I don’t even know why I stopped; I guess I just fell out of love the way I seem to do with most things. It started to feel like work and, before I knew it, I missed an upload, then another, until I barely checked the account.
That ends today. I spring to my feet, whip off my polo and scramble for my hoodie as Jane looks on at me in confusion.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I pull my hoodie over my head, let my curls out of their food-safety-mandated scrunchie and start preening in the distorted reflection of the coffee machine. Jane creeps closer, intrigued, as I start to apply a hefty layer of lipgloss. I reach my phone out to her.
‘How do you fancy being a human tripod? I’m gonna get us some more syrups.’
. . .a rant on record
I wake to three heavy knocks on my door, followed by a set of jack-hammer-style knocks immediately after.
‘Amorie!’ Sara yells. ‘Quick, I’m in between meetings!’
I drag myself out from under the covers and pull my feet to the door. A crack of light from the hallway seeps into my room and plucks a groan directly from my core. I blink drowsily as my eyes adjust to the intrusion and Sara pushes my door further, eyeing my attire.
‘Were you still sleeping?’ she asks.
I gesture wordlessly to my crumpled T-shirt, underwear and the lightless bedroom. She shakes her head.
‘It’s 11.30 a.m.’ She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
I growl. ‘I got in late last night.’
‘I know,’ she huffs. ‘And clearly you were busy. I’ve been sent your video so many times.’
I crane my neck towards her. ‘My video?’
She folds her arms in disappointment.
‘Your new video onA Latte Love,’ she says stonily.
My chest perks up. ‘You’ve been sent it? By who? Who saw it?’
My account’s been vacant since last March and usually that’s an excuse for the algorithm to punish you beyond repair, so I threw together last night’s video with very little effort. I didn’t even bother speaking, just filmed it top-down and slapped a trending audio over it, so Jane and I didn’t have to stop our two-way bitch sesh. Is that why Sara’s scowling? The lack of effort?
‘It’s more than taken off – check your phone,’ Sara says.
I duck back inside and eagerly unlock it. Within seconds it buzzes to life in my hands, pinging with comments and likes and thousands of new followers. My mouth drops open at the sheer volume of it all as I scroll to keep up.
‘This is wild.’ My eyes widen.
‘Yep,’ she says gruffly. ‘What were you thinking?’
I glance up properly this time and note her stiff stance and incredibly moody face. She didn’t just knock on my door to let me know; she came here to chastise me.
‘Okay, yeah, the coffee had rum in it, but Pharisaeer Kaffees do – it’s intrinsic to the recipe. And Drew doesn’t care if we drink in the store as long as we’re off the clock,’ I say.
Her lips stay pursed. ‘I don’t care about the coffee. I care about you slagging us off.’
My whole body goes stiff. ‘What?’
She huffs and beckons me outside. I follow her through to the kitchen, fluorescent lights be damned, as she reaches for her phone among her files on the kitchen table. She pops her hip as she scrolls silently, a lethal look on her face, before turning the screen towards me. At first I’m confused. All I see are my hands in the shot, delicately pouring a shot of coffee over the rum... But then I hear it.
The audio.
My heart stops beating.
