‘That would involve multitasking and I’m a man remember?’ he jokes. But when he starts again on my drink, his modesty is undercut by the precise actions of his hands and the seamless way he operates the machinery. I film his muscular arms as they decant and heat milk to get the right amount of foam, his hands keeping both jug and cup tilted as he lays the base. And then I film his chest where he holds the jug close to the cup, so the design doesn’t prematurely sink.
Whoops, did my camera accidentally roam? As he talks about ‘multiple stacks’ and ‘rippling’ and ‘claw gripping’ I record his guided tour of a decent coffee. As he explains how the froth acts as a canvas to those with an artistic bent, but can have a mind of its own, I try and fail to imagine him spilling a drop. Why aren’t there more capable men like him in the world?
I tell him I’d like to film it close up as well as wide, promising to buy the extra coffee. He doesn’t just oblige– he smashes it– talking me through why the consistency of the crema is important, why you don’t leave steamed milk sitting out, and how to fix clumping. ‘With a well-placed swirl it can be broken back down to a smooth-as-velvet consistency like this.’
‘Swirl it out. Got it,’ I say. Joe’s enthusiasm for coffee seeps into every part of the process. And at the end he creates a complicated pattern that only makes sense when he’s finished. ‘A unicorn?’
‘Looks more like a horse’s ass than unicorn’s head I admit, but you get what I was trying to do. You really need a wide bottom and a nice curve to produce something this intricate.’
I shiver without knowing why as I click away from the camera and into my fave editing app. ‘Thanks, Joe. This’ll do well on my feed. I’ll top and tail it and slam it up on Friday’s #LoveTheLittleStuff hashtag. So, what are you up to for the rest of the day?’ It comes out as a squeak.
‘Food market in central London,’ he replies, starting to tidy the counter. ‘The traffic’s been horrendous lately, so I’d better get a move on. No rest for the wicked eh?’
When I hold out my credit card, he shakes his head. ‘But I promised to pay for both!’
‘I won’t hear of it. You’re giving me free advertising by sharing that video with your gazillion followers.’ His extraordinary blue eyes bore into me like he can see my innermost thoughts. Which I sincerely hope he cannot.
Chapter 4
Next morning, there’s no queue. My heart leaps at the chance for more chat and Joe seems grateful for my company. ‘Everyone has been stumbling to the Tube this morning like zombies. It’s nice to see a smiling face.’
‘But what if I’m a zombie too?’
‘You’re not a zombie.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I’ve studied them intensively. There are giveaways.’
‘Dead giveaways. I agree. And I know them all. I have a diploma in zombie behavioural studies.’ I throw my hair behind my shoulder. ‘First sign? A jerk that could either be a fit, or an excessive hair flick. Only zombie experts and Rick Grimes can tell.’
‘You’re preaching to an undead choir. I’m on my third viewing ofThe Walking Deadcanon.’
‘Thebest zombie serial ever.’
‘Right, freak geek, help with this then.’ He passes me a newspaper opened out to a half-filled crossword.
‘“Autumn Slasher”?’ That’s easy.’ I scribble ‘Michael Myers’ onto the grid. ‘From theHalloweenfilms. I’m an expert on horror right now after hours searching the net for costume inspiration.’
‘Fancy dress party?’
‘Halloween in Hammersmith. Dress as your favourite movie or TV show. Eva and I will be trying to outdo each other and everyone else as usual. Most years I go as a Walker, and I’m getting pretty good at the prosthetics, but she threw her toys out of the pram last time and banned me from being undead again.’ I take a deep breath and plough on with an invitation I’ve been harbouring for a while. ‘It’s a lot of fun. You should come. They have these crazy games, and everyone drinks a shed-load of cocktails with names like “Bloody Scary”, and “Psycho on the Beach”.’ In my eagerness to hook him in, I start to babble, ‘I’ve been looking at Stephen King’s back catalogue, trying to find someone female and iconic to dress as. If you’re up for it, I could buy you a ticket when I get ours?’
‘On the thirty-first?’ He clicks his tongue when I confirm the date. ‘Ach that’s too bad. I’ve got something on.’
‘Hey, no worries.’ I try not to sound disappointed. ‘The coffee video did well by the way. The frothy unicorn received dozens of likes and comments.’
‘Really? If we’re talking movie greats it looked like the horse’s head fromThe Godfather. Which would be an interesting Halloween costume …’ When I look blank he tells me to google it. ‘You could always go for panto horror and put someone in the back end.’
‘You volunteering?’
‘Ask me at Christmas.’ He winks.
‘That’s closer than you think. Once Halloween is out of the way, we’ll start seeing tinsel in the shops.’
On the train I find a seat and edit a video for next Wednesday’s #LiveInTheMoment hashtag. I smile as I edit the footage– rolling around in bubble wrap might not look sane but it was great Twitter material. Despite turkey-gate I refuse to censor my content. If increasing engagement on social media means wrapping yourself up like a package from Amazon before popping spots with your butt, so be it.
The woman next to me is reading the newspaper Joe brandished at me earlier. As she turns the page I notice an image of Vince leaving the stage door, head down. The headline isCANCELLER CANCELS HIMSELF.WTF? I’ve barely had the chance to read a line when she pushes the paper under her arm and stands. Sighing, I start a scavenger hunt for another copy and find a stained paper behind the furthest seat. I grab it and turn to the relevant page.
