“Is the pope Catholic?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Stupid question.” Tom started preparing the coffee as the three men pulled up stools to sit at the bar. “So what’s news, guys?” he asked as he tamped freshly ground Arabica coffee grounds into the handle.
“Nothing new for me,” Elliot answered. “Same old shit. New project, same issues.”
“They still driving you to ridiculous deadlines?” Tom asked, glancing up from the coffee preparations.
“Of course,” Elliot snorted. Elliot was a project manager for a construction company. He was kept busy in the current building boom but complained of continually fighting bureaucracy and a management team he believed wasn’t operating in the real world. Not enough time and not enough money. It was times like this Tom was reminded how lucky he was to be his own boss.
“Sorry, mate. I hope it gets better,” he said, although he knew in reality Elliot thrived on the pressures of his job. He started brewing coffee into the four cups set on the machine.
“So do I,” Phil added. “I’m sick of hearing about your crap bosses and killer deadlines.”
“Hey.” Elliot looked indignant. “As if you can talk. You and your continual bitching about working with your dad.”
Phil straightened. “At least you love your job. You try working with the old man and see if you don’t crack. He’s a goddamned slave driver and a control freak to boot. I’d give you a week,” he huffed.
Phil’s family were all involved in their bespoke kitchen design business. Mrs Santos, his mum, and Phil’s sister, May, ran the showroom, and Phil and his dad worked on the design side. Phil also took a lead role in coordinating the tradesmen under the watchful eye of Mr Santos. It was this watchful eye—or as Phil preferred to call it, “interference”—that was the bone of contention between Phil and his dad.
“Well I can beat you all in the craptastic stakes this week,” John interrupted.
Tom placed a plate of muffins on the bench in front of him. “Yeah?”
“Do tell?”
“Why?” Phil and Elliot spoke at the same time.
“We lost a major client this week. We’ll most likely be looking at cutbacks. I’m the last in, so….” John shrugged as though he was resigned to his fate, but Tom knew he’d been enjoying working at the company. He picked up a muffin and pulled a piece off, shoving it in his mouth.
“Well, shit. That’s fucked, man. I’m so sorry.” Phil patted John’s arm in sympathy as the other guys shook their heads. As much as they all gave each other a hard time and whinged about their own problems, when it came down to it, they supported each other through thick and thin.
Tom finished pouring the warmed milk into the shots of coffee, topping three cups with the soft foam before shoving the cups in the direction of the guys. He kept the short black for himself. They sipped on coffees while John told them more about his work situation. He’d know more in the next few weeks.
Finally the conversation turned to Tom and the coffee shop.
“So, Thomas. Tell us what’s happening in your world. How’s the cafe going?” John asked.
Tom prepared himself for the conversation. When they guys used his full name he knew they were up for a serious discussion and wouldn’t let him fob them off as he usually tried to do. He just hoped to hell they weren’t all here to stage some sort of damned intervention.
He leaned on the bar. There was no point beating about the bush. “Fair.”
“Fair? What exactly does that mean?” Elliot asked.
“I’m doing okay. I make enough to cover costs and to live on, but still nothing leftover to do the place up.” He waved his arm toward the tired interior of the building and the guys automatically turned to take in their surroundings.
The large room was rectangular, with glass fronting onto the street. The entrance door was in the centre, a beautiful old timber-framed door with glass panels, which was in original condition. The rest of the room was also blessed with character features—a high pressed metal patterned ceiling with four magnificent, although peeling, ceiling roses and crumbling plaster on the walls. Crumbling so much that the bricks were even exposed in a couple of places, although the sight of the old brickwork had an almost trendy appeal and Tom was contemplating removing the plaster on one entire wall to make it a true feature. The counter at the back of the shop ran parallel to the rear wall. It was also original, probably close to one hundred years old: a long timber bar atop a display cabinet, with the patina of age. Scratches and grooves marred its surface but provided a real sense of the history of the place.
Behind the counter was shelving and storage. But Tom’s favourite feature above all others in the building was the open fireplace with ornamental surround topped by a wide mantelpiece and a vintage tile hearth. His biggest regret was that the fire wasn’t operational. The flue was blocked, no doubt from years of use accompanied by neglect, but even if he got the chimney cleaned, the building regulations probably wouldn’t permit its use in its original form. Tom hadn’t got around to checking the planning laws yet but didn’t hold a lot of hope. There was no point getting his hopes up and then having them dashed. A pair of three-seater lounges faced each other, with two armchairs adjacent, the setting centred around the fireplace. A group of young people were seated in the area, engaged in animated conversation and appearing to be enjoying themselves despite the lack of fire. However, Tom prayed for the day he could get the fireplace providing warmth and ambiance, even if it meant fitting a replica gas model.
“It doesn’t look too bad to me,” Elliot said as he looked around.
“I guess not,” echoed John, “particularly if you like the comfy, lived-in feel.”
“Well Ilikeit.” Elliot was adamant. “It’s welcoming.”
Tom laughed. “Well I’m glad at least one of my customers does.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call me a customer, given you never let me pay for coffee,” Elliot said with a chuckle.
