by Sue Margolis
“You betcha,” Brian said, ruffling Charlie’s hair. “I’ll take it home and stick it on my fridge. That way I’ll get to look at it all the time.”
With that, Brian made his way over to the front door, unlocked it, and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN.
By the time he returned to the counter and started filling the coffee grinder with beans, the smile he had managed to turn on for Charlie had vanished. “What’s to become of me?” he said to Amy. “A bankrupt in a man bra.”
“You mean a Bro,” Amy corrected, giggling.
“Bro?”
“Yeah. Come on, you’re the Seinfeld nut. You must remember the episode where George’s dad invents the man bra. He considers calling it the Mansiere but rejects it in favor of the Bro.”
“Oh, yeah.” Charlie nodded without a hint of amusement.
“We could always bind you up,” Zelma volunteered, coming from the kitchen carrying a stack of clean plates. “It’s what the flapper girls did in the twenties to make their busts flat.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
“Oh, come on, Brian,” Zelma said, putting the plates down on the counter, “I’m only trying to lighten the atmosphere. Amy’s right. You need to go on a diet, that’s all.”
“I’m too stressed to diet.” With that he shoved a cheese Danish in his mouth.
Amy put her hand on his shoulder. “We will get through this Bean Machine thing, you know. And I’ll be here as long as you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Me, neither,” Zelma said.
“Really? What about when I can’t afford to pay you anymore?”
Zelma shrugged. “I don’t work here for the money. You know that.”
“Anyway,” Amy said, “it won’t come to that.” But she knew it might.
THIS MORNING, no sooner had the commuters left than a gossiping gaggle of blond, hair-flicking American girls appeared, their perfect teeth and noses accessorized with Dolce & Gabbana totes and pastel-colored Juicy Couture sweatpants. St. Agatha’s, the snooty private school up the road, was always organizing foreign exchange visits. A couple of months ago it had been loud pushy Italian teenagers for whom the concept of queuing was clearly anathema coming in for their morning espresso. Amy assumed that the Americans were the latest arrivals. As she wiped tables and gathered up dirty crocks, she couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.
“He so totally said that to her.” A girl with hot pink lips was addressing the entire group.
“No way,” somebody gasped.
“Way.”
“So I like totally paused.”
“Ditto.”
“Piers is such a jerkoff.”
“Duh.”
At that point Zelma appeared. She had come to relieve Amy of some of the dirty mugs and plates. “Can you understand a word they’re saying?” she muttered to Amy. “And what’s a jerkoff when it’s at home?”
Amy grinned and said she’d explain later.
As usual, Brian was on barista duty. “So what can I get you?” he said to the girls.
“I think all the Briddish guys we’ve met are jerkoffs,” Hot Lips pronounced, ignoring him. “They all have zits and crappy teeth. Like, don’t they have dermatologists and orthodontists in this country?”
“So what will it be?” Brian persisted. He wasn’t in the best of moods to start with. By now he was becoming increasingly thin of lip.
“And what about nail bars? Yesterday I’m out after school with this girl Arabella, and I’m like, ‘where can I get a manicure?’ And she’s all like, ‘Well, you could try this place in Fulham where my mom goes.’ So I call, and they want fifty dollars for a French manicure. I’m like.… yeah, as if.”
“And you can’t get Tylenol in the drugstore. It’s like being in Spain or Italy or one of those other loser countries.”
“And lesbians are like soo big over here,” pronounced a girl with chunky headphones draped around her neck. “I’m not kidding. Have you noticed all these cars with red L’s stuck to the trunk? I guess it’s like some kind of lesbian rights group.”
Amy, who had been finding it hard not to laugh, almost choked when she heard the last remark. Brian, on the other hand, seemed to be experiencing total body clench. “Actually, the L doesn’t stand for ‘lesbian,’” he broke in, “it stands for ‘learner,’ as in learner driver.”
Hot Lips turned on her friend. “Doofus.”
Headphones shrugged. “Hey, how was I to know?”
“Ignore her,” Hot Lips said to Brian. “She thinks Minnesota’s a soft drink.”
“Screw you,” said Headphones.
“What is more,” Brian continued, “we do have Tylenol, but over here it’s called Panadol.”
“It is? So how come you guys changed the name? That is such a lame thing to do. And what is it with the Brits and all these dumb-ass names that nobody can pronounce like Lee-icester Square and that other place—Mary-lee-bone?”
Amy could swear Brian’s nostrils were flaring.
“That would be ‘Lester’ Square and ‘Mar’leb’n.’ For your information, we Brits consider these dumb-ass names to be part of our heritage.”
“Whaddever.”
Brian took a deep breath and offered the girls a rictus smile. “So now that’s settled, what can I get you?”
“Okay,” Hot Lips said, “I’ll take a vente mocha with one shot, caramel sauce on the top and bottom, no whip, light on the ice, and seven pumps of peppermint syrup.”
Then the girl who’d called Piers a jerkoff piped up: “And I’d like an iced single vente, nine pumps peppermint, caramel sauce top and bottom, light ice, no whip. Mocha. Goddit?”
Brian didn’t move. Even at the best of times, he had a thing about American customers and their lists of demands and preferences. “What are the milk choices?” “I’d like four shots—two regular, two decaf. No, make that two regular, two half caf.” Brian gave in to these demands so long as, in his opinion, they didn’t cross the line and adulterate the coffee. Right now Brian’s line had been well and truly crossed. In fact, the line was so far away, he couldn’t even see it.
The girls were beginning to look uneasy at Brian’s lack of springing into action. “So, er, like, have you goddit?”
“Actually, no,” Brian replied with a smile. “I ‘like’ haven’t ‘goddit.’” He cleared his throat, clearly preparing to climb onto his high horse. “You may or may not have noticed that this is a coffee shop, not a confectioner’s. We do not serve coffee with caramel sauce, whip, or any kind of flavorings, peppermint or otherwise. The nearest Starbucks is a couple of miles down the road. The 65 bus will drop you right outside.”
Somebody muttered “Well, lah-di-dah,” at which point the girls burst into a fit of giggles and headed for the door. “See, I told you all Briddish guys were jerkoffs.”
Out the window, Amy could see one of them flagging down a black cab. She looked at her watch: “They’ll never make it to Starbucks and back before lessons start.” Brian said that bearing in mind the extortionate fees these brats’ daddies were paying St. Agatha’s, their teachers would probably be more than happy to hold up lessons until they got there.
THE FIRST group of mothers arrived at nine thirty on the dot. They came in roaring with laughter. One of them was saying how she and her husband were so exhausted from all the sleepless nights with the new baby that they hadn’t had sex in months. “It’s like Belgium,” she said. “Always there, but we never go.” As the laughter subsided, somebody said she was so behind with the laundry that she’d spent the last three days in the same panties. Then a woman confessed that she had just given in to a tantrumming child who was refusing to eat breakfast by providing him with a packet of Monster Munch. The women were sitting down, grabbing more chairs and pushing tables together, when Victoria walked in with Arthur. Amy gave both of them a hello wave from behind the counter. Arthur noticed Charlie, who was now busy building Legos in the play area, and ran over to jo
in him. No sooner had he disappeared than Victoria, who didn’t live in the neighborhood, spotted somebody she knew among the Monster Munch women.
Amy watched as Victoria didn’t so much greet as accost the woman. “Claire!” she boomed, squeezing her way past chairs and buggies to get to her. “How wonderful to see you.”
AMY LOOKED at Claire, who was trying to placate an irritable toddler while breast-feeding her newborn. She couldn’t work out if it was the stress of dealing with her offspring or seeing Victoria that caused Claire to return the salutation with rather less gusto.
Amy didn’t know Claire, but they had gotten to chatting a few times in the café. She mostly came in with other mummy friends, but toward the end of her pregnancy she’d started coming in alone when the café was quiet. She would bring a book and tell Amy how her mother had agreed to have child number one for a few hours each day and that she was making the most of it before the “onslaught” of the new baby. Usually Amy left Claire to her novel, but occasionally they got to chatting and ended up exchanging pregnancy and baby stories.
Claire had given birth a couple of weeks ago. Amy knew that her husband had taken time off work and that her mother had come to help out for a few days, but she was going it alone now and looked worn out. Her eyes were puffy. Her hair looked like it could do with a wash. She’d clearly thrown on the first thing she could find—Gap jeans with seriously frayed bottoms and a pair of Havaianas flip-flops. Amy couldn’t help noticing that her T-shirt had two tiny wet patches at the nipple area.
By then Victoria had reached Claire, her eyes fixed on the woman’s postchildbirth muffin top, which was pretty evident even under her T-shirt. As Amy watched the grimace form on her sister’s face, she prayed that Victoria’s opening remarks wouldn’t concern the importance of postnatal abdominal exercises. But in the end her sister opted for congratulations rather than humiliation.
“Well done, you,” Victoria gushed. “What did you get?”
As usual, the gleaming-haired Victoria looked like she’d stepped out of the Yummy Mummy catalogue. She was wearing a knee-length A-line floral skirt. She’d set this off with a short denim jacket, silver sandals, and an “I Am Not a Plastic Bag” canvas eco bag.
“A little girl. Phoebe.”
“How lovely. And just ignore the people who tell you that Phoebe’s become really common since Friends.” Victoria peered at the suckling infant, “Oh, look at her. Isn’t she adorable? I wouldn’t worry about that cradle cap and the milk spots on her face—they’ll clear up in no time. Of course, if the cradle cap gets worse, you’ll need some shampoo with salicylic acid. Works wonders … So, how was the birth? I’m dying to hear all the gory details.”
“Actually, it was pretty traumatic. I had a twenty-hour labor. In the end I was so exhausted that I had a cesarean.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t feel too guilty. Not everybody’s got the stamina for natural childbirth. I was so fortunate—two water births and not even the teensiest tear. Of course I did massage my perineum every day with olive oil. I’m sure that helped.”
By now the rest of the Monster Munch mummies, who didn’t know Victoria, were exchanging who-the-hell-is-this-stuck-up-bitch glances. But not one of them had come to Claire’s rescue. This was typical. Nobody ever stood up to Victoria. Amy felt she should step in, but Brian had just gone to the bank, leaving her and Zelma with a queue of customers.
“And how has Ben taken to the baby?” Victoria continued, offering Claire’s eldest a smile. This morphed into a look of mild disgust when she noticed him attempting to brush croissant crumbs off the front of his sweatshirt with jammy fingers.
“Oh, he’s become a bit noisy and attention-seeking,” Claire said, rummaging in her bag, presumably for a tissue.
Of course, Victoria magically produced a baby wipe in an instant and began cleaning Ben’s fingers. “There, isn’t that better?” she said when she was done. “We mustn’t let Mummy go out without her wipes in future, must we?”
“My godda poop!” Ben announced.
Claire leaned down and smiled. “Okay, darling. I’ll take you to the loo.”
“Oops. My did a yukky fart.”
“Gosh, do you let Ben say ‘fart’? You are brave. I never let mine say it. The thing is with children and rude words, you just never know where it’ll end. Have you read Helga Klein on the subject?”
More looks and eye rolling from the other mummies.
“Pee-nis. Peenis. My godda penis … Look.”
Claire turned beetroot. “Omigod! Ben! No! Put it away at once …”
“Peee for pee-nis. My mummy’s got a ba-gina.”
“Ben, for Chrissake, stop waving it around.”
One of the women touched Claire’s arm and told her not to worry; this kind of behavior was perfectly normal from a toddler whose nose had been put out of joint by the arrival of a new baby.
“I can’t say I agree,” Victoria said. “His behavior seems rather disturbing, if you ask me. If it’s of any help, I met this amazing child therapist at dinner the other night. I’m sure he’d be glad—”
“That’s really kind of you, but I think we can manage.”
By then Claire looked as if she might burst into tears. It was clear from their expressions that the other mothers really felt for her, but nobody seemed prepared to tell Victoria to shove it.
Amy couldn’t listen to any more. Aware of how nasty Victoria was being and how vulnerable newly delivered mothers were, she felt compelled to go over and defend Claire.
“Sorry,” she said to Zelma. “My sister has got her claws stuck into that poor woman. I’ve got to go over there.”
“Go,” Zelma said, shooing her. “I can manage.” Zelma knew what Victoria was like. They had met only once, but Victoria had made her mark by regaling Zelma with an account of a documentary she had watched on assisted suicide for the elderly.
Having said hello to Claire, Amy greeted Victoria with a double kiss. “I had no idea you two knew each other,” Amy said to Claire.
Claire explained that a few months ago she and Victoria had taken an art history class together. Amy got the impression she wanted to know what Amy’s relationship was to Victoria, but before Amy could enlighten her, Victoria was off again.
“So, how’s Phoebe sleeping?” Victoria demanded.
Amy didn’t give Claire a chance to reply. “Didn’t you tell me she was sleeping through?”
“I did? She is? Oh, yes … yes. She most definitely is. No problem at all. Sleeps from ten until six every night.”
“Isn’t that fantastic?” Amy said. “How many newborns do that?”
Victoria wasn’t about to be outdone. “Oh, I always insisted that Arthur stay in his crib until half past seven. I simply left him to cry. I refused to be manipulated by a newborn. He soon got the message. I think that’s why he’s such an easy, well-balanced child now. He’s been in the play area over there with his cousin for ten minutes now. Not a peep. He interacts so well with his peers.”
At that point, one of the Monster Munch mothers broke in. “Is he by any chance the little boy in the red T-shirt?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, I think it might be worth you taking a look. I’m not sure he’s interacting quite as well as he might.”
Victoria craned her neck to look for her son. “Omigod! No! Arthur … put down the swizzle stick. You’ll put Charlie’s eye out.”
This time, the looks exchanged by the other mummies were more than a little smug.
Amy could by now see what was happening. “Charlie, come here!” She began squeezing between the tables in an effort to reach the boys. Where had Arthur found a swizzle stick? Not here. Brian’s customers stirred their coffee with Sheffield stainless steel, not balsa wood.
“Arthur,” Victoria cried again, following her sister, “I said put the stick down! He picked it up in the park yesterday. I thought he’d left it there. He must have hidden it in his pocket. Stoppit! You can’t go around stabbin
g children just because they won’t hand over their toys.”
By now Charlie, who was several pounds lighter and a couple of inches shorter than his burly older cousin, was running toward the door. Arthur was giving chase: a four-foot, cherub-faced hooligan wielding a swizzle stick blade. Before Victoria or Amy—or anybody else, for that matter—had a chance to reach Charlie and Arthur, a thirty-something chap in a suit came into the café and almost tripped over them. He seemed to realize immediately what was going on. As Arthur closed in on Charlie, his arm raised in preparation to stab his cousin somewhere about the face, the chap bent down to child height and gently prized the stick from him. “Er, not a good idea, young man,” he said. His voice was kind, but it was clear he meant business. Arthur suddenly looked sheepish. A moment later, both mothers were on the scene. “Arfur hurt me,” Charlie wailed to his mother, pointing out a scratch that went across two of his fingers. “’Cos I wouldn’t give him my Lego man.” He was clutching what remained of the model in his other hand.
“Well, that’s not very nice, is it?” Amy took his fingers and began blowing on them. It was what she always did when he hurt himself. She called it “magic air,” and it seemed to take the pain away.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Victoria said, peering at Charlie’s wound. “I’m sure Arthur didn’t mean it.”
“He did mean it,” Charlie bellowed with red-faced defiance. “He did.”
Arthur responded by burying his face in his mother’s skirt.
“Actually, I’d be inclined to agree.” It was the man who’d separated the two boys. He was still holding the swizzle stick. Amy found herself staring at him. She was sure she recognized him, but try as she might, she couldn’t place him.
“What do you mean?” Victoria snapped.
“I mean that your son gave every impression that he was about to hurt this child if he didn’t hand over the Lego man.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was playing, that’s all.” By now, Arthur was burrowing sullenly into Victoria’s skirt and she was rubbing his back.
“You call it playing. I call it terrorizing,” the man said.