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“You look as perfect as ever,” Faith says in a soothing tone. “Whatever that was, it was more than a bit of misplaced mascara. You sure you didn’t cut them off in the parking lot?” Faith attempts to lift my mood. I search my brain, wondering if I’ve come across Amita or her husband at some point in the past. Did they visit the café? Was I rude to them about an order for a bacon sandwich? It doesn’t seem possible. Amita and Luca are very memorable, and I would know if I’d met them before. So, what is it? What have I done to Amita to make her respond to me like that?
We take up our positions behind the counter as the shop seems to recover from the incident. But as the chatter resumes, I feel the glances from the people in the room, probably wondering, as am I, what I’ve done.
Piero arrives at my shoulder, his arm on mine as he gently pulls my attention toward him and away from the front of the counter.
“Chloe, I’m so sorry for the way my mother reacted. She meant no offense.” He speaks quickly, not giving me any time to respond. “She is ancient and gets very confused, and she had a, how do you say… senior moment?” He smiles as if it’s all fine and nothing to worry about, and I agree with him even though, inside, it isn’t fine.
I’m humiliated and aggrieved by the poor excuse I’m being given.
“It’s okay,” I gush while cringing internally. Piero is about to say something, his eyes narrow, his mouth poised, and I wonder if he’ll explain further when the door opens and all eyes land on the man who has arrived.
“Ah, finally, the press is here!” Piero announces as he gesticulates toward the man in the doorway. He walks away from me, his explanation leaving with him.
The journalist is trying to get through the door, but his large camera bag is causing him some trouble. People part to let him through, but no one offers to hold the door open or relieve him of some equipment.
“Hey, Chloe, can you make me an espresso?” Lewis’s voice pulls me from the room, and I’m suddenly by the coffee machine, trying to remember how to work the damn thing.
By the time I finish the drink, Piero is talking intently to the journalist, a skinny, middle-aged man who appears harassed and irritated. He nods as Piero talks, and I get the impression he wants Piero to leave him to do his job.
“Chloe, would you collect some empty cups?” Lewis asks, his face beaded with sweat.
“Sure,” I reply as I move from behind the counter. The journalist has shaken Piero off and is now taking shots of people in the shop. I snake in and out of the tables, picking up dirty cups and ensuring I’m not in any of his pictures. The encounter with Amita will not leave me. It holds onto me like a film of dirt on my skin. As I load my tray, I stare at the cups. I think about what Faith suggested that Amita appeared cross with me. But this isn’t right. It wasn’t rage I saw in Amita’s face. She wasn’t looking at me as a disgruntled customer or an angry citizen would. It was a look I’ve received before, the day I met Gianni. It was as if she was afraid of me.
As this realization dawns on me, it is as if the whole room has also seen it. Silence wraps itself around the shop. I hold the tray, wondering what caused the room to freeze this time. And then I see him.
Gianni is standing by the door, one hand in the pocket of his pants, the other holding his phone. Unlike Piero, Gianni is dressed in a business shirt and pants as formal as the day I first encountered him. His face is harsh as his eyes roam the shop. He is searching for someone. I scan the shop, wondering who he is searching for. Only when our eyes lock do I realize he is trying to find me. I try to pull my eyes from his, but his gaze is strong and almost hypnotizes me. His eyes narrow, his glare fierce, and I get the distinct impression I don’t belong here.
“Gianni, you made it!” Piero marches over to his brother and embarks upon a very one-sided embrace. Gianni doesn’t even take his hand from his pocket as Piero appears about to hug him before he thinks better of it and slaps him on his back instead.
I turn around, ready to take my now-full tray into the kitchen, when I spot Amita sitting at a table by the far window. She is staring at me. The haunted look on her face doesn’t seem to have left. She finally pulls her eyes away, only to glance at Gianni and then directly back at me.
“Chloe?” Lewis’s voice bursts my thoughts as I blink away the image of Amita’s face.
“Huh? Sorry, I was…”
“Miles away,” Lewis finishes my sentence as I set the tray on the side. He seems to be immune to apologetic smiles. “I need you here in the now, Chloe,” Lewis scolds. After wiping my hands on the apron, I return to the counter to clear more cups.
Amita’s reaction has thrown me, and together with the arrival of Gianni, I can’t seem to get my head into gear. I try to turn on my tunnel vision, concentrating solely on what’s going on behind the counter, but like a moth to a flame, my eyes continually creep from the coffee machine, finding Gianni in the crowd. I despise myself for giving him an ounce of my headspace. Something is going on, and I can’t figure out what.
The journalist is now by the counter, and Piero is in front of him like his bodyguard clearing the crowd.
“I want some exterior shots before the weather changes,” the journalist demands.
“No problem, follow me. We will go out through the back.” Piero hotfoots it behind the counter, and the journalist follows.
I glance up to see Gianni leaving through the main entrance. The room settles as if it’s let out a sigh. I breathe with it, and the tension leaves my shoulders.
Over the next half an hour, the shop empties, and Lewis feels impelled to give us all a progress report. I half-listen to what he is saying, urging myself to take notice, but my head is like the M62 in rush hour.
“Chloe, would you mind giving Casey a hand in the kitchen?” Lewis asks when he is done critiquing our performance.
“Sure.” I nod. I’m happy to be behind the scenes for a while.
I enter the kitchen to find Casey fighting with the large industrial dishwasher. She pulls at the handle, trying to close the giant lid that will start the fast jets of running water, but every time she pulls it down, it silently refuses to work.
“Hey, do you need a hand?” I ask as I join her next to the machine.
“Yeah, I’m going for a smoke. Lewis said you’d know how to work this thing,” Casey replies before disappearing off to her locker. She doesn’t even make eye contact with me. I wonder how long she will last in this customer-based profession.
