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I top up the iron with water, pull out the ironing board and leave the iron to heat up while I get a second coffee. I don’t usually do two in the morning, but this is an emergency.
Worried I’m going to be late, I spread one leg of the pants flat on one side along the ironing board. The iron is hot enough to make steam. Gulping from the coffee mug in one hand, I press them with the other. The satisfying leap and hiss as the cloud of steam puffs out around the iron and the darkening fabric make me feel efficient.
I’ve got this. Today is going to work out fine. I’m on top of it, even if I don’t feel it. I rest the iron and turn the pants leg over.
Down the inside of the leg is a pale brown splash, bursting down the leg from the crotch, so perfect it could have been painted by a graphic artist. I’ve steamed last night’s cookie dough ice cream into the fabric so effectively, I think it may be permanent.
Skirt, then.
On the bus, I can’t concentrate on the Kindle where I loaded my coursework. The bus bounces and I stare at the words. Watch them shake. They’re just gray, bobbing shapes. I can’t make them join into sentences.
In the pale early morning glow, Henry arrives at the corner door of JavaLava the same time as me. He’s agitated. “Did you bring the beans?”
I laugh, finally feeling myself start to wake up. Hoping for a beanstalk, Henry? I think it, but I have enough presence of mind not to say it.
“We’re in a competition,” he says. His little eyes shine hard. He’s enjoying looking at my skirt a little too much, I think.
“I brought the beans, Henry.” The eyes are up here, Henry.
He doesn’t mean to be a total dick. I think he’s one of those men who was brought up somewhere manners were an unknown foreign language. He unlocks the door and starts to tell me, “Hot Start is offering a big prize this afternoon for the barista with the best cup of espresso.”
Behind the global coffee giant The Morning Rise, Hot Start is set to be the next biggest coffee chain in the US. They also have a reputation as being an aggressive predator, elbowing out competition with fierce business practices. Owned and run by a notorious maverick businessman, Jackson Caine.
Andreas arrives and gives me a twinkling smile.
Henry explains, “The single shot of espresso has to be delivered fresh, at their headquarters in the Central Business District, at three p.m. this afternoon. It will be tasted by Jackson Caine personally.”
He looks at me pointedly. “Jackson Caine, who you met yesterday,” he tells me, and I gasp.
Recovering as fast as I can, I ask him, “Have you got a cooler?”
He winces and rolls his eyes. “I want the coffee delivered hot, not chilled.”
I think about arguing with him. The look on his face doesn’t encourage debate. I settle for persuading him to get a new, top-of-the-range vacuum flask.
Chapter Four
Cyntia
In the afternoon, I pour a perfect shot of espresso into the thermos. I carry it in the cab like it’s gold bullion from Fort Knox.
In the elevator of Hot Start’s corporate headquarters, I’m practically hopping from one foot to the other, impatient to get the precious black gold to the executive floor and into a cup in the boardroom.
Then I chew the inside of my cheek when the cool, skinny receptionist tells me with a slow drawl, “Mr. Caine will be with you presently.” She makes exactly enough of a smile to say, ‘she smiled.’ Her shirt is open deep and shows her long, alabaster neck and most of the way to her ribcage. She has an aristocratic nose you could ski on.
The receptionist nods toward a seating area. Five girls are seated at a couch and chairs, arranged around a low table. They’re all trying not to look anxious.
A pretty, slim blonde wears a plaid shirt and denim cut-offs, the distinctive Perk-U-Up uniform. The others are all dressed in black and white, more typical barista outfits, with logos on their shirts or badges. One has a mug, another sits by a cardboard tray of togo cups. Two more each have sealed togo cups. All the cups are printed with the logos of local coffee chains.
Only the girl from Perk-U-Up seems not to have a cup.
They all look up, and their eyes narrow when they see my vacuum flask. I smile as I sit. I think about taking the porcelain cup with the red and blue printed JavaLava logo out of my bag, but I don’t want to play games.
I look across the group and ask, “Have you been waiting long?”
The girl in the plaid shirt is next to me. She says, “About ten minutes,” nodding slowly.
“It’s ridiculous,” I say, “making us all carry fresh coffees here, from all the way across town.”
