PARTONE
Nicky
“Two large double-shot, caramel lattes with extra whipped cream, a flat white with soya and a pumpkin-spice hot chocolate with marshmallows and no whipped cream – can I have the hot chocolate skinny?”
“We don’t have the pumpkin spice in yet as it’s only July.” Kitty sounded professional, as always.
I didn’t hide my smile. In the ninety minutes I’d been sitting at this table, Kitty, the café’s owner, had told no less than four people the same thing about pumpkin spice. If one more person asked for it I was pretty sure she was going to kick them out of the café and into the Manchester Athletic training ground to be used as a target.
Who the fuck ordered pumpkin-spice hot chocolate anyway? Especially in July?
“I’d like to put a complaint in. Is the manager around?” The girl speaking looked to be about the same age as me, somewhere in the first half of her twenties. She was selfie-ready; hair in a perfect ponytail with ties all the way down it so it looked like a rope, tight trousers, a bare mid-drift and a tiny top that was designed to show off what she had on offer. My guess – which was a fairly educated one by now – was that she was here hoping to snag a selfie with a footballer.
“I am the manager and the owner, hon, so what complaint would you like to put in?” Kitty gave Selfie Susan a big, wide smile that was as about as genuine as Selfie Susan’s lips.
Her customer frowned. “If you’re the owner – which I doubt you are because I heard this was owned by Rowan Reeves – then you’d have made sure that you have pumpkin spice in? And if you can’t buy it, why haven’t you made your own?”
I closed my laptop, what was on the screen hadn’t changed much in the last thirty minutes anyway, so this essay wasn’t going to be finished today, and looked over at Kitty.
Kitty caught my eye and gave a brief shake of her head.
That was my cue not to interfere.
Manchester Athletic signed me three years ago when I was twenty, paying a record fee from Burnley for someone of that age. I’d grown up in the area, going to secondary school nearby, although by the time I was fifteen I was spending most of my time in Burley at their academy.
Kitty had opened her café at the same time I’d joined. I’m come here for milkshakes with my mum and kid twin brothers straight after signing the paperwork, which had been the first day it had been open. I was her first footballer customer and definitely the first person to ask if the fruit smoothie fit with my diet plan.
“Honey, do you have any idea how to make pumpkin spice syrup?” Kitty folded her arms and stared at Susan – I’d laugh if that was her actual name.
Susan looked blankly around the café, her eyes landing on me, and then a hand shifting to her hair.
WAG wannabe incoming.
“I’m sure you could find a recipe online.” Her smile was prettier now. “I’ll make do without the syrup in my hot chocolate. I suppose I can manage without the extra calories.” She glanced back over to me. I could picture what was going inside her head, some internal VR set with a target starting to focus right where I was sitting, a strategy being formed to hit it.
Kitty was smirking. She’d seen this before, many times, so many that we had an escape route formulated. I put my laptop in its case and carried it round the counter out of the way. Then I pulled aKitty’s Caféapron off the stand and put it on.
Selfie Susan’s eyes almost bulged.
“I knew this place was owned by a footballer! It’s where you all come to eat because the cook follows your diet plans. You’re Nicky Pryce-Jones – is this your café?” Two of Susan’s friends had emerged, different variations on her.
“Did you read what it was called?” I stood behind the counter. I’d done my food hygiene certificate and another couple of courses, so I was well qualified to be here. I’d even cooked a few batches of muffins, under Kitty’s supervision.
Susan looked blank again.
“This is Kitty’s Café. And this is Kitty.” I pointed at my dark-haired friend, who was make up free and had flour in her hair. “It’s her café.”
“Oh. Did you buy it for her?” one of Susan’s coven asked.
I folded my arms. “It is doable nowadays for women to own their own businesses without a man being involved.” I knew that part of the attraction of going out with a footballer is that your lifestyle was paid for. I earned a stupid amount of money for a man my age, enough to have bought my mum the house she’d always dreamed of, set aside trust funds for my baby brothers, and made enough decent investments that if my career ended tomorrow, I didn’t have to worry about ever working again in my life. I had another plan for that though. I was doing my degree in history, so if I needed another job in the future, I could teach.
I fucking loved history.
My teammates took the piss out of me for it, giving me the nickname ‘King Henry’, which was after Henry VIII and contained their level of irony: he had six wives, I’d never had a proper girlfriend. Not that they were aware of how proper my one and only previous girlfriend had been.
Susan’s mouth gaped open at Kitty. “This really is yours? That’s so cool. Can we get a selfie with you? Nicky as well?”
Kitty smiled. “This isn’t Nicky. This is his brother.”
