Chapter 1
Two pigeons bicker over crumbs in the lean daylight. I take a run at them and they flutter away. The early-bird greengrocers stay put, arranging handwritten signs on carrots and cassava as the Scotch bonnet chillies curl into themselves. Soon the Ethiopian café will open near the Italian deli and the air will hum with different scents and languages as the market reinvents itself for another day of trading. But I can’t stop to soak it up. I turn onto Uxbridge Road where the drone of cement mixers and cranes competes with the noise of the morning rush hour. Although Shepherd’s Bush has been slower to gentrify than other districts, it’s making up for it now. Nothing stands still these days in this part of London.
Apart from the printer. I phone him from his doorstep as the Golders Green bus pulls up. He tells me he’ll be along in a minute, so I sit on his step and scroll Twitter. The bus moves off, revealing a sign on the wall advertising jellied eels from 1899. When he finally rocks up I feel I’ve been waiting for a century too. Balancing a floury bun on top of a chipped mug of tea, he unlocks more bolts than a prison cell and beckons me into the shop.
The scent of last night’s curry mingles with fried egg as he gestures to a box on the counter. ‘Two hundred, as requested. Want to dive in and check the quality?’
I cast an eye over the leaflet he’s Sellotaped to the front, reading the strapline out loud. ‘“Let me make you happy.”’ The colours pop and the paper’s reassuringly glossy.
‘Made with love, babe.’
I’m not sure I love his name for me as I watch him transfer egg from his chin to his sleeve. ‘You’ve done a good job. I’ll work on some client endorsements for the back and order more in a few weeks or so,’ I tell him, feeling like Rupert Murdoch.
The box is heavier than I expected as I hurry to drop it off at home before work. Near the Tube station, I hear a snatch of music and recognise the tune– Ryan Adams’ arrangement of ‘Wonderwall’. My chest constricts when I take in a familiar tattoo on the neck of the busker. His shaved head is as much of a giveaway as his scrawny body and I recognise the faded guitar strap. I pull my hood over my head and tighten the drawstring to make myself invisible. Eyes down, I pass the entrance to the Underground and cross the road. Looking back, I watch a commuter drop a pound into his battered case. He probably thinks he’s helping an old man out. But my dad is in his early fifties, although he’s as scaled as a dragon through lack of self-care. Or any care at all really. He couldn’t even figure out how to look after his only daughter.
I scan the pavement for a third manhole cover as I pass two drains in a row. Did he recognise me? Unlikely. Back when I lived with him I had fine blonde hair and an androgynous figure. When I bought my flat I learned how to cook, filled out into a proper bra and developed a few curves. I tried and ditched false eyelashes as they made me feel like Minnie Mouse, but my hair sealed the transformation. Every birthday since my eighteenth, I’ve added a strand of pastel to the pale blonde. Pink, yellow, turquoise, blue, green, lilac and tangerine. All signs of my independence and totally worth it for the street kudos. Small kids in particular go mad for a girl with unicorn hair.
I need caffeine, and thankfully I know just the man.
Joe Morelli turns up at six thirty every weekday morning to capitalise on the commuter rush while filling the air with the smell of freshly ground coffee. If his normal lay-by at the top of my street is occupied, he borrows a space from the woman who runs the Tummy Mummies shop, giving her free cappuccinos in return. His van is deceptive; theCup of Joelogo on the side is the only indication it’s a food truck. When he opens the rear doors, the vehicle transforms into a fully-fledged coffee cart with American diner-style panels in crimson and turquoise leather. Joe thoughtfully provides a bar stool for anyone who can’t stand for long; sometimes it makes its way down the queue but mostly it sits beside him as he works. And he works quickly; this guy has the dexterity of an octopus, wiping down the steamer wand while handing out sugars and a stirrer and starting on the next order. He wears his dark hair cropped, but when it grows longer the lick forms into a curl. His body language is relaxed and open and his goofy smile invites a confession, even when a last-minute rush seems to prohibit small talk.
Angsty Espresso is the only one ahead of me, complaining Friday’s coffee was lukewarm by the time he reached the station. Joe responds by comping today’s brew and Angsty marches off with an air of self-righteousness and a free drink. Joe reaches for the blend I prefer as I take his place. ‘He should ask for it extra hot if he’s so fussy,’ I say.
He shakes his head as he presses the coffee. ‘An increase in extra hot orders would be a recipe for disaster with this lot. Ditzy Green Tea burnt her thigh running for the 607 last week. And her bus stop is only over there!’
I watch closely as he fills a stainless-steel jug with milk and starts to heat it. I love the slight depression of his brows as he concentrates, his eyes so ocean blue you half expect an atoll to pop up in them. Tapping the vessel on the counter, he slightly rotates both cup and jug. Then he pours the creamy milk onto my coffee as I jump back into the conversation. ‘Ditzy should drag herself around like Drippy Flat White to avoid a scalding then.’ His laugh fills the air in appreciation of the new name. We have hours of fun secretly giving his customers titles that nail both their personalities and coffee addictions.
‘Do you have a name for me?’ I ask, instantly regretting it in case he comes back with Lazy Latte or Crabby Cappuccino.
A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘I’m keeping it to myself. If I went around telling my regulars their nicknames I wouldn’t have any customers left.’
I put the box down as it’s feeling heavier by the minute. ‘Tell me. Is it rude?’
‘Why would you assume that?’ he says, his voice loaded. ‘And what kind of rude are you thinking, Daisy? Rude angry or rude sexy?’
‘Just make the damn coffee,’ I say, cheeks flushing.
He winks and nods at the box. ‘I’m guessing they’re publicity flyers for a certain happiness coach?’
‘Designed last week after our chat. Thought I’d surprise you.’ I rip the example flyer from the top of the box and hold it up.
Joe draws an imaginary tick in the air before high-fiving me. ‘So, what next? World domination?’
‘Ha, I’ve only had a couple of hundred printed so I think that might be a bit ambitious. Thought I might start in Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. Then spread out to Ealing, Acton and Holland Park when I have time to pound the pavements.’
He nods at the people behind me. ‘Feel free to give some away while I finish off your drink.’
Hearing his words, Nosey Macchiato puts her hand out and I crack open the box. Living up to her name, the questions come immediately. I field them as best I can, telling her the publicity is part of a grand plan to relaunch my brand. I explain my reach has always been organic in the past. But moving from Twitter and Instagram into real world life coaching will require proper marketing; something Joe and I have been discussing. ‘I should really have waited till after work to pick up the leaflets, but I was stoked to get my hands on them. I’m running late now and still not properly dressed. Does that sound familiar at all?’ I pointedly look at Joe and wait for Nosey to respond.
She takes the baton straightaway. ‘Ah yes, did you happen to wear the wrong trousers on Friday, Gromit?’ She nudges Joe as she speaks, an unwise action given he’s currently creating designer froth.
We jointly giggle at the face he pulls. ‘Gah, why didn’t anyone point out my jumper was inside out all day? That’ll teach me not to get dressed in the dark. I might start keeping my coat on from now on around you guys. Winter’s coming you know …’
‘… said the barista of Westeros …’ I joke.
‘… who makes the best latte art, just for you, so you might want to keep him sweet,’ he fires back.
Peering at the picture in the froth, I try to work out what it is. ‘A sock?’
