. Читать онлайн книгу.
is clearly a latte.’
Heather stared into the neatly bearded man’s frowning face and immediately realized her mistake. ‘I am so sorry. Let me sort that out for you right away.’
‘Okay, but if you could be quite quick about it please – I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Of course. Georg, please would you make a flat white for the gentleman? And could I offer you a complimentary cinnamon swirl by way of an apology, sir?’
‘I’m gluten intolerant,’ said the man.
‘Of course you are,’ said Heather. ‘How about one of our gluten-free brownies then? They’re delicious.’
‘Just the correct coffee, thanks,’ insisted the man irritably.
Georg held out a flat white. ‘Ahh, my glamorous assistant,’ joked Heather. Georg remained as stony-faced as Flat White man. ‘Here you are, sir. Sorry again. Have a lovely day. Thank you, Georg.’
‘Mmm,’ muttered the man before he left.
‘Mm,’ echoed Georg.
Tough crowd, thought Heather but then the caffeine-hungry, harassed commuters always were. The trick was to be bright and efficient – inject a little cheer into their day, encourage a fleeting smile perhaps.
Georg was a different story. Despite working alongside him for over six months, Heather couldn’t remember ever seeing him crack a smile. He was supremely efficient and made the best coffee in this corner of south-east London. Heather assumed that customers considered his taciturn nature a small price to pay for sublime barista skills. She in turn felt the need to overcompensate for his blank expression by smiling so hard that sometimes her face ached by the end of the day. Heather had made it her secret mission to solve the mystery that was Georg. It was proving to be a challenge.
By 8.45, the queue was thinning out as Oliver and assistant baker, Pete, appeared from the kitchen carrying trays of croissants and pains au chocolat. The air was filled with the irresistible waft of chocolate, coffee and freshly baked pastries
‘Post school-run provisions,’ Oliver said with a smile, plonking his tray on the counter.
‘Wonderful, thank you,’ said Heather.
‘Busy morning so far?’
‘Very,’ she replied, restocking the pastry baskets by the till.
‘She made mistake,’ reported Georg gravely.
‘Snitch,’ laughed Heather.
Georg frowned. ‘What is snitch?’
‘A person who tells tales to the boss. It’s a very serious crime, Georg,’ said Pete, winking at Heather.
‘Oh, sorry,’ muttered Georg, looking unsure.
‘Fortunately, Caroline’s not in yet so you’re off the hook,’ said Oliver, flashing a grin at Heather.
‘But you are boss too,’ insisted Georg.
‘Don’t let Caroline hear you say that,’ joked Oliver.
Heather chuckled, remembering the moment Oliver’s wife, Caroline, offered her the job at Taylor-made. Heather had been in no doubt who was in charge as she issued her specific instructions with a frown.
‘You’ll need to scrape back your hair into a neat ponytail for hygiene and wear a minimal amount of make-up – we want you to engage with the customers, not make them fall in love with you. Please arrive at six-thirty sharp. We open at seven in time for the commuter rush. Georg is our resident barista – he’ll show you the ropes. Oliver will be around but busy baking obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ repeated Heather feeling sick with nerves. I am a strong, confident woman. Until I meet another woman, who is stronger and more confident. And then basically I become a jelly.
Caroline had cast a critical eye over her newest employee. ‘We’ve had no end of troubles finding someone suitable for this job – please don’t let us down.’
‘I won’t,’ promised Heather, praying that this was true.
‘So I should tell Caroline about Heather’s mistake?’ asked Georg earnestly.
‘Georg!’ cried Heather, feigning outrage. ‘How would you feel if I told Caroline about all the mistakes you make?’
Georg looked confused. ‘I do not make mistakes.’
Pete patted him on the back. ‘We’re just joking, bro. You don’t need to tell anyone anything, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Georg, fixing Pete with a look of relief. ‘Thank you.’
Heather grinned at Oliver. She loved working here. Despite Georg’s unusual nature and the fact that she now had a mild pastry addiction, it was good fun. The place was always bustling, the customers eclectic and mostly lovely, and its location, just around the corner from where her mother had grown up, gave Heather an unexpected feeling of comfort.
‘Aha, and who is this vision I see before me?’ cried Oliver as Pamela hurried through the door with two large cake tins in her arms.
‘It is Pamela,’ said Georg, confused. Heather and Oliver exchanged glances of amusement.
‘Hello, my loves. How are we all today?’ asked Pamela, plonking the tins on the counter.
‘All the better for seeing you,’ replied Oliver. ‘And what delights do you have for us this fine morning?’
‘Just a salted caramel layer cake and a strawberries and cream sponge.’
‘Pamela, if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would drop down on one knee right now,’ declared Oliver.
‘Oh, get away with you,’ she blushed.
‘These look incredible,’ said Heather, lifting the lids on the tins. Pamela might have been Hope Street’s resident busybody but she was the closest thing they had to Mary Berry. Credit where it was due.
‘Thanks, lovey,’ said Pamela with a smile. ‘Oliver, would it be okay if I put up this poster on your community notice board? It’s for a new course all about happiness starting tonight at Hope Street Hall.’
‘Of course – be my guest.’
‘Thank you. I just met the man who’s running it – lovely eyes and so charming. I think I’m going to give it a go. I’ve always wanted to find out about that mindfulness malarkey. Anyone else fancy it?’
She fixed her gaze on Heather, who felt a flash of irritation.
Back off, lady – just because my parents died, it doesn’t mean I need to go on a course.
‘Pete?’ asked Heather, deflecting the question.
Pete grinned. ‘As an Aussie, I’ve pretty much got the happiness lark sorted, thanks, Pamela – it’s mainly down to sport and beer. Now excuse me, lovely people, but I need to crack on with another batch of sourdough,’ he said, before disappearing into the kitchen.
Pamela gave an indulgent chuckle and then looked at Oliver with eyebrows raised. He put a hand on his heart. ‘I fear that if I told Caroline I was going to a happiness course, she would see it as a declaration of weakness, which, as you know, isn’t allowed in our house.’
Pamela giggled before turning to Heather. ‘Do you fancy it then, Heather?’ she asked, holding out the poster.
Heather smiled politely as she took it from her and read out loud.
‘The Happiness List – a course led by life coach, Nikolaj Pedersen, teaching you practical skills and exercises to achieve your own version of happiness.
Ten weeks from Wednesday, 29th of March, 7-9 p.m., Hope Street Community Hall, £8 per session including refreshments.’
She