Page 21 of The Rebound
“I’m not sure yet. Depends on the money.”
“The money?”
I nod, trying to guess her reaction before deciding to try the whole “honesty” thing. “I don’t have any. I’m going to need to get another job soon if I want to—”
“You’re joking!” she exclaims. “Why didn’t you say? We need someone at the café to do marketing. Setting us up on social media, flyers around town, that kind of thing.”
“The café?”
“Coffee!” She holds up her cup, which I now see has the café’s logo on the side.
“Your café is called Coffee?”
“That’s right.” Beth beams at me. “This is perfect. Why don’t you come in and I can tell you about it. You can meet the team!”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you but that’s not actually what meant when I…” I trail off when I realize what I’m doing. Who the hell am I to be turning down any opportunity? I’ll take what I can get. “Like right now?”
“Sure. We’re not very formal. Unless you want to—”
“No,” I say quickly, rising as she does. “Now is good. Now is very good.”
“Amazing. You see?Thisis the power of Red Dot leggings. They bring people together.” She gives my legs one last wistful look and then, like we didn’t just meet five minutes ago, loops her arm through mine and brings me down the street.
5
Beth’s café sits between the funeral home and a boarded-up retail space that looks like it used to be an ice cream parlor. It has a small front door and a large square window that reveals wooden countertops and a complicated-looking coffee machine. It’s nice. But cramped. The room isn’t particularly large and, as well as the counter at the front, there are bookshelves to the left of the entrance, with no indication of whether it’s a shop or a library. A corner at the back seems to have been cordoned off for a yoga studio, and an abandoned slushie machine takes up a chunk of wall space next to a unisex toilet. The only place to sit is at a brightly painted bench that looks awkward to climb in and out of.
It should be charming on paper. A multiuse space for the village, a cute little coffee shop that locals will love and tourists can discover. Instead, one glance inside tells me it doesn’t know what it is yet. It’s too busy. Just not with customers.
In fact, the place is empty except for a twenty-something girl behind the counter, scrolling through her phone. Her bleached-blond hair is scraped back into a bun, revealing dark roots and a multitude of glinting piercings in her ears. She brightens when I enter but that quickly diminishes when Beth comes in after me.
“This is Ollie,” Beth announces cheerfully. “Our barista.”
At the sight of her boss, Ollie reaches toward the coffee machine as if to wipe it down or fill something up only to realize that there’s nothing to do.
“Do you want anything?” Beth asks, rounding the counter. “It’s on the house.”
“Don’t be silly,” I say as Ollie’s eyes flick to Beth in a silent protest. “I’ll pay. I’ll take a double espresso.”
A little mollified, Ollie starts up the machine.
“All our cups are one hundred percent compostable,” Beth says over the noise. “And the coffee is Fairtrade certified. Napkin. Loyalty card…” She lists off each item as she places them on the counter. “Your tenth one is free. That will be three eighty-five.”
Three…“Great.” I glance at the prices overhead. This place is expensive. Especially for Clonard. But I hand over the few euros Louise gave me that morning (“Wouldn’t want you to be stuck for the bus again,” she’d muttered only a little sarcastically) and drop another into the tip jar.
“Andthisis my big blue binder,” Beth says, taking out a messily indexed folder. Labels of varying colors and sizes stick out and I watch as one loose piece of paper slips free as she dumps it on the counter.
“I have a marketing plan in here somewhere,” she mutters as my fingers itch to grab it from her and organize it. Or possibly burn it. I know some people find order in chaos but… yikes. “I was even working on a job description. Do you have any social media experience?”
I think of my defunct Facebook page and the Instagram account I set up so Jess could stalk an ex. “Yes.”
Ollie hands me the espresso and I sip the bitter liquid as a door slams somewhere above.
“My landlord,” Beth explains as footsteps sound loudly on a staircase opposite me. “He lives in the apartment overhead.”
That must be calming during yoga class.
“Maybe you can tell me a bit about the business,” I say, distracted as even more pages spill free from her binder. “Or I could—”
