‘Is everyone in Athens this unhelpful?’
‘No, just me.’ I think I hear her laugh, an evil, twisted laugh. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘A refund.’ I yelp.
‘Goodbye, Mr Cooper.’
She hangs up, and when I try to call back, it just rings and rings and rings.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Uh… you might need to water my plants come August because I think I’m going to Athens.’
Chapter Eight
SAM
‘Mega latte for… um, Christopher?’
‘Christoforos,’ a bearded man says, stepping to the counter.
‘Ah,signómi, my friend.’
The man takes the latte away, giving me a look that makes me think he has just cursed my whole family. He trudges out of the shop, shaking his head.
A woman approaches the counter, and I step forwards, asking in Greek, ‘Yes, how can I help?’
‘Kafé filtrou,’ she says.
‘You sure I can’t interest you in the Freddo Espresso? It’s new and sweet.’ I ask her in Greek. She stares at me blankly. ‘Freddo. Gliko.’
‘Sam,’ my mother, working alongside me, warns.
I take the payment as our customer heads over to the pick-up counter, shooting me looks that says if the man hasn’t cursed my family already, she will make sure she does.
Mum busies herself making the drink, and I lean on the back counter. Sunlight trickles in through the arched windows thatoffer a perfect view onto the colourful street, a thoroughfare of tourists and regulars alike heading in the direction of the Parthenon. Music plays on a vinyl player, and people sit alongside red-bricked walls and rough stone floors, colours of beige complimented by dark wooden tables. No Name Coffee Shop is my family’s pride and joy, but it’s not mine.
No Name Coffee Shop, located halfway up the Plaka stairs on Mnisikleous Street, is Mum and Dad’s creation, catering to the tourists of Athens. We do get the locals coming in; only, when they do, they always have the worst experience known to man. Or to Sam. Hi, I’m the problem here. My customer service skills are nowhere near as good as my Welsh mother’s or my Greek father’s.
The woman takes her drink, smiling at my mother, blanking me.
‘That was chilly,’ I say. ‘She’s going to turn that into an iced coffee if she’s not careful.’
‘You’re terrible,’ my mum says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if to say ‘what are you like?’ She bats a tea towel at me. ‘I swear you do it to wind them up.’
I smirk. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, don’t,’ Mum pleads. ‘They’re our bread and butter, you know.’
I do know. Very much. ‘It’s tourist season. We don’t need the locals until at least October.’
Maybe that’s why the locals hate me.
‘Sam.’
Holding up my hands, I head towards the counter as the door pings and a couple head in. ‘I’m joking, Mum. I’ll be nicer. I am trying, you know.’
‘I know.’
