Page 34 of When We Were Young

Emily

FHD rings the doorbell at ten o’clock on the dot on Monday morning. We exchange polite, double-cheek kisses.

‘I’m sorry about the other week,’ I say as we get in his car.

‘No worries. Was everything okay with your daughter?’

I don’t want to get into the truth of it. ‘Yes, she was asleep. She didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Good.’

‘Not that there’s any reason I should be ashamed of you,’ I try to clarify. ‘I haven’t ever––’

‘No, I get it.’

We pull up outside Boho Café ten minutes later.

It’s nestled in a row of shops around the corner from the station.

Large wooden box planters enclose the outside seating area with colourful flowers.

Inside, all the walls are exposed brick apart from the one behind the counter, which is one huge blackboard.

The counter is a collection of glass domes displaying pastries, cakes, and muffins.

There’s a play area for toddlers in the corner where a couple of mums sit nattering over their babies’ heads. The place is charming.

The barista looks up from scribbling in her notebook. She recognises FHD and calls out the back to his friend. FHD greets his childhood friend, Dylan, with one of those arm-clasping handshakes before introducing me.

‘Are you ready for your taster session?’ Dylan asks me.

I give a nervous little nod.

FHD has to get back to work so he says goodbye and startles me with a quick peck on the lips. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

‘Magda,’ says Dylan. ‘Why don’t you show Emily how to make a decent coffee first?’

I spend the next hour making dozens of cups of terrible coffee. Magda is patient and encouraging, giving gentle instructions in her strong Eastern European accent. By the time I graduate to mediocre coffee, I’m a little wired from all the tasting.

‘How long have you worked here?’ I ask while waiting for the next espresso to pour.

‘Almost four years,’ she says. ‘I love it, the customers are so friendly.’

I spot the notebook she’s left open on the counter; a loose sketch of the two mums sitting in the play area fills the spread. ‘Your drawing is lovely,’ I tell her.

She blushes and thanks me but closes the notebook.

A little later Dylan samples one of my cappuccinos and manages not to pull a face. Then he talks Magda and me through all the ins and outs of running the café while he’s away in Thailand. He makes the whole thing sound easy.

After we’ve closed, I stack the chairs onto the tables and Magda mops the floor.

‘So, what did you think?’ asks Dylan.

I’ve taken in so much information, my head’s pounding, but this day was far better than cleaning up vomit and being bossed around by Mrs T. ‘It was great,’ I tell him truthfully.

‘Well, you don’t have to decide now,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you sleep on it at least?’

I walk home tired but buzzing. I won’t need to sleep on it.

The first two weeks Dylan was in and out of the café, but this week Magda and I have been running the place on our own.

He’s at the end of the phone should we need him, but we haven’t yet.

And despite getting up at six every morning and being exhausted every night, I love it.

The regulars have been very friendly, and I’m slowly learning everyone’s names.

I’m wiping down a table when Scott’s car pulls up across the street. He and Liv jump out and dart across the road with alarming disregard for the traffic.

‘What are you two doing here?’ I ask, hugging Liv.

Liv shrugs. ‘Dad wanted to come.’

Scott rolls his eyes. ‘I was giving her a lift to the station, and we thought it would be nice to pop in and see you.’

Liv works at the music magazine on Saturdays until her exams finish in a few weeks when she’ll work there over the summer. They sit at the closest table while I go behind the counter to prepare their drinks.

‘What are you working on at the magazine today?’ I ask.

‘Social media planning, I expect,’ she says.

She pulls out her phone and starts tapping and scrolling.

I make a face at Scott, and he chuckles.

‘You don’t have a social media presence at all,’ Liv says.

‘Me?’ I ask.

‘No, Boho – the café,’ she says like I’m a complete idiot.

‘Oh? Should we?’

‘Well yeah, if you want to keep in touch with your customers and get new ones.’

‘Liv’s a social media expert now,’ says Scott.

‘Oh my God, your website’s hideous !’ she cries.

‘Is it?’

Scott takes her phone. ‘Ooh yeah, that’s bad.’

This is his area of expertise. ‘Let me see.’

The website is indeed hideous.

‘I can get the intern to knock something better up?’ asks Scott.

‘I don’t know if Dylan would want to pay for that.’

‘We won’t charge. I need to give this kid something to do, anyway. If you don’t like it, he can use it for his portfolio. Liv, take pictures of the cakes and the outside. Use my phone – it’s got a better camera.’ She comes up to the counter and snaps away.

I ask Magda to pour one of her beautiful flat whites with a leaf pattern on top and Liv takes pictures of it before I bring it over to Scott. I sit in Liv’s chair while she’s outside.

‘How’s she doing?’ I ask.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘She’s knuckling down with her revision.’

‘I’m so disconnected from her I don’t know what she’s into anymore. We were drifting apart before, but now it’s accelerating.’

‘She just needs time. She’ll come round.’

‘You think?’

‘Of course.’

Once Scott and Liv finish their drinks, they take off, so she doesn’t miss her train.

‘Was that your daughter?’ asks Magda when they’re gone.

‘Yes, that was Olivia. Sorry, I should have introduced you.’

‘She is pretty.’

‘Thank you.’

‘She doesn’t look like you,’ she continues, and I try not to be offended. ‘She looks like your husband.’

‘Oh, he’s not my husband.’

‘You are divorced?’

‘No, we were never married.’

‘He is your boyfriend, then?’

‘No––’

‘Of course, Dylan’s friend is your boyfriend.’

‘Oh no, he’s not my boyfriend.’

‘But he kissed you the other day, no?’

‘Well yes, but… Sorry Magda I just remembered I was supposed to order paper cups.’ I nip out the back to the little office and take a deep breath.

‘We don’t need any cups.’ Magda’s voice behind me makes me jump. ‘We got the delivery yesterday.’

‘Ah yes.’ I don’t have any reason to be in the office now, so I follow her back out to the café, hoping that’s the end of all the questions.

I busy myself rearranging the cakes and go round to the other side of the counter to check it but this doesn’t deter Magda. ‘Your daughter, she was… how do you say… an accident?’

I lose my rag. ‘Look, these questions… they’re all rather personal , don’t you think, Magda?’

‘Not at all,’ she says to my utter exasperation. ‘You didn’t marry the father. You are young to have a teenager. I am saying what is obvious. It is not personal.’

‘But––’

‘My son was also an accident.’

With that bombshell, the spotlight shifts from me to her, and I’m much more comfortable with that. Magda tells me about her sixteen-year-old son, the after-school art club she runs at his old primary school, and her art student years back in Krakow.

And I wonder what else we might have in common.