‘Mate, she was bang-on about your eyebrows.’
I shoot Millsy a filthy look.
‘That customer from Friday,’ he persists. ‘She was right about those brows. You look like a pissed-off Cara Delevingne in an Avril Lavigne wig.’
I give my long dirty blonde and pink ombre curls a defensive fluff with my hands.
‘I look pissed off because you’re pissing me off,’ I tell him. ‘And you know it’s because I’m Italian. We’re brow-rich, butt-rich, temper-rich and national football team-rich.’
‘You can’t just blame everything on you being a bit Italian,’ he insists, suddenly inspired to start eating biscotti out of the jar. ‘Like assaulting teenage boys by throwing muffins at them. Anyway, you’re not Italian, your mum is Italian. Your dad is as English as tea.’
‘First of all, that was one time,’ I protest. ‘And tea is from China, dipshit.’
‘Language,’ I hear a woman gasp. ‘And what’s this about throwing food at customers?’
‘When I asked him what he wanted, he said “your chebs, love” and it wasn’t a full-size muffin, it was a mini muffin, which is a third the size of a regular one – and who are you?’ I ask as it occurs to me I’m explaining myself to a perfect stranger.
‘Rita,’ Millsy beams, hopping over the counter to give her a hug. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fantastic, how are you?’ she asks him. ‘Have your muscles grown even more since the last time I saw you?’
Oh, what a creep. She must know Millsy well, she clearly knows how to get around him. If I want him to do me a favour, I comment on how his biceps have grown. If I want to piss him off, I ask him if he’s getting enough protein.
Millsy flexes, exhibiting a level of charm, narcissism and muscle mass you could only get from Gaston in Beauty and the Beast. I shake my head.
‘Rubes, this is Rita. She used to be the manager, before you started working here. Best manager we ever had,’ he says, safe in the knowledge Sally is off sick today.
‘Well, what would you say if I told you I was back?’ she asks. ‘But there will be no assaulting customers and no dipshit-this and chebs-that.’
‘No way! That’s awesome. Ruby is sound really, she’s just hungover.’
Millsy sounds genuinely delighted. I, however, remain unconvinced. I liked working for Sally. She’d let us arrive late, leave early, drink as much coffee as our nervous systems could handle and she found our silly stories funny – even the ones with swear words. Rita is probably only in her mid-thirties, but she reminds me of the meerkat teacher from the Compare the Market adverts – from her cardigan to her Dame Edna-esque glasses. She looks like she should be shushing people in a library, not giving me shit for swearing. Someone needs to have a word with her about her fashion sense (or lack thereof) and if she doesn’t stop giving me dirty looks, it might just be me.
‘Way,’ she replies. ‘Sally has started early maternity leave, it was all too much for her. It doesn’t sound like she was getting much help.’
Rita shoots me a look.
‘Hey, don’t look at me like that, he’s here too, you know,’ I protest, nodding towards Millsy who is trying to stealthily crunch what’s left of his biscuit.
‘Joe was always the model employee while I was working here,’ Rita informs me, glancing over at him fondly.
Oh, so he shagged her then. I look my friend in the eye, giving him a look that tells him I’m onto him, and he gives me a subtle raise of his eyebrows that confirms as much.
‘Well,’ Rita starts, using her sleeve to wipe a fingerprint from the coffee machine. ‘I’ll head into the office, lots to do, I’m told.’
‘No worries,’ Millsy calls after her. ‘We’ve got everything sorted out here.’
‘No worries, miss,’ I repeat mockingly once she’s gone. ‘We’ve got everything sorted out here, miss.’
Millsy shoots me an unimpressed look.
‘Fuck off, she’s a nice lady.’
‘A nice lady you’ve definitely slept with,’ I say confidently, because I know my friend. ‘How did that happen?’
‘Christmas party, right here, disabled toilets.’
My eyes widen – not because Millsy having sex with anyone surprises me, it’s more the location that’s playing on my mind.
‘OK, what has changed about sex since I had it last that means people need to use the disabled toilets specifically? Is that a thing now?’
Millsy wiggles his eyebrows.
‘I just didn’t think she’d be your type,’ I persist. She’s so stuck up and boring and Millsy is the most fun person you could hope to meet.
‘Female is my type.’
‘I’m female,’ I remind him.
‘No way, mate. You’re just a lad with tits.’
I think for a moment.
‘I’m going to take that as a compliment.’
It’s 3pm, and we’ve got a rush of customers suddenly, which means Millsy and I don’t really get to chat much.
‘Two small skinny caramel lattes and a flat white,’ I tell him as I pop a teacake in the toaster behind us. ‘Then we’re swapping.’
Millsy and I take it in turns doing the different jobs behind the counter, so while one of us is making the drinks the other has to do everything else. Making the drinks is the fun bit, playing with the cool machine, messing around with latte art, chatting to the customers as they wait for their order. The other role involves taking the orders, preparing and cooking the food, taking the money and trying to juggle multiple people’s requests at once, so really, if you’re going to do either job, you want to be the barista and not the everything-else person.
‘You’ll have to do them, I’ve got to get to my audition,’ Millsy tells me, whipping off his apron and throwing it to me.
‘I can’t do all this on my own,’ I squeak. ‘Tables need clearing too.’
‘I’ll get Rita to help, no sweat.’
Come to think of it, I’d probably rather run this place single-handedly.
‘OK, sure,’ I reply.
In a matter of minutes Millsy is back with his leather jacket on, ready to head out to his audition.
‘Rita is on her way,’ he tells me. ‘Bump me luck.’
In the midst of the chaos of this unofficial rush hour, I give my friend a first bump.
‘Joe said you needed my help,’ Rita says, tying an apron around her waist as she joins me behind the counter.
She makes it sound like she’s doing me a favour.
‘Thank you,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘Well, if you want to serve the next customer, I’ll crack on with this lady’s coffee order.’
Rita holds her hand up in a ‘stop’ position, right in front of my face.
‘Ruby, Ruby, Ruby,’ she starts, shaking her head as she speaks. ‘I’m the manager here, not you. I tell you what to do.’
‘I wasn’t telling you what to do,’ I explain, very aware of the queue full of people spectating, all listening intently as I get ticked off. ‘I was just telling you what needs doing.’
‘I tell you what needs doing, OK? No one tells me what needs doing.’
‘Well, unless you’re psychic, someone is going to have to tell you what drinks this lady ordered at some point,’ I correct her.
I fold my arms and stare at her as she thinks this one over.
‘OK, tell me, then get back to serving,’ she says reluctantly.
‘Well, it was my turn to make drinks, I’ve been doing this for the past hour and –’
‘Ruby, this is a business, not a playground. You’ll do as you’re told,’ Rita snaps.
I glance at my customer who gives me a pitiful look. I might not be psychic either, but I can tell that this lady feels sorry for me. Still, I bite my tongue. This is only until Sally has her baby and then she’ll be back, right? I just need to keep my cool until then because there’s no way I’m letting a bitch like this mess up the sweet gig I’ve got going here.