‘A coffee, please.’
The tall barista who is displaying his gym-sculpted arms in a short-sleeved white T-shirt has his back to me when I stand up on the chrome foot rail and lean on the counter. Coffee, coffee, coffee. The perfect thing to get my body moving on my way to have a proper look at my shop. I haven’t told my mother about the shop, I’m still working up to that. It’s been a good four days, mainly because I have been holding my tongue, biting my tongue and swallowing my tongue. Actually, I’m surprised I still have a tongue left at all. But it’s been worth it. The flat has been peaceful, we’ve unpacked most things, we’ve bought a TV, DVD player and Freeview box, a kettle and toaster, pans and crockery, cutlery and wooden spoons. Other bits and pieces have migrated their way into the flat, and we’re waiting for the telephone line to be connected so we can get Wi-Fi, but it is a more than habitable home now. We can relax and enjoy it. Which is why I’m out early this morning. If I’m out before Mum wakes up, it’s a million times less likely that we’ll have a row about something stupid.
I’m surprised how quiet it is in this café, given its location practically on the beach. Three floor-to-ceiling glass walls give you unfettered views of the promenade, sea wall, and the unique beauty that is the grey-blue water as it stretches out and away until it touches the blue-grey sky at the horizon. The inside of the café is a mixture of tables and chairs, sofas and tables, and easy chairs and tables, all cleverly arranged so they are easily accessible from the stainless-steel serving counter. Beyond that there are a couple of doorways, I’m assuming they lead to the kitchen and the back office. The best thing about this café, though, is how close it is to the flat. I can make it in under seven minutes if I walk especially fast. It’s the perfect place to meet clients. When I walked in I spied a cosy sofa and chairs arrangement on the far side of the counter that would be sheltered and private enough for us to talk, but also comfortable enough to allow them to relax. I’m either going to have to be here from opening time when I have meetings so I can bagsy that space, or I’ll have to see who I can charm into setting it aside for me. First though, coffee.
The barista turns from playing with the coffee machine and makes his way slowly to the counter. He’s almost languid as he walks, unrushed and carefree – either he’s the owner or he’s a very laidback employee. At 7 a.m., I suspect he’s the former because no employee that laidback would even consider getting here at this time. It’s early spring, at this time the world is drenched in the orange-grey half-light of this side of the planet still turning to face the Sun. ‘Sorry, we’re not open yet,’ the barista says.
‘Oh. Well, the “open” sign is showing and the door’s open, so I just assumed …’
He listens intently, carefully, to what I say. When I finish, he rests his elbows on the counter, rests his face in his hands. Frowns then sighs. ‘I used to open this early, believe it or not, but no one ever came. It seemed to me those who were up this early and were walking to work, needed to get nearer to Brighton before they got a coffee. Probably because they’d had one already at home and by this point of the journey another was too soon. On a weekend sometimes I open up early, catch the clubbers on their way home. Especially Pride weekend – I have a lot of customers that morning. But mostly, I open at eight and it works.’
‘Right. So I’m not going to get a coffee from you?’
‘Not before eight, sorry.’
‘OK.’ I don’t move. ‘I’m not going to get a coffee even though I’ve stood and listened to you talk for far longer than a person who doesn’t know you should have to?’ I say.
He grins. Naturally he has flawless teeth because he is disturbingly, almost unrealistically, handsome. He seems to have been drawn and constructed from the blueprint for the perfect man, rather than birthed like the rest of the human population: the shape of his eyes, the size of his nose, the curve of his mouth, are all precisely proportioned, his dark brown skin is smooth and touchable, and his hair is shaved at the sides and at the back, short and neat on top.
‘I suppose I could make an exception just this once,’ he says. ‘It’ll teach me to remember to lock the door.’
‘Thank you.’ I unhook my bag from over my shoulder and place it on the black vinyl padded stool beside me. It’s not often my cheekiness pays off. I hop up on to the stool next to my bag.
‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he says. ‘It’s a coffee to go.’
‘I know, but there’s nothing wrong with sitting while I wait.’
He moves to the far side of his machine, places coffee beans into it. There’s a brief grinding sound before he removes the small metal basket, the shape and size of a small tea sieve. He taps down the top with what looks like a metal stamp. In all the times I’ve been to cafés to buy coffee, I’ve never watched someone make it before. There’s always been a queue, a rush, something better to look at. Watching him work is fascinating. When he fits the solid metal sieve thing into the front of the machine, he grabs a paper cup and stands it beneath the curved metal spout where he inserted the sieve.
‘Where are you coming from with that cute little accent?’ he asks over his shoulder. While he speaks he pushes a button and the black liquid of my coffee swirls down the curved spout into my cup.
‘ “Little” accent?’ I reply.
He bobs down in front of his fridge, removes milk and glugs some into a metal jug. He moves to the other end of the machine and places the jug over the spout that I know is the milk frother. It hisses a little as he heats and froths the milk.
‘Sorry, where are you coming from with that cute accent of yours?’ he corrects.
‘Nowhere,’ I reply. In my head, in my heart, that is where I am from: nowhere. ‘I’m from nowhere.’
‘Everyone’s from somewhere,’ he says.
‘Not me,’ I reply silently.
‘I can’t place your accent. Usually I’m quite good with them, since I speak to so many people on a regular basis. But yours, it’s a mystery.’
‘I was born in Brighton and lived out near Lewes until I was about three, so that’s where most of my accent comes from, I guess. We then moved to a place called Otley just outside Leeds where I lived most of my life, I went to university in Liverpool, and recently I moved to Leeds proper, which has all probably influenced my voice. Add to that the fact my dad was Scottish, and my mum, even though she’s from Leeds, sounds like she grew up in Buckingham Palace, and you get an accent like mine.’ Add to that the fact that I’ve never felt I’ve belonged anywhere and you get a girl from nowhere. You get me.
The milk is frothed and hot, so he moves back to my cardboard cup and pours it in then spoons on the white foam. ‘Wouldn’t you say that was more “everywhere” than nowhere?’ the coffee guy says.
‘Depends on how you look at it, I suppose,’ I reply.
‘Most things do – depend on how you look at them, I mean,’ he says. The white, moulded plastic lid with the cut-out oblong drinking hole is fitted on to the cup with a dull pop.
‘Thank you for the coffee,’ I say to him. We stand at the door, his hand resting on the metal handle. I don’t want to leave. I’d like to sit here, experience the world through the picture windows, and to carry on chatting to this person.
‘It’s a cappuccino,’ he states. ‘I know you asked for a coffee, but you look like you’re going to have a cappuccino kind of day.’ He makes no move to open the door. Maybe he doesn’t want me to leave either. Maybe I’ve fascinated him enough for him to let me stay a while longer.
‘I’m not sure what a cappuccino type of day is, but I’m looking forward to finding out.’
His gaze drifts casually to my left hand, the one not holding the cup. ‘That’s an impressive number of rings,’ he says.
I am a walking advert for my work: I always have on at least my butterfly pendant, a necklace which holds a couple of rings, earrings, and at least one ring on every finger. Each ring shows off a different technique I have tested out, gives clients something solid and real to examine. My hands feel naked, vulnerable and incomplete without my rings; my neck feels bare and unfinished without my necklaces.
‘Thank you,’ I say to him.
‘Any of them …’ he stops, embarrassment suddenly crawling across his features like an army of ants out looking for cake crumbs. ‘Erm … any of them, real?’
That wasn’t what you were going to ask, I think. I’m surprised you were going to ask the other thing, but that wasn’t what you were going to ask. ‘If you mean are any of them made from precious metals, then they all are.’
‘Right, right. Of course.’ His hand jerks open the door. ‘I’ll see you then?’
‘I might drop by again.’
‘Well, you do that. What’s your name, out of interest?’
‘I told you, I’m That Girl From Nowhere.’
‘Cool. I’m Tyler. No way near as exotic as yours, but I thought I’d tell you. In case you wanted to know.’
‘Bye, Tyler,’ I reply.
‘Bye, TGFN,’ he says.