually as possible. Looking around me at all the empty tables, I decide to go for my favourite one on the decking outside. Despite being early spring, the sun is beating down today.

‘So, what’s happening dude?’ asks Liv a little later on, walking towards me and giving me a big hug – well, as big as you can do when you are starting to look like you won’t be dancing to Y.M.C.A for much longer.

Holding onto her bump, she eases herself down into the seat opposite me. ‘I just fell asleep in my lunch – I’m that tired,’ she sighs. ‘Woke up with dressed rocket all over my face.’ I still can’t believe Liv is nearly at the due date now – to be honest I lost track after week 22. All I know is that this pregnancy seems to be going on forever. Right now, she is seriously ‘blooming’, or as some might say, ‘bloody enormous’.

Just as I’m about to ask how negotiating future maintenance with the father of her unborn child is going, Paolo marches onto the decking.

‘Liv, can you please stop chopping up the biscuits as samples,’ he complains. ‘I know your game!’ In fairness to Paolo, I too have witnessed Liv doing this with croissants. Looking towards me with a deadpan expression, Liv gives him the middle finger and I want to hide.

Another factor that may be hindering success is that while Liv and Paolo have a business partnership on paper, on any given day, it’s like some bad episode of
The
Apprentice
. With dramatic pauses, blunt words and shouting, sometimes I can barely concentrate on my coffee for trying to eavesdrop on what they are arguing about. It’s also not helped by the fact that there must be a good few years between them, which eternally youthful Paolo never likes to admit. It means that their language in combat is very different, for while Paolo tries to patronise Liv, she has no problem hitting back with some obscenity in response. Who needs TV, this is the real deal. You could never accuse these two of having any reserve. Hell, just get it out on the table! I’ve no doubt that if Liv goes overdue, Paolo will be brought in to induce her into labour.

Hanging over them all the time is the stark reality that the café should be a lot busier, which only serves to exacerbate sour relations. Sometimes there is a buzz of an early morning caffeine rush, or a post-natal get-together with screaming babies and lactating mothers, but most of the time the Globe is pretty quiet. Liv admits that this worries her, especially as she never had a contingency plan for going on maternity. Quite frankly, I don’t blame her eating biscuit samples, as she’s now staring down the prospect of being a single parent thousands of miles from home, with a struggling business to contend with. I’m not sure how I would handle it, but then again, I’m not sure how one goes about getting a kiss these days, let alone impregnated. The fact that Liv is finding it hard is also not helped by every pregnancy book being geared towards couples, when the ‘man’ – and I use the term loosely – who got her pregnant has no interest in being a father.

Looking like she is about to fall asleep any minute, Liv props herself up on her elbow and carries on talking to me while I drink my coffee. ‘Hey, did I tell you that I can’t see my bikini line anymore?’ Studying me closely, she then stops. ‘Wait a second. You look different. What the hell happened?’ I am about to tell her when she interrupts. ‘You got fired? No way! I know you hated it but couldn’t you have got in there first? God, I hate it when people dump me just as I’m about to dump them!’

With a miserable face, Liv strokes her belly and points in the direction of Paolo, who’s serving a rather creepy looking guy with a moustache and low cut trousers that show his shirt tucked into his underpants. ‘Paolo called me fat today. Fat!’ she angrily shouts, her voice echoing round the space. ‘I cannot believe he said that! Who does he think he is!’

Just as I’m about to change the subject and correct Liv on thinking that I got fired, a smiling girl comes out of the kitchen taking her apron off. ‘Liv, am I okay to go for the day?’

Paolo and Liv have a twenty-year-old called Sam, working for them. We call her ‘Hilarious Sam’ behind her back, as she always talks as though she is on the verge of breaking out into laughter. It seems that everything amuses her and I mean
everything
.

‘Sure Sam! Same time tomorrow?’ Sam nods and heads out of the door smiling. ‘She is totally driving me fucking nuts,’ says Liv through clenched teeth, watching her leave. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the disposition to deal with really cheerful people anymore. I was crying earlier ‘cause I accidentally tipped a milkshake onto a customer’s lap – chocolate. And you know what, she actually started giggling. No word of a lie. Proper giggles.’

However, while Hilarious Sam may be unnaturally perky about life, she’s still serious about her job. Her bosses know it too, giving her not only all the responsibility to prepare all the food orders but to do all the baking for that day. She arrives at six in the morning before everyone else to bake the ‘muffin of the day’ then leaves at four in the afternoon. It’s a long day, but we’re not talking about mixing tuna and mayo are we? As required of a trendy café menu, Sam bakes ricotta, grills aubergines, marinades sun blush tomatoes, pickles courgettes and prepares fresh fruit salad, amongst other things. All of this she does in a space no bigger than a large closet, with no windows and the nearest access to light being the back door that leads out to the alleyway. With working quarters like these, I wouldn’t be quite so chipper, but still she laughs. It’s just a shame there aren’t more customers to eat her lovely food.

Liv then gets up. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I want to hear what happened with the job,’ she says, before plodding towards the counter. I make a gesture at whipping out my book to read, but I then spy her speaking to Paolo who has his back to me, only for him to then look straight at me in the mirror behind the counter. Okay, it’s official. I’ve become the world’s most paranoid person. Oh wait a minute, it turns out I have every reason to be.

‘Have you lost your job?’ Paulo shouts, prompting the three other customers to fall silent. A baby burps. I slowly get up and walk a little nearer, as the thought of conducting a conversation about my life crisis from across the café is not exactly thrilling.

‘Yes I did.’ I feel annoyed and glare at Liv walking past. ‘Thanks mate.’

Liv looks sheepishly at me. ‘Sorry, he was asking me about why you were here at this time of day. I had to tell him. Can I apologise by way of a sandwich on the house,’ she pleads, handing me over a large mozzarella and avocado focaccia, cut into squares with a pretty salad garnish on the side – beautiful food that will no doubt otherwise be going to waste.