‘Yes, on your six nights out a week with the same three people on repeat – we’ve been through this,’ she says sternly. ‘I just feel like you could use some direction.’
And I feel like they should both mind their own business.
I scoff. ‘A speciality-coffee account is not direction.’
‘But it wassomething,’ Sara huffs, now attacking the chocolate fudge. ‘And it’s certainly more than what you’re doing right now.’
‘Okay, Sar, that’s enough,’ Paige says.
‘I’m just saying!’ She holds up her hands in protest. ‘We’vetriedgentle parenting; she needs some tough love.’
‘You’re not my parents,’ I say, at which they both roll their eyes.
‘You live in my house rent-free, I cook you special veggie meals and check you’re home safe without so much as a thank you... I basically am your parent.’ Sara pushes the cake back towards me, officially giving up. ‘But if you want to move back in with Dad, then...’ She trails off threateningly.
‘Back to Brighton?’ I grimace. ‘I’m a London girl now.’
‘Then do something, Squeak! Prove you moved here for a reason! This café is lovely, but it’s not what you came to this city for.’
I cringe at Sara’s somewhat aggressive use of my childhood nickname, the words surrounding it sticking with me through the second half of my shift and all the way to the Sunday close.
I load the dishwasher with extra vim as I recount the conversation to Jane, who listens dutifully as she wipes down the side. She fills the story with her fair share of ‘ah’s and ‘mmhmm’s, but I notice her grow silent the longer I speak. By the time I’m done I have to look her dead in the eyes to get her to say anything at all.
‘She was harsh, yes...’ Jane finally replies, her voice hesitant.
We sit down at a table, pausing our Sunday clean to tuck into a blueberry scone that didn’t sell.
‘But?’ I ask.
She pauses for a moment, distractedly crumbling a piece of stale dough between her fingers before I do the same.
‘Sorry, but she kind of has a point. When you got here you said you were going to be a freelance writer, but it’s been what? Five years?’
‘Four and a half,’ I say sulkily.
‘And as your friend, you know I don’t care what you do with your life as long as you’re happy with the choices you’re making.’ She swallows her bite. ‘But are you happy?’
I can see her bracing herself for my response. Jane, bless her, has never been the type for confrontation. It’s a wonder she’s lasted as long as she has in a customer-facing job.
‘I am happy.’
‘Okay.’
She has a terrible poker face.
‘So, you think I’m not happy?’ I ask, taking another piece.
She swallows. ‘I don’t know... Sara might have been right. You seemed happier when you had that coffee account. Ilovedthat coffee account.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Everyoneseemed to love that coffee account.’
‘Including you! Remember when Nespresso gifted you that machine? I’ve never seen you so proud.’
I nod. ‘And then I got those syrups.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, my gosh, thesyrups! So many fancy French flavours, each one of them divine.’
We both sigh with pleasure as we think back to that time and then giggle at our matched fondness for it all. I remember how the staff would gasp when I showed them my hauls, and the way Sara boasted to her friends about all of my samples. I felt needed back then, like I gave something back and wasn’t just the parasite that paid no rent and increased her heating bills.
