But what the customers didn’t seem to get was that they were paying for flavoured water. And water was cheap.
It cost two dollars extra to go from regular to large, and less than a hundredth of a cent to pay for the extra coffee in the cup. The recycled cardboard cost more. But the range of flavours gave their shop an edge . . . Customers wanted to try walnut coffee, or Irish cream, or cinnamon. And through the seasons, Java brought in special-edition flavours: spiced apple in the fall, ginger nut in winter, Easter chocolate in the spring, raspberry in summer. The customers came back to the store, just for the special editions. They loved the idea, the brand.
Dina made sure her store was meticulously clean, that there were no scuffs on the burgundy leather seats. People bought luxury and, even if you couldn’t afford a cashmere sweater or an Aston Martin, you could afford a warm cup of Java Mountain coffee, brewed fresh with Madagascar vanilla, served in a chic, recycled, green cup with the red mountain logo.
Dina learned. But she was stuck.
She applied to join the higher-management programme. Maybe the way to get on here was in the central company. But her application came back, struck through.
Employee employed for only four months. More experience required.
She didn’t hear again from Alexander Markos. And, after three months of pouring and smiling and serving little pastries, Dina was starting to feel trapped.
One thing made it worse. Much worse.
At Mount Java, Dina served a good cross-section of New York: alpha males in their business suits, who stopped by at seven for a latte to take in the cab; mothers, who congregated after drop-off and before pick-up; lunchtime dieters, who didn’t do lunch but stimulated their system with caffeine, not calories. But the crowd that hurt her feelings came in after the others had left, or in the dead hours – eleven o’clock in the morning, half-ten. Breakfast, for them.
College kids, either nursing hangovers, or recovering from pulling an all-nighter.
They liked the drinks large and sweet, full of punch. Dina would bring the cups to the table, smiling and chatting, and all the time dying inside. Those privileged girls were her age and just a little older. They had long glossy hair and Columbia scarves and sweatshirts. Carrying piles of books, dark folders and yellow legal pads, they laughed and talked to each other, placing their orders without eye contact, as if Dina was invisible.
Dina felt invisible, because they were going somewhere and she was not. They were on their way to the courthouse, the surgery theatre, the museum, the investment bank.
And she was serving them coffee.
Every day it beat up in her head an endless rhythm of shame and failure.
I’ve got to get on, Dina thought. Got to get out.
The college boys didn’t see her as invisible. Goddamn, they were obnoxious.
‘Hey baby. Get that cute ass over here.’
‘What time do you get off, sweetie? I can get you off.’
‘Honey, you want to earn the biggest tip of your life? Give me your phone number . . .’
Sometimes she had to swallow back tears. It was so hard, but she needed the job. Needed to make rent. Had no place else to go.
Dina didn’t think about love. Not yet. Maybe one day she would meet somebody, settle down, get married. But the boys and men that catcalled and whistled didn’t want a date. They wanted a lay.
The memory of her mom burned fiercely in Dina’s heart: the cars, the laughter, the aging playgirl, drunk and drugged – available for rich, powerful men.
That wasn’t going to be her. Dina hoped that one day a man would come, a guy who would blow her away, reduce her to rubble.
Trouble was, she didn’t find men that impressive. Nobody had stepped up in her mother’s life. Her darling brother was a flake. And the boys at school had been scared of being unpopular.
At seventeen, Dina Kane had learned the hard way.
Only rely on yourself.
‘You want to hang out with me, sweetcakes?’
His name was George Linden, and he was one of the most persistent college boys. With a daddy in the oil business in Texas, bright blond hair and a footballer’s physique, he could pick up almost any girl he wanted.
‘Your coffee’s coming right up,’ Dina said, brightly. She hated him and his group of hangers-on, the boys that would crowd around the golden god and cackle at everything he said. She pivoted on one heel, back to the kitchen.
‘Goddamn, that’s a beautiful view,’ Linden said loudly. ‘I could watch that ass all day.’
‘Mike –’ Dina spat it out to the manager as he handed her the pitcher and the stoneware mugs – ‘aren’t you going to throw them out?’
‘Come on, Dina. College is a big part of the store.’ Mike shrugged; he hadn’t liked having a teenage junior manager forced on him. As far as he was concerned, she wanted tips, so she was still just a glorified waitress. He didn’t serve up coffees. ‘You don’t have to wait tables, you know. It’s a choice.’
A choice she needed for rent. ‘Sure. Right.’ Dina gritted her teeth. She moved back to the table with the coffee, set it down, careful not to bend over too much at the waist. The dark pencil skirt of her uniform set her ass off nicely, and she hated the way the frat boys ogled and stared.
‘Here’s your coffee. Pastries?’
‘No, baby. You’ve got all the sweetness I want right here,’ Linden cackled. ‘Do you serve private parties? Me and the boys are having one on Saturday.’
‘Jesus, George! Cut it out.’
Dina lifted her head, blinking back tears, to see one of their number remonstrating loudly with his friend. He was slim and dark, with an intense look about him. ‘You’re such a giant douche bag,’ he said, before turning to Dina. ‘I apologise for our friend over here. He’s a loser. When confronted with an actual live woman, as opposed to a computer screen, he falls apart.’
More laughter, but now the group had turned on George. Dina flushed with relief as they looked away from her, jostling the blond kid.
‘Hey, fuck you, Edward.’ Linden jumped up and pushed his way out of the group, storming out of the store.
‘I apologise again. He was raised in a barn. Evidently.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Dina replied, quietly, and moved away.
When the gang of students left, Dina found a twenty-dollar tip on their table, and a note.
I’m so sorry about that incident. I’m embarrassed. Yours ever, Edward Fielding.
There was a business card attached, with a cellphone number.
Dina took the twenty bucks. She didn’t call the number.
At the end of her shift the next lunchtime, her dark-haired saviour from the other day was waiting for her.
‘Miss Kane?’
Dina jumped out of her skin. What was his name? Edward . . . Fielding, that was it.
‘Yes?’ she said.
She felt a little safer dressed in her dark coat, her black trousers, blouse and sweater – a better New York winter uniform than that tight skirt and pumps.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was wondering if I could see you for a second.’
‘How did you know my name?’
‘I asked the store manager. I hope that’s OK.’
Dina looked at him warily. He was handsome, and wearing a thick brushed-wool coat over what looked like a bespoke suit. His shirt had gold cufflinks, and the shoes and watch were expensive. But he was looking at her humbly.
‘I got your apology, Mr Fielding. Thanks for saying what you said. It’s all right now.’
‘I’d like to take you out to dinner.’
Another come-on. Her eyes clouded. ‘No, thanks.’
Gently, he put his hand on her arm. ‘Not as an apology. I’m asking you for a date. Really. After your hours. I’ve seen you work and deal with all the bullshit. I’d like to have a meal with you tonight. Or see a movie. Anything, really.’
Dina hesitated.
‘Not if you don’t wa
nt to,’ he said, falling back. ‘I don’t mean to harass you any further.’
She thought about it. He was smoothly good-looking, slim, confident. Not her normal style, but . . . who was she kidding? She worked so hard she didn’t even have a normal style. There hadn’t been more than a handful of dates at school – all disastrous. Dina had always thought she’d meet someone at college. Only, she wasn’t going to college. Edward Fielding was, though. And he liked her . . .
‘Maybe a dinner wouldn’t hurt. Sure, I guess.’
‘Do you live round here?’
‘Downtown.’ She gave him the address.
‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’
He was there punctually, knocking on her door. He didn’t bring flowers, which Dina appreciated. That would have been cheesy.
‘Wow!’ Edward glanced around the inside of her apartment. ‘Stylish.’
‘You can come in for a second.’ Dina was wearing a simple red dress, one of her favourites: DKNY and bought at Saks in the sale. She loved the way it clung to her curves, sat at the knee. This was the first chance she’d had to show off her style since she left her mom’s house.
Dina Kane had no jewels, and needed none. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, swept up in a regal up-do. She wore heels with a platform and a rounded toe, mid-height, and carried a small hand-held purse in dark green mock crocodile.
He looked her up and down. ‘Nice.’
Her elegance was one thing – almost incongruous on that young body – but her face was something else. Edward was used to the pretty girl at the café, rushed off her feet, her face almost make-up free, like a weapon against the catcalls. Tonight she had paid attention to her beauty – a wash of tinted moisturiser, sheer against that teenage skin; a slick of bronzer, high on her cheekbones; glittering golden shadow with bronze liner and unusual navy mascara that made her huge eyes stand out. On her lips, there was a pale golden-brown gloss. She looked almost Egyptian, like a supermodel, like somebody else.
Edward Johnson – a.k.a. Fielding – was taking an inventory of the night so far. His dumb-ass friends were like a bull in a china shop. You couldn’t get a chick like this just by calling her out. She would need work, more than the average bridge-and-tunnel skirt.
Right now, he was totally sure she was worth it.
Dina Kane was full of surprises. She did some management work at the coffee shop – so she was not just a waitress. This apartment, well, it was the size of a postage stamp, but the interior looked like it had been designed by a pro. There was space to stretch; it was clean, bright, popped with colour. The dress looked great on those curves. The up-do was classy. The make-up . . . Well, she was transformed; she was a supermodel.
Edward had a brief moment of doubt. Wasn’t this a different girl? One he could take home to Momma?
Then he put it aside. Mixed relationships didn’t do well. Dina Kane was a glorified waitress. She had attitude in that shop. There was a bet on as to who would bang her first. He was about to win that bet.
The fellows had been throwing themselves right at her for months. Pulling this chick would seal his college legend. Nobody had even got to first base with Dina.
Watch and learn, boys. Watch and learn.
‘The apartment is beautiful – but not nearly as beautiful as you.’
She smiled slightly. It annoyed him how she lifted that chin, took his compliments for granted. She wasn’t grateful. She, a waitress, was treating Edward Johnson as her equal. Not for long.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked.
The first night he kept it low-key: dinner in a semi-nice Italian restaurant; a chaste kiss at the door to thank her for a lovely evening.
The next day, he sent over flowers: a small bunch of yellow roses – nothing spectacular.
Wednesday, he asked her out again. They watched a movie, laughed about it on the way home. He asked her about herself, and drifted into his own thoughts when she answered.
On Saturday, another dinner – French, this time. Edward could be patient. One false move and the game was up.
Dina was incredibly beautiful. Each night, she made herself up so differently, yet always the same pretty face; it was like dating a thousand girls.
He almost regretted that the game was nearly over.
‘You seem happy,’ Mike said, suspiciously.
This wasn’t the Dina Kane he knew. She was less of a robot, moving around with a smile on her face. She’d started to take her lunchbreaks, sitting with a cup of cinnamon coffee and reading those crumpled little notes her boyfriend sent her.
Even in the daytime, she had begun to wear cosmetics. His male clientele was slowly enlarging. Moms liked to be around her, too. Now their restaurant wasn’t just super-efficient, it was cheerful.
‘I am happy.’
‘The new man? Who is this lucky guy?’ Mike asked.
‘It’s a mystery. I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’ And Dina laughed.
After three weeks, Edward made his move. They had been kissing; first on the cheek, then the lips, then a little tongue. She was nervous, ungainly. He liked that; it made him laugh. What if she was a virgin? Dina Kane was the trophy of the year in his set. If he popped her cherry too . . . Christ, they would have to set up a statue for him.
He did it right: dinner at a local restaurant downtown; lots of talk about family. He said he might like to meet her brother, her mom. Yeah, right – the Johnsons didn’t socialise with those kinds of people. Daddy was going to run for Congress next year; he had all the donors lining up. Momma was a socialite and only mixed with exactly the right group. She threw benefit dinners to help people like the Kanes. The thought made him laugh.
Edward Johnson was never going to mix with the Kanes.
Dina should be flattered that she was getting any attention at all from him. She was the finest piece of ass out there on the scene for months, a trophy lay, and so he was doing something unfamiliar: he was actually putting work into her.
He asked around among the other waiters, offering a few twenties here and there, and he’d soon found out a lot of what he needed to know. Dina came from Tuckahoe, Westchester. She had been a good student, no boyfriends, the daughter of a dead, drunk workman. Her mother had fucked around with some Italian boys for a while. He liked that idea; it made him kind of hard, knowing her weakness. Hey, she had that prissy attitude, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Edward fantasised about fucking Dina, breaking her in and getting the credit, then maybe passing her around his friends. Girls like her and her mom were just hookers by another name. You dressed up the tips with dinners and flowers, but in the end they were leisure activities for powerful men. Edward Johnson considered himself just that – a powerful man, in training. Hunting the stuck-up waitress was just too much fun.
He thought about her slutty mother, and smiled.
‘I’d like you to meet my family.’ Dina was acting shy; it was sexy. ‘And you can take me to meet yours . . . I’d like to say hello to the Fieldings.’
She still hadn’t twigged to the false name. That was the beauty of it. He paid restaurant bills in cash, always plenty of cash, and he’d bought a cheap phone he would throw away after tonight, so no harassing calls on his mobile. Once he’d banged Dina, the boys would stop showing up at the coffee shop. There was no Edward Fielding lodged at Columbia, so she couldn’t find him there. She would never see him again. No harm done.
‘I told Mom about you last night. She’s looking forward to cooking for you.’ Edward chuckled to himself. His mom hadn’t picked up a frying pan since her wedding night. She just gave the menus to the cook.
Dina smiled, relaxed. ‘It’s so good that you respect me like this, Edward.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Respect her? Funniest thing ever. He couldn’t wait to slip into that tight little pussy. Now he just needed to close the deal. He flashed her that bright smile. ‘Let’s celebrate. Waiter? Can I get a bottle of champagne for the table? Veuve Cliquot – perf
ect.’
Dina hoped she didn’t look drunk.
She rarely took in alcohol. So three glasses of champagne and she was weaving.
Edward was being so nice . . . so sweet. He paid for everything; he told her all about his worries in class. Now he wanted to bring her to his parents.
They were going back to her apartment. She felt light, happy. The wine ran round her bloodstream, warming her, taking away the fear.
Dina glanced over at Edward. He was tall, aristocratic, slim. But she didn’t feel any desire for him . . . That undeveloped body. Was that normal? Was she normal?
She was eighteen. Most of the girls at school had sex long ago. Maybe it was time. She trusted Edward, and they’d been dating almost a month, a few times each week. Wasn’t that how you were supposed to do it?
Perhaps it was always this way. Virgins probably didn’t feel any desire, didn’t actually ever want the guy. The way the TV showed it, it was always the husbands trying to get the wives into bed. Like sex was not something women wanted. Perhaps this was normal, the price you paid.
Dina wanted to be like other girls – to have a nice boyfriend.
Edward stopped at her door and slipped his arm around her. Dina tried not to shrink back when he thrust his tongue into her mouth.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, softly. ‘Be with you tonight?’
She shuddered, and he took it as lust.
‘OK,’ Dina said. ‘Sure. Sure, Edward.’
Yes. He was her boyfriend, and this was the price.
Dina lay in her bed, looking at the ceiling. Wanting to cry.
She hated this sex – hated the pain when he penetrated her, hated how unaroused she felt, hated his weird smile as he moved on top of her. There was blood on her thighs and all she could think about was getting into the shower.
‘Oh, this is great. You’re so hot,’ Edward said, gasping. ‘You’re so sexy . . .’
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