The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square: A gorgeous summer romance and one of the top holiday reads for women!. Michele Gorman
dress to dinner and ended up looking like she’d been sleeping on a bed of tennis rackets. Her husband had teased her so much about the all-over red diamond pattern that the moment totally vanished. None of us can understand what’s wrong with him, especially since Samantha will try anything to get him to sleep with her. What’s great for our weekly conversations isn’t so great for our poor friend’s self-esteem.
‘Couldn’t you have taken care of the children and then gone back downstairs to Daniel?’ Emerald asks. ‘I mean, as long as the oven was already pre-heated, so to speak.’
‘That’s what I would have done,’ says Garnet. ‘Though I don’t have to worry too much about missed chances with Michael.’ Her smile is filthy, just in case we don’t get her meaning.
‘I know what you mean,’ Emerald counters. ‘Sometimes I wish Anthony wasn’t so romantic.’ Always a gold standard humble-bragger, she is. ‘But we’ve got to remember that this isn’t about us, Garnet, it’s about Emma. We know we’re okay. Are you okay, Emma?’
‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ I tell them. ‘It was just disappointing, that’s all.’
‘Ha, welcome to my world,’ Samantha says, reaching for another croissant that, along with her frustration, she’ll work off later at yoga.
What do you get when you cross a vain Italian with someone who’s probably drunk coffee from his baby bottle? Hopefully someone who can teach us how to use an espresso machine. The gleaming Gaggia has been hogging up bar space ever since the catering company delivered it last week. So far I’m hiring a machine to mock me in my own café.
I sneak another glance at Pablo, but he’s too busy gazing at his reflection in the advertising mirror beside the bar to notice. Flick, flick, his hand tweaks another lock of expertly gelled dark hair till he gets the exact quiff he’s going for.
Before Pablo turned up this morning, I’d never seen a man who plucked his eyebrows. Or one with such flawless skin. He looks like he’s been airbrushed.
I really don’t mind that he’s so much prettier than me, as long as he’s as good at coffee as he is at grooming.
‘About those coffee supplies we’ll need,’ I say. ‘You will have everything delivered in time? Because we open in–’
‘Do not worry,’ he says, smoothing the front of his perfectly ironed shirt.
Wrong answer, Pablo. I do not worry if I’m sunning myself on holiday in the Med. I do worry when I need coffee to serve to my customers in less than three weeks.
‘Okay, I won’t worry… But you will have everything delivered?’
‘Carina mia, you should listen to the great Ravi Shankar. “Worry is the enemy of love.”’
Yeah, well Ravi wasn’t about to open his café without any coffee. ‘I don’t need to love coffee, Pablo, I just want to make sure it’s delivered in time.’
His smile makes the Mona Lisa look like an open book.
‘Well, anyway, Lou and Joseph should be here soon,’ I tell him, checking my phone. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea while we wait? Sorry there’s no coffee. That’s why you’re here!’
‘I am fine, thank you.’ He runs his index fingers along his eyebrows, in case a hair has dared to move out of place.
‘You probably don’t drink tea,’ I say.
‘I am Italian.’ He couldn’t sound more insulted by my offer.
All right, steady on, Pablo, I’m only suggesting tea.
He goes back to staring at his reflection and I go back to panicking.
This sounded easy when I first thought of it: open a café, train kids to serve good coffee, tea and food. Now I’ve got the café. I’ve got the kids, when they turn up. There’s just the small issue of the coffee, the tea and the food.
The catering company that’s supplying the Gaggia is also supplying Pablo. The days of sprinkling a few granules into hot water are long gone. Now, everyone supposedly wants fancy coffee from the other side of the world. If it’s not harvested from an Indonesian cat’s poo or a Thai elephant’s dung or from a tiny volcanic island visited by Napoleon (though presumably not pooed by him), they don’t want it.
I can’t see Auntie Rose and her ladies enjoying coffee that’s already gone through one digestive tract before it gets to theirs. But obviously I needed help, so I’ve got Pablo.
I’ve asked him to stick with Italian coffee, which pleased him down to the ground. Ha ha. Ground. Get it?
At least it’s starting to look more like a café than a boozer in here, with all the furniture painted in mismatched pastels and the chairs covered in flowered oilcloth (thanks to Mum). Out of respect for old Carl, Elsie and history, I’ve left the booths stripped back to the bare wood, but we ended up staining the ugly rough floorboards throughout. Now they look like ugly rough stained floorboards, but no one will notice as long as there’s lots of foot traffic.
‘Yo, am I late?’ Joseph calls as he saunters through the door in front of Lou. ‘It was ten o’clock, yeah? Wassup, I’m Joseph.’ He pumps Pablo’s hand. ‘You’re the coffee dude? Sick job, bruv.’
He’s still in his brother’s suit and tie, which makes it seem odd that he’s speaking like that and flicking air snaps at us.
‘Lou, Joseph, this is Pablo. He’s our coffee consultant.’ I’ve got to bite down my smirk as I say this, but, really, it’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?
‘How come you’re dressed like an undertaker?’ Lou asks Joseph, assessing him from beneath her blue fringe.
Joseph clearly doesn’t think much of Lou’s dress sense either. ‘Yo, this is how professional people dress. Take lessons from the master.’ He straightens the fat knot on his tie. ‘No-hopers need not apply.’
Lou doesn’t shift expression but shoves her hands into her sweatshirt pockets.
‘Besides, I dress like a professional because I’m the Professor,’ he says.
Lou scoffs. ‘You can’t give yourself a nickname, you muppet.’
‘Do you two know each other already?’ They shake their heads. ‘Really? Because I usually like to know someone for at least ten minutes before ripping into them. You can both wear whatever you want, as long as it’s clean and presentable.’
It’ll be hard enough training them without enforcing a dress code too. I don’t care if Joseph wants to look like an undertaker or a professor or a circus clown, frankly.
‘We can start whenever you’re ready,’ I tell Pablo.
He tears his eyes away from his reflection to say, ‘So now we begin. Today I will open your eyes and your hearts. You will learn to love the coffee, to speak its language, to listen as it whispers its secrets to you. It will dance for you, it will caress you, it will transport you to another world. There is a sacred bond between the barista and his machine. You love it and it will love you back. But only after you have mastered the bean. Today we begin the journey together.’ He aims his prayer hands at each of us and bows.
Lou’s mouth hangs open. ‘Mate, it’s only a hot drink.’
She sounds challenging, but I can see the flash of humour in her expression. I wonder how many people look that closely, though?
Pablo puts his hands over his heart. ‘It hurts me to hear these things. If you do not trust the process, the machine will not dance for you. It will not share its secrets. I cry for the bean.’
Puhlease. He’d never