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‘That’s unlike you,’ I say under my breath, tearing open the packet with my teeth.
‘Whatever,’ she says, and I don’t need to see her to know she’s tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘I’m a woman on a mission. All you need to do is show up, which won’t be hard, because it’ll be about five steps from your bedroom door.’
I pull my phone back up to my ear. ‘Yeah, no, I’m busy.’
‘Ha, nice try. I checked your calendar. Final weekend in August. You have no plans. You’ll be there.’
‘Bit early to be planning this, no?’ I’m secretly pleased—that’s three whole months for me to figure out an excuse not to go.
‘Keep up, the number-one rule of party planning in your mid-twenties is to organise things at least six weeks in advance in order to optimise attendance. And you won’t be wriggling out of this, so don’t even consider trying to concoct an escape plan.’ I roll my eyes like a petulant child, nibbling at my KitKat while Josie continues her spiel, talking about karaoke (we can singMisery Businesstogether, but only if we let people know we disagree with the anti-feminist message), snacks (she might order a pre-made cheese board) and guest lists (people she’s working with at the gallery, plus a few friends from pilates). I’m too busy concentrating on separating the chocolate from the wafer to realise she’s stopped talking, just about registering that she finished with, ‘—invite people too.’
‘Sorry?’ I ask, mid-chomp.
‘I said, this is a great opportunity for you to test the waters and find someone to bring. A friend. Could be someone from the shop, even.’
There’s a sense of camaraderie that comes with working in a coffee shop, but the staff turnover at City Roast doesn’t allow for particularly deep friendships to be forged, which I’ve never been bothered by. My job is just a job, and my coworkers are just my coworkers. Everyone and everything sits neatly in its own box.
Maybe this is it. This is how I get Josie off my back about meeting people and trying new things. I open my mouth to indignantly spill my first lie of the day. ‘I’ve made a friend at work, actually. Forgot to mention it.’
‘You have?’ I can hear the relief in those two words. ‘This is amazing. It wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
‘Easy as pie,’ I say, for perhaps the first time in my whole life. And likely the last.
‘Invite them,’ she says excitedly, ‘I’ve never heard you talk about anyone. Are they new?’
‘Yep. I’ll mention the party the next time I see them.’ I try to mimic some of the enthusiasm in her voice. I don’t know if it’s just because in her heart she knows I don’treallyhave other friends, or if she just feels guilty that she’s going to be leaving for a couple of months, no matter how many times I tell her I’ll be fine. Either way, my dishonesty twists my gut.
‘Okay, yes, love that. I knew you could do it. I’m proud of you for making a friend. I’m sorry, does that sound patronising? It does, shit. But it’s true. I just knew that as soon as other people saw the real you they’d like you too.’
If I didn’t feel slimy for lying before, I’m now a glutinous little mollusc.
For a few moments the sound of traffic increases in volumefrom the other side of the stockroom door. I peek through the glass panel and sure enough, someone has just walked in, but Mateo’s nowhere to be seen. ‘Hey, Josie, there’s a customer. I need to go.’
‘Wait, wait! What’s your friend’s name?’
Just before I push open the door I register who the new customer is. I pluck his name out of the air in a final attempt to placate Josie. ‘Finn. He’s called Finn. I’ll talk to you later.’ I end the call before she has time to question me any more.
When I finally step out of the stockroom, I catch sight of Mateo, who’s wielding a mop and dealing with a sticky chai spillage at the other end of the shop. Finn’s now sitting opposite eighty-something Belinda, coffee order all but forgotten, and she’s fluttering her eyelashes at him in a way that tells me she was a total siren in her heyday. He says something in a low voice and winks.
‘Oh stop it,’ she says, playfully slapping his arm, where his burgundy sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. ‘A lovely boy like you will make a woman very happy one day.’
‘Unfortunately, I’m not the settle-down type, Belinda.’
As he says this he notices I’m back behind the counter and stands up, adjusting a sleeve that’s unravelled.
Belinda watches him with a twinkle in her eye and says, ‘Well in that case, I wish you many a disreputable love affair.’
6
no Mum, I have not yet sowed my seed
F I N N
The WiFi’s surprisingly fastin City Roast. I manage to finish off some work for my client, accompanied by the hum of fellow coffee-drinkers and the clatter of traffic on the other side of the window. I’m watching a young couple cross the street through the glass when my mum’s face pops up on my phone, so I connect my headphones and swipe to accept her call.
‘How are you, chick?’ Her voice comes through my headphones slightly out of time with the video. Despite decades of moving around the world, the Irish lilt to her accent is almost as strong as it was on the day she left.
It’s nine-thirty in the evening in Singapore, so she’s illuminated by the big lamp in the corner of her office. She always holds the phone just below her chin and by now I’ve given up telling her to move it, so I know to expect that all I’ll be able to see is the top half of her auburn head.
