Broken Page 2

  Lloyd employs only three people now. His son, Dan, the chef, if you can call him that – it’s a café, not a Michelin star restaurant, and we serve pie and chips, not fillet steak or beef wellington – me, of course, and Pamela, a fellow waitress. Lloyd fills in the gaps by working himself, and it tends to be only Dan, or Lloyd on Dan’s days off, in the kitchen and one waitress working at any one time. It’s become a solitary job – Dan tends to skive off out the back for a fag or on his phone every five minutes – but it works for me. As you’ve probably gathered, I’m a loner type.

  I dump my bag in the tiny staff room and grab my thigh-length, belly-button-high white apron and name badge. Popping them on, I head for the office to retrieve the till money before carrying it out onto the café floor to count the float. It’s an archaic method, counting the money before shift and manually, as in handwritten, logging it on the daily record sheet. In fact, everything about Lloyd’s is archaic, from the old-fashioned pad and paper ordering system, the out-of-date patterned wallpaper, the basic plastic tables and chairs, and ultimately, the general feel of the place. It’s in a desperate need of an upgrade, but Lloyd is stuck in his ways and I won’t be the one making any kind of suggestion; it’s not my place.

  Once the money is counted and the tray popped into the till, I switch on all the necessary machinery before helping myself to a coffee. One of the perks of working in a café is free coffee on and off shift, and I never say no to a coffee. I take a welcome sip and glance at the clock on the wall. It’s five minutes to opening. I might as well unlock the door now. It’s not like we’ve got customers queuing down the street, although our only regular customers will be arriving soon.

  Ten minutes later, five minutes after Dan’s not-a-second-early arrival and his usual hello in the form of a grunt, I hear the annoying bell ding as the door swings open and Black with One Sugar and his wife, Latte with Extra Cream, arrive. I should know their names, but I’m rubbish at names, so I tend to nickname customers based on their drink of choice. Sad, I know, but what’s sadder is just how often people order the exact same drink, and they say variety is the spice of life.

  “Morning, Daniella.” Latte with Extra Cream, an older woman in her sixties I’d say, beams.

  “Morning,” I reply, my customer service voice in place. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please,” Black with One Sugar, whom I’m assuming is a similar age to his wife, replies.

  “Grab a seat. I’ll bring it over.”

  I think it’s obvious what their usual drink order is, but added to that is a full fry-up for the Mr and scrambled egg on toast for the Mrs. The married couple are here every morning like clockwork Monday to Friday, and every single time they have the exact same order, which cannot be good for the Mr’s cholesterol, just by the by. I have wondered though, if their visits are a daily ritual or an excuse to get out of the house because surely it would be easier and cheaper to eat at home. Not that I’m complaining. Their custom pays my wages.

  I tend to their order, popping their drinks down on the table before writing out their food order and ringing the bell that sits on the open hatch in the middle of the back wall three times to let Dan know an order has come in. I try to hide my scowl as Dan appears from out the back door and proceeds to wash his hands. I’m not Dan’s biggest fan. He’s an arrogant, lazy twat who skives at any opportunity, hence why I need to ring the bell, and it does nothing but annoy me. I have a decent work ethic, and I’m a firm believer I’m paid to work, not to sit around doing nothing. I can’t abide lazy workers, but I guess getting away with murder is a perk of being the boss’s son.

  Whilst I wait for Dan to complete the order, I pick up a cloth and start wiping down tables. There’s not much point as no one’s sat at them yet, but as I said, I like to keep busy. I get through seven of the eleven tables when the bell rings again, my head groaning at the sound. I wish Lloyd would take that godforsaken thing down as it is without a doubt the most annoying sound on the planet, but on a brighter note, I have another customer to serve. Simple things, I know.

  “Hi there,” I say and as I look up, I’m met with a beautiful smile staring back at me.

  The smile belongs to a guy. I’m guessing mid-twenties with natural dark brown hair styled in a military buzz cut and a youthful glow in his lightly tanned face, highlighting his square jawline. He stands at the counter as I make my way back around to the employee side, and it’s only then, once I’m a little more up close, that I notice the blue of his eyes. It’s a gorgeous blue, like a cloudless sky on a bright day and for a second, I’m mesmerised. Until I remember I’m not some stupid lovesick damsel in a romance novel and I give myself a mental slap.

  “What can I get for you?” I ask.

  The almost six-foot-tall customer scans the menu on the back wall for a minute and that’s when I spot the dog tags hanging around his neck, falling on top of his figure-hugging white T-shirt. I guess that explains the clean buzz cut and the well-built, yet subtle, muscular frame. He’s an Army boy.

  “I’ll have an Americano, please,” he says politely, in a masculine, slightly Irish twang.

  “Take away or staying in?”

  “I think I’ll stay and eat,” he says, looking around at the almost empty café, possibly questioning his decision. “What’s the soup of the day?”

  “Chicken,” I answer, but Americano – I bet it’s his usual choice – doesn’t look impressed, and he has another look at the menu.

  “What’s good?”

  I fight back the urge to laugh. There’s not all that much to choose from and every meal, apart from the all-day breakfast selection, comes with chips, whether you want them or not.

  “Personally, I love the breakfast bap,” I offer. “But I’ve never had a complaint about any of our food options.”

  Americano flashes me that beautiful smile again, all white teeth and pale lips, and I’m wondering if a little sarcasm slipped into my sentence unknowingly. He looks a tad amused. “Breakfast bap it is,” he says.

  “You have a choice of sausage, bacon or egg,” I explain. “Or if you’re feeling daring, you can have all three.”

  “Do I look like the daring type?”

  “I should imagine you have to be a little daring to join the Army.” I’m being uncharacteristically over-friendly. I’m not usually the type to ask questions or make assumptions, and I mentally shake my head at myself.

  “What makes you think I’m in the Army?” he asks, a mixture of confusion and surprise etched into his face.

  I point to his chest. “The dog tags.”

  He peers down at his tags, lifts them and tucks them beneath his T-shirt. I merely watch as his face fills with a touch of sadness and maybe a hint of disappointment thrown in there too; I can’t say for sure. Whichever way, I’ve overstepped the mark, and it’s time to move the conversation along.

  “So, what’s it to be?”

  “I’ll take all three.”

  I write out his order and turn to start preparing his Americano. I glance back and he’s still standing at the counter. “Take a seat. I’ll bring it over.”

  “Thanks.”

  Americano quietly takes a seat at the nearest table, which is unusual. Most customers prefer to be as far away as possible. I’m convinced they think the staff here have nothing better to do than listen in on private conversations, hence the tendency to create as much distance as possible. Although as a small café, it is difficult not to overhear things, but I let whatever I hear go through one ear and out the other. I don’t care enough to purposefully earwig.

  I give Americano’s drink a quick stir before moving around the counter and placing it down in front of him. He’s busy messing with his phone, but he quickly puts it down as I arrive at his table.

  “There you go,” I say politely.

  “Thanks.”

  “Your food won’t be long.”

  Speak of the devil. The bell rings and I move to retrieve Black with One Sugar and Latte with Extr
a Cream’s food. I deposit Americano’s order through the hatch first before carrying the two plates of food to the couple’s table.

  “Fry-up,” I say, setting the plates down. “And scrambled egg.”

  “Thank you, Daniella,” Black with One Sugar says. “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask, how’s the songwriting going?”

  It takes me a minute to remember how exactly he knows I write songs until my naturally shitty memory kicks in. A couple of weeks ago, he and his wife were having a random debate about music, something along the lines of which is harder to write, melody or lyrics, and I was dragged into the conversation. I vaguely remember mentioning I write both.

  “Always a work in progress,” I answer truthfully. There’s always room for improvement.

  “The mantra of a true perfectionist,” Latte with Extra Cream jokes.

  “That’s me.” And it is, only I don’t believe in perfection.

  “I look forward to hearing a song on the radio one day,” Black with One Sugar adds, and I bite back a laugh. There’s a slim-to-nothing chance of that happening, but out of politeness, I keep shtum.

  I swiftly return to my cleaning until the hatch bell dings, and I move to pop Americano’s breakfast bap down in front of him.

  “Smells great,” he says, slipping out of his khaki jacket and placing it on the back of his chair.

  My eyes are drawn to a tattoo on his right arm; it’s a rifle in an Army boot, an Army helmet sitting on top with a ribbon curving from top to bottom and the words Brother in Arms written within the ribbon. I smile. It’s a nice tattoo.

  “Enjoy your food,” I say, all customer service like, keeping the tattoo admiration to myself.

  Once back behind the counter, I start cleaning out the coffee machine, and I’m soon lost in thought. It’s only when Black with One Sugar and his wife approach the counter, I realise almost half an hour has gone by, and I’m forced to pay attention. I ring up their bill in an efficient manner using the older than old, work-out-the-change-for-yourself till.

  “See you next week, Daniella,” Latte with Extra Cream says, reminding me today is my last Lloyd’s shift of the week.

  “Have a nice weekend,” I reply brightly.

  The couple nod and leave, waving as they pass by the window, a gesture I return before collecting the couple’s empty plates, depositing them on the hatch shelf for Dan to take to the back for washing – when he resurfaces, of course. I take a quick glance at Americano. He’s still eating, so I resign myself to my pointless cleaning.

  “So, you’re a songwriter?” Americano asks, forcing me to turn my head to look at him.

  Small talk. I hate small talk, but I’ve come to learn it’s an expectation in the customer service industry, and I’ve been forced to get used to it.

  “Do you make a habit of listening in on other people’s conversations?” I ask, adding a smile to indicate I’m not actually offended. The couple and I weren’t exactly talking in private.

  Americano smirks. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “Yes, I am,” I answer.

  Americano, I notice, has finally finished his bap, and I’m about to move to collect his empty plate, but he beats me to it, standing up and bringing it over to the counter before I have a chance.

  “I’ll be out of a job if you carry on,” I joke.

  “Just being courteous,” he says casually.

  “Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day,” I say, taking his plate and adding it to the pile sitting on the hatch shelf.

  “You any good?” he asks, retaking his seat.

  “At what?” I’m lost.

  “The songwriting,” he says with amusement, probably at my inability to follow a basic conversation.

  I lean my palms against the counter, contemplating my answer. “I suppose that depends on the listener.”

  Americano smiles. “That’s a very diplomatic answer.” Yes, but I’ve never played my songs to the public. The only place I write and perform is in the comforts of my flat. “Do you have an instrument of choice?” he asks, before swigging the rest of his drink.

  “Keyboard mostly,” I answer, moving to collect Americano’s now-empty glass before he decides to be courteous again. “You wanting a refill?” I ask, hearing the beeping of his phone still sitting on the table.

  “I’d love one, thanks.”

  It doesn’t take me long to make his second beverage and place it down in front of him. He’s tapping away on his phone, but he flashes me his beautiful smile as I set down his drink, and I can’t help but smile back. His smile is bloody infectious, and it awakens an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of my stomach. Is that butterflies? I quickly slap them down. Not going to happen, not in a month of Sundays. I swiftly retake my place behind the counter.

  “What kind of songs do you write?” Americano asks, his phone disappearing into his pocket.

  “All kinds,” I reply. “Depends on my mood at the time. I do have a soft spot for musical-style songs though.”

  “A theatre fan,” he states.

  “You can’t beat a good musical.”

  “That depends on your definition of a good musical.”

  I laugh. “Not a fan, then?”

  “I don’t mind musicals,” he says, not overly convincingly. “But I’d rather go see a concert or a festival myself.”

  “Let me guess,” I tease. “You’re more of a DMA’s, Coldplay kind of guy?”

  Americano appears impressed. “What gave me away?”

  “You’re a guy,” I mock.

  “So, being female,” he bites back, “I’m assuming you’re a massive girl band fan?”

  I grimace. “God, no. I’d rather listen to bloody ‘Yakety Yak’ than a girl band, no offence to girl bands like.”

  “‘Yakety Yak’,” Americano says deadpan, yet his eyes tell me he’s desperate to burst out laughing. I’m impressed he knows the song, to be honest.

  “It’s a classic,” I insist, shrugging. Americano’s laughter erupts, and just like his smile, it’s infectious. I’m soon laughing along with him.

  Americano’s phone beeps again, and I watch him almost growl at it, shaking his head before practically downing his drink in one go. Phone still in hand, he smoothly glides his khaki jacket over his broad shoulders before being courteous again and bringing his empty glass to the counter.

  “Stop doing my job,” I insist before swiftly ringing up the till. “That’ll be seven-fifty, please.”

  Americano hands me a ten-pound note, and I return the gesture with his change. He hovers at the counter, sliding his phone, change and receipt into his pocket before heading towards the door. He stops shy of leaving, turning back to look at me, flashing that beautiful smile.

  “You got space for a new regular?” he asks.

  I scan the empty room a touch too dramatically. “I think we can make room.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Daniella.”

  And before I can insist that he calls me Dani or remind myself for the thousandth time to change my name badge, or even ask him his name, he’s gone. I stand for a minute watching him walk past the window, and it’s then I realise I’m wearing a ridiculous grin, the kind of smile a teenage girl gets when she’s just met a cute boy, and I quickly wipe it from my face. We’ll be having none of that, thank you.

  Chapter Two

  It’s Saturday and I’ve just walked through job number two’s door – Dave’s Music Shop. It’s a quaint little shop just up the road from Lloyd’s. Surrounded by instruments and all things music, it’s nothing much, but there’s a practice space on the shop floor consisting of two bar stools and a resident amp, and a practice room in the back where Dave teaches guitar Monday through Thursday, typically from four in the afternoon onwards. His clientele tends to be kids rather than adults.

  “Hiya, Dani,” Dave calls, scaring the absolute shit out of me as he wanders into the main part of the shop from the back.

  I hadn’t even noticed the alarm didn’
t go off when I unlocked the door, nor that all the lights were on, though I should have. I wisely decide not to tell Dave that fact.

  “Bloody hell, Dave,” I say, ignoring the major league headache groaning in response to my loud protest and extra pissed off at not having any painkillers on me – I took my last two this morning – but Dave merely snickers. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. A little rude considering I’m talking to the guy who owns the place, but I hate it when people make me jump, and my heart is beating like a samba drum.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “Are you wearing pyjamas?” I ask, glancing down at his red-and-white-checked bottoms.

  “I may have pissed Emily off,” he says, shrugging as though it’s a regular occurrence. Emily is Dave’s wife, a lovely lady by all accounts. “But don’t worry. I plan on heading home before opening to grovel for forgiveness.”

  “You couldn’t have done that last night?” I jest, but Dave merely shrugs again, disappearing off into the back as I go through my usual opening-up routine.

  Dave reappears minutes later still wearing his pyjamas but with a rucksack slung over his shoulder.

  “Anything special need doing today?” I might as well ask as he’s here.

  Dave shakes his head. “Just the usual.”

  “Cool.”

  As bosses go, Dave is awesome – laid-back and easy-going. He’s a stereotypical rocker type and a fantastic guitar player who once had a recording contract back in the eighties, until it all went a little south. You know what they say, sex, drugs and rock and roll, and Dave took it a tad too seriously. It’s a far cry from the dad-of-three music shop owner and guitar teacher he is now mind, although the rocker dress sense is still ever so present, today being the exception, and on a normal day, he insists on wearing ripped-at-the-knee skinny jeans and big black boots with his branded T-shirt.