Truth Or Date. Portia MacIntosh
qualm is that I’m technically not getting as much cake in me as I potentially could. My God, cake is wonderful.
I observe that one side of the cake is not quite even, and shave some off with the knife, like a sculptor perfecting a piece of art – a piece of art I’m eating by the slice whilst simultaneously picking jellybeans from the top with my other hand.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear Nick’s voice behind me. ‘Look at you.’
‘Fuck off,’ I tell him through a mouthful of cake. ‘It's my birthday cake.’
‘It’s not even been your birthday,’ he reminds me, as though I might not be aware of when my birthday is (or isn’t).
‘I’d had a bad day, so Millsy bought me it,’ I tell him. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, granddad?’
Nick rolls his eyes as he heads for the cupboard and removes a glass, before filling it with water from his lame little filter jug that he keeps in the fridge.
‘Just getting a glass of water,’ he tells me.
Watching him drink makes me suddenly thirsty, so I turn on the tap and lean over the sink to drink from the stream of water.
‘You’re like an animal,’ he observes. ‘And I thought better of Joey, eating cake. He’ll struggle to keep his body like it is, if he puts junk in it.’
‘He’s always eaten shit, and he’s always been a babe, so he’s fine,’ I reply snippily, straight to the defence of my friend. ‘Anyway, he’s a sweetheart. I’d had a rough day at work, so he bought me a birthday cake, because birthday cake is my favourite,’ I inform him, shovelling another handful into my mouth, as if my point needed proving.
‘First of all, birthday cake can’t be your favourite, because a birthday cake is any cake that is eaten on a birthday. Second of all, how bad can your workday be in a coffee shop, seriously? You want to try spending a day in my shoes, people’s lives are literally in my hands.’
‘Mate, you’re a gynaecologist, the only things literally in your hands are vaginas.’
‘Only a few more weeks of obstetrics and gynaecology for me,’ he reminds me. He’s doing that rotation thing new doctors do where they sample a bit of each area of medicine. Judging by the few stories he’s told me, this won’t be the area of medicine he chooses to practise, I’ll bet.
‘So why was your day so bad, did you give someone decaf by mistake?’ he teases.
Annoyingly, he’s not far off the mark. We had the grumpiest cow of a woman call in, asking for a skinny mocha with an extra shot. I was working on the till and Millsy was making the drinks. He prepared her coffee while I placed the granola bar she has requested in a takeaway bag – something people hardly ever buy because they look like all the loose bits that have broken off from all the other cakes, swept up and glued together. It didn’t take us long at all, still, she tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the counter impatiently. I handed her order to her and watched as she headed for the door, but as she reached for the handle with one hand, she raised her takeaway cup to her mouth to take a sip before turning on her heels and marching back up to me.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ I asked in the friendly manner they insist we adopt when speaking to customers. Even the ones we want to hit over the head with a milk jug.
‘I asked for a double shot and this is not a double shot,’ she says angrily, slamming the cup down in front of me.
I glanced over at Millsy.
‘It is, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I definitely put two shots in there.’
‘Are you two saying I can’t tell?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you need any training at all to do a job like this? My God, they could train monkeys to do better. At least they’d acknowledge that the customer is always right.’
I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth, because although every fibre of my being was telling me to grab the panini press and throw it at this bitch, I knew that my actions might by frowned upon in the eyes of my employers/the law.
‘Not to worry, we’ll make you another one,’ I told her, but it wasn’t enough.
‘I want to watch him pour each shot in, because clearly he needs someone to count for him. Honestly, if he spent less time at the gym and you spent less time drawing your eyebrows on, you could maybe find jobs you were competent in.’
I glanced over at Millsy, smiled sweetly and said: ‘When you've made this lady’s drink, there are some boxes of coffee that need moving from the back door, please.’
Millsy nodded, knowing exactly what he needed to do. The truth is, we don’t even have a back door, that’s just our secret code for teaching a lesson to horrible customers – the ones who truly deserve punishing. Never mess with the people who are serving you food and drinks.
I watched Millsy switch from using regular to decaf coffee with the sleight of hand skills of a seasoned magician. As he poured the two shots of fuck all into the customer’s cup, she applauded him sarcastically.
‘There, that wasn’t too difficult for the two of you, was it?’ she asked rhetorically before taking a sip. ‘Much better.’
OK, so maybe we shouldn't be playing coffee god, but she asked for it, and by the afternoon when the caffeine withdrawal headache hit her like a ton of bricks, I hope it made her realise that she needs to be nicer to people, because if karma doesn’t get you, vigilante baristas will.
Nick, clearly irritated by the fact I’m not rising to the bait, carries on talking to me.
‘I thought Joey was never setting foot in here again?’ he says. I find it weird that Nick calls Millsy by his less used nickname, rather than his preferred name or his actual first name.
‘You were away for the night,’ I remind him. ‘He won’t come over when you’re here because you’re the reason he has to climb out of the skylight for a cig.’
‘I told him he can’t do that either.’
‘Yeah, and that’s why he won’t come over when you’re here, you’ve got so many rules: don’t smoke in the flat, don’t climb onto the roof – you’re a drag, man,’ I ramble, occasionally glancing at the cake as I wonder if I can manage any more without throwing up. Nope, no more.
Nick heads back towards his room. Well, it is way past his bedtime.
I scoop my hair up with my hand and let it fall down around one side of my face, sighing heavily. This catches his attention and he stops before he opens his door.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, almost begrudgingly.
‘I’m fine,’ I assure him, heading for the sofa and plonking myself down.
I tip my head back and rest my eyes for a second. I don’t know if I’m exhausted from all the late nights and early starts, or if I’m maybe slipping into a diabetic coma from that slab of cake I just effortlessly devoured, but I can’t keep my eyes open.
I give myself five minutes before forcing my eyes open again, only to see Nick standing in front of me, except now he’s got his nerdy plaid dressing gown on – untied, showing off the body he’s spent hours in the gym perfecting.
I stare for a moment longer than I should, stopping only when Nick takes a seat next to me.
‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks.
His moment of concern takes me aback.
‘What do you care?’ I snap.
Nick places his hand on my bare knee and gives it a gentle squeeze.
‘Look, I know we don’t get on, but I’m allowed to care about you, right? I mean, you must care about me a little – what would you do if you found out I left for work one morning and got hit by a car?’
‘I guess I’d