‘Nora, you’re going to break that filter…’
‘What? Oh.’ I stop banging and start rinsing it off. ‘So, why didn’t you say anything before? We’re partners in this place!’
‘I own forty-two percent, so technically you’re my boss.’
‘That’s only on paper. We are a team. You don’t need to wait for my permission!’
‘Nora, I changed the brand of handwash in the bathroom and you freaked that I didn’t consult you first.’
‘That’s only because that particular liquid formula can be harsh on delicate skin!’ I exclaim.
‘Delicate skin or old folks’ skin?’
A stupid grin appears on Victoria’s face, and I start to laugh. We’ve known each other since high school when she moved here from Chicago. I find it very hard to argue with her because she’s rarely wrong about anything. She’s a petite, American business whizz, with the best smile I’ve ever seen and the worst taste in footwear. When we bought this place, neither of us were entirely sure what we were doing. One former barista with a six-year-old and an inheritance from her late grandpa plus a bored investment banker with a redundancy payout did not exactly equal ideal candidates to run an independent café – but eight years later, Café 12 is still going strong.
‘Change isn’t always a bad thing,’ she adds while I select a cup from the shelf. ‘Everything needs to evolve, or it’ll just stagnate.’
I warm my cup, tamp the coffee grounds and wait thirty seconds for the shot to pour.
‘Fine,’ I finally concede. ‘You’re right.She’sright. Our clientele is ninety-five percent coffin-dodgers and the occasional tourist or schoolkid. We never used to be this lame.’
‘Come on, we’re not lame!’ Victoria insists, clearing the last of the tables. ‘At the end of the day we make a good living, and the old dears enjoy coming here. We’re not Starbucks and they appreciate that! We know their names, which admittedly is easy as they’re all called Mary and Bill, but you get my point.’
I nod while I steam the milk and pour it into my coffee. It might be 6pm, but I still have heaps of stuff to do when I get home and the caffeine will keep me going.
‘I know, I know,’ I reply, ‘I’m sounding utterly ungrateful, aren’t I? Poor Marys and Bills. I’d take a hundred of them over that silly girl from earlier any day.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Sorry for being so bloody obstinate,’ I say softly. ‘You know what I’m like, pay no attention.’
Victoria stops wiping down the table, her hand moving to her hips. ‘I do know what you’re like andthisisn’t like you,’ she asserts. ‘You OK?’
I nod, rubbing the back of my neck. ‘I’m fine. I’m just tired. I was up—’
‘—andyou’re doing the invoices today; you never do the invoices,’ she continues, ignoring my reply. ‘You hate invoices. There’s something going on here.’
‘Vic, no one likes doing invoices, it’s hardly a cry for help! I’m allowed to be tired. It’s not unheard of.'
She goes back to cleaning for a moment. ‘Wait… is this because you’re turning forty next week?’
‘What? No!’ I reply, perhaps a little too quickly, ‘But thanks for reminding me.’
The truth is that it has been playing on my mind somewhat. Mainly because I am clearly still in my twenties and this ‘forty’ nonsense is obviously just some birth certificate misprint.
‘Nah, something’s up,’ she continues. ‘Are you sad? Worried? Lonely? I know you have Charlotte, but she’s hardly a substitute for—’
‘There’s nothing wrong!’ I insist. ‘I’m perfectly happy with my lovely daughter, my job, my flat and even my increasingly irritating best friend. I have everything an almost-forty-year-old woman could possibly need.’
‘But you need—’
‘Don’t say it!’ I implore.
‘A man.’
I sigh. She said it. ‘I really,reallydon’t, Vic.’
She shrugs dismissively. ‘A woman needs more than a coffee filter to bang,’ she mutters as she resumes cleaning. ‘Just saying.’
