The Peacock Emporium(35)

“They closed the bar down in the end. Not surprising, really, with all the underage drinking that went on.”

Suzanna placed the filled cup on a saucer with two sugar lumps, and carried it carefully to the table.

“That smells gorgeous. I’ve been walking past for weeks, and I kept meaning to come in. I love what you’ve done with it.”

“Thank you,” said Suzanna.

“Have you met Arturro, in the deli? Big man. Hides behind his salamis when women go in the shop. He gave up doing coffee about eighteen months ago because his machine kept breaking down.”

“I know who you mean.”

“Liliane? From the Unique Boutique? The clothes shop on the corner.”

“Not yet.”

“They’re both single. Both middle-aged. I think they’ve been hankering after each other for years.”

Suzanna, mindful that she didn’t want herself discussed in this manner, said nothing. The girl sipped her coffee. Then she leaned back in her chair, and noticed the small pile of glossy magazines in the corner. Suzanna had bought them a week ago, hoping it would deter customers from always wanting to talk to her. The girl smiled easily, and began flicking through Vogue with the kind of relish that suggested she didn’t get to read too many magazines.

She sat there for almost twenty minutes, during which the two men who ran the motorbike spares shop dropped in to down quick, silent fixes of strong coffee, and Mrs. Creek made her twice-weekly foray around the shelves. She never bought anything, but she had given Suzanna several years’ worth of her life story, including her career as a dressmaker in Colchester, the Unfortunate Incident on the Train, and tales of her various allergies, which included dogs, beeswax, certain synthetic fibers, and soft cheese. “You don’t have any beeswax here, do you?” she said, sniffing.

“Or soft cheese,” said Suzanna evenly. Mrs. Creek had bought one coffee, and complained, grimacing, that it was “a little bitter for my taste.” “The Three-Legged Stool, up the road, they put Coffee-mate in theirs, if you ask. And they give you a free biscuit,” she said hopefully. Then, as Suzanna ignored her, she added, “You don’t need a food license for biscuits.” She had left shortly before twelve, having made, as she told the girl, “a promise to play a little gin rummy with one of the elderly ladies up at the center. She’s a bit of a bore,” she confided, in a stage whisper, “but I think she’s a bit lonely.”

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you,” said the girl. “There are a lot of lonely people in this town.”

“There are, dear, aren’t there?” Mrs. Creek had adjusted her hat, looked meaningfully at Suzanna, and tottered briskly out into the watery spring sunshine.

“Can I have another coffee?” The girl stood up, and walked with her cup to the counter.

Suzanna refilled the machine. As she was about to start it up, she felt the girl’s eyes on her. She saw that she was being quietly assessed.

“It’s an odd choice, running a coffee shop,” the girl said. “I mean, for someone who doesn’t like people.”

Suzanna stood quite still. “It’s not really a coffee shop,” she said tartly. She glanced down at her hands, which were holding the cup. Then she added, “I’m just not big on small talk.”

“You’d better learn, then,” the girl said. “You won’t stay afloat long otherwise, no matter how beautiful your shop is. I bet you’ve come up from London. London people never talk in shops.” She glanced around. “You need some music. Always cheers things up, music.”

“Oh?” Suzanna was fighting irritation. This girl appeared to be some ten years younger than her, and was presuming to tell her how to run her business.

“Am I being a bit blunt? Sorry. Jason always tells me I’m too blunt with people. It’s just it’s a really nice shop, really magical, and I think it will do really well as long as you don’t keep treating every customer like you wish they weren’t there. Can I have sugar with that?”

Suzanna pushed the bowl toward her. “Is that how I come across?”

“You’re hardly welcoming.” Seeing Suzanna’s dismayed expression, she corrected herself: “I mean, I don’t care, because I’ll talk to anyone. But there’s a lot of others around here who’d be put off. Is it London you’re from?”

“Yes,” said Suzanna. It was easier than explaining.

“I grew up on the estate near the hospital. Meadville, you know it? But it’s a funny old town. Very green Wellies. Very up itself. You know what I’m saying? To be honest, there’s a lot around here who aren’t going to give you a second glance because everything in your window will just look weird to them. But there are some people who feel they don’t fit in. People who don’t want to sit with their Lapsang souchong and some headscarfed old blue rinse braying at the next table. I reckon if you were a bit friendlier you’d get a lot of trade from them.”

Despite herself, Suzanna found the corners of her mouth lifting in recognition of the girl’s description. “You think I should become a kind of social service.”

“If it brings the punters in.” The girl popped a sugar cube into her mouth. “You need to make money, don’t you?” She gave Suzanna a sly look. “Or is this shop your little hobby?”