Page 104 of Cream & Sugar

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

And Rory.

I help Freddie translate the French cuisine and he settles on steak frites with peppercorn sauce because it sounds, “rad as hell.” A silver-haired waiter arrives shortly afterwards with our drinks. Once I’ve given him our food order, he lingers for a moment.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you by chance work at that new café on the seafront?”

“Yes!” I say, my ears pricked. “We both do. I’m theowner.”

The waiter looks impressed. With context, I recognise him and suddenly his usual order—a latte and a brownie—leaps out from the catalogue in my mind.

He smiles, warmly. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I absolutely love your coffee. Best in town. And the cakes! Irresistible! My wife says I’ve put on ten pounds since you opened.”

I’m filled with a rush of gratitude. Freddie looks impressed.

“Thank you. That means a lot. I hope your wife forgives me!”

The waiter shrugs. “It’s worth it. Seriously, I don’t know what you put in them, but keep it up.” He leans in and whispers: “How about some escargots to start? On the house.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say, making a mental note to give the waiter his next coffee for free.

Once he’s out of earshot, Freddie emits a low whistle. “Local celebrity, much?”

I roll my eyes, though I’m secretly relishing the compliment.

“Says the viral superstar!” I tease.

Freddie’s singing barista reel clocked up another few thousand views. Messages are already pouring in to the cafe’s inbox, asking if he’s playing again soon and, to my amusement, if he’s single.

“What are you going to sing next week?” I ask. I know very little about Freddie’s music beyond the snippet I saw online.

“Dunno,” he says, sliding his pint towards him. “A mix of stuff, probably. Some originals, some covers. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it coffee shop friendly. No death metal. MaybeoneChristmas song.”

He takes a sip of the tangerine-coloured beer and licks foam from his lips.

“Good?” I ask.

“Wow. Yeah. Bit different to a pint of Tennent’s.”

I take a sip of my own drink, the sweet floral liquid tingling on my tongue.

“So that song in the video, it’s one you wrote?” I ask.

Freddie nods. “Yeah, years ago. I don’t write so much anymore. Ran out of inspiration, and since Rory stopped playing with me, I don’t have as much reason to.”

“What did he play?”

“Drums, mainly,” says Freddie. “A bit of guitar. He can’t sing to save his life though. I got that from Mum.”

“Well, he and I have that in common,” I say, recalling the one terrible time I did karaoke on a night out with the team at Andi’s. Never again. “Do you miss playing with him?”

“Totally. It was kind of our thing… until it wasn’t.”

I shrug. “Maybe you should ask if he’ll perform with you at the café?”

Freddie laughs. “Snowball’s chance in hell, I’m afraid.”

There’s an unmistakable hollowness to his voice, like this is a battle he’s tired of fighting. I won’t press him on it.