‘Of course it’s not,’ Sara says. ‘But neither is getting drunk six nights a week with your same three café friends.’
I protest. ‘We don’t get drunksix nights a week!’
‘We do.’ Jane skates past to clear a table.
Sara smiles smugly, thanking Jane. ‘Exactly. When was the last time you did literallyanythingelse?’
I glance to Paige for support, but her eyes are fixed forcefully on the three partially demolished slices in front of us. It feels like karma for not coming to her defence before. Or perhaps something more intentionally petty from her side. Either way, it won’t do. I stare directly at her until she can look away no longer. Eventually she looks up, fiddling with one of her braids as she plots her next move.
‘Have you still been writing?’ she asks, artfully changing the subject.
I spot Sara’s expression perking up at the concept of me doing something remotely productive with my time. It’s sweet, hopeful and would fill me with so much joy if I were not about to shut it down so quickly.
‘Not recently,’ I sigh. ‘There’s just not much opportunity around if you’re not already in the world, you know?’
That should be the end of it. That should be enough to move on – dash the whole topic away, case closed, no writing. But,no. It’s never enough with Sara. I see her eyeroll and feel my mouth go sour.
‘You work in a bank, Sara. You don’t understand what the freelance world is like.’
She shrugs lightly. ‘I get it – it’s hard.’
Then she takes a sip of her coffee and leans back in her seat.
‘Good . . .’ I say hesitantly.
I meet Paige’s equally confused eyes, knowing that can’t be the end of it. The queen of scathing eyerolls and leading questions wouldn’t just let it go like that.
Sara tilts her cup, sipping the last of the dregs, then sets it down authoritatively.
‘But you don’ttry.’
I release a loud, low huff. ‘There it is.’
‘Sara,’ Paige says, flitting between our two faces.
But Sara takes no heed from her warning.
‘Am I wrong?’ she asks plainly, before turning back to me. ‘When was the last time you pitched an article? Or networked? Or went to one of those alumni events you’re always getting letters about?’
‘She went to uni for like five weeks, she can’t go to their alumni events,’ Paige says.
‘You’re not helping.’ I scowl at her as she shrugs in defence.
‘You just don’t stick to things!’ Sara continues. ‘And it’s a shame because you’re so, so talented. Remember when you used to run that coffee page?’
‘A Latte Love!’ Paige recalls this with glee. ‘Ugh, I lived for your recipes. The weird syrups, the niche coffees from different countries... Who knew coffee could get so creative?’
‘Weren’t you even getting paid?’ Sara asks.
‘I had a couple of collabs,’ I say bitterly.
A Latte Lovestarted purely out of boredom one day when I was on a super-slow shift at work. I filmed an extremely silly video of me attempting to make a Swedish Egg coffee the evening after a customer requested one. You blend raw egg with the grounds before brewing the coffee to help them float to the top and make your drink less bitter. But I seemed to miss the step where you sift those clumps out. I drank coffee-infused egg clumps on camera and attracted a large audience of sadists who revelled in my misfortune. Emboldened by the sudden attention and desperate need to feed my ego, I made another speciality coffee, and another, until it became my shtick. Within six months I was sitting on just shy of twenty-five thousand followers with a fair few brands reaching out for coffee-based sponsorships.
‘And where is it now?’ Sara’s pulled out her phone. ‘No videos since... wow. March last year.’
She flashes the page at me, a ghost of what it once was. Follower count dropped by at least 3K.
‘I’ve been super busy.’ I’m muttering.
