Page 51 of Cream & Sugar
Shaun’s making drinks already. He’s working at a hundred miles an hour, though there isn’t a queue. In fact, there’s only one table occupied—a young couple sitting by the window.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, delicately placing my creation front and centre in the display fridge.
“Huh?” says Shaun as he pushes buttons with one hand and pumps caramel syrup into a mug with the other. “Oh. No hurry. Just, er, full of energy this morning!”
Shaun proceeds to pump the syrup a little too hard, shooting a jet of caramel straight past the rim of the cup and onto his crotch. He curses under his breath.
Wow. Didn’t think I’d gotten himthisflustered.
Trying not to stare, I let him wipe the worst of the syrup away before gesturing to the chocolate cake.
“Ta-daa!” I sing, making jazz hands for effect.
Shaun looks confused for a moment, like I’ve made a joke he doesn’t get. When the penny drops, his gaze lingers on the cake for a split-second before flicking to the floor. “Oh! Sorry. Good job.”
His attention goes back to his coffees.
Well, that certainly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. It’s like his mood has done another one-eighty in the last few minutes.
Shaun steams some oat milk and tops up one of the cups with it. He’s about to pick them up when I hold up my hand.
“I can take them to the table, if you like? You might want to,” I gesticulate towards his syrupy crotch, “clean yourself up?”
Shaun looks mortified, but nods and steps aside. His skin has gone a funny shade of grey. What’s got him so spooked? I hope it's not me.
I take the drinks—an oat milk triple-shot caramel flat white and a coconut matcha latte—and stroll over to the table, curious to discover what kind of freaks would order these monstrosities.
The couple at the table are macking away on each other like they’re practicing CPR, their lips making loud sucking sounds. Even sitting down, I can tell the guy is tall and built like a gladiator. I can’t help but check him out as I approach. He’s wearing a beanie and a khaki T-shirt which does nothing to hide his powerful frame. The woman’s face is hidden behind a curtain of auburn hair, but she has a glamorous, confident aura about her. Both of them have matching biker jackets slung over the backs of their chairs and I notice a pair of motorbike helmets stashed under the table.
Neither of them look up as I arrive. It feels weird to interrupt. Should I do another lap and come back? Surely they’ll have to come up for air eventually.
“Hi folks,” I say, once it’s apparent they both have the lung capacity of deep-sea divers. “Who’s having the flat white?”
There’s a wet popping sound as the two lovebirds finally stop sucking face and look up at me.
I almost drop their drinks.
Though I’ve never met either of them before, I recognise these two straight away—pictures from their Instagram feeds are branded into my brain. This is Lara, Shaun’s ex, and Viggo, her himbo of a boyfriend. Larabanana and Bigvig, in the flesh. No wonder Shaun looked greyer than slush on the pavement. What the hell are they doing here?
Lara wafts a hand in the air. “That’s mine.”
I try not to gawp as I slide the flat white towards her.
“Okay, uh, so this must be yours!”
I place Bigvig’s mug of hot, grassy milk down on the table. He doesn’t even acknowledge me; he’s too busy gazing-slash-drooling at Lara, a task I figure is using up all the RAM in his brain to the point where a simple “thank you” is apparently too much to ask.
“Can I get you two anything else?” I say, pre-emptively backing away.
“You’re not Kyle,” says Lara, stating the obvious.
“No,” I confirm, “though I am wearing his clothes.”
Lara smiles, her eyes wandering over my borrowed T-shirt. She makes a bridge with her fingers and places them under her chin.
“You’re new,” she says.
Absolute Sherlock, this one.
