Page 2 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
•Double-check positioning of today’s half up, half down hair-do, prior to pics and interview
•Order flowers for liberal dotting about (pretty pastel peonies are not for the sole benefit of brides, features inGood Housekeepingmagazine and/or Elton John’s house)
•Triple-check that the tarts are nicely tipped to show their fillings, and that the calligraphy cards under each type is legible at a reasonable distance
•Final,finalwipe-over of seats and tables, sweeping of floors, buffing of windows…
I am just about to add another couple of bullet points to the list, ref. ingredient deliveries and a final-final-FINAL last minute trip to the nearest Ikea for more plates and some cute napkin rings (okay, and a side of their delicious meatballs plus a Daim bar for dessert) when Lauren barrels in with her laptop and a ridiculously young male photographer. It’s hard to say which of them is clutched closest to her breast.
“You’re half an hour early!” I greet them with a jump. “I mean, better than late, of course, but I’m not quite ready… I still need to—”
Keen to impress his boss, Lauren’s skinny, overdressed sidekick immediately begins snapping away at the interior of the café. His blinding white shirt, one-size-too-small charcoal suit and his forward-swept, feathered tufts of hair only make me want to scream all the more. He’s not so much as offered a handshake or a name, let alone checked in with my requirements.
But Lauren is looking me up and down. “Christ, could you look any more like that Eloise bird fromBridgertontoday, sis?”
I scrunch up my features and pat at my floral headband in confusion. I’m actually a big fan of the Netflix series, despite watching little TV– but I am no clone of anybody, thank you very much.
“What do you mean? I got this in Ibiza, not Bath.”
“It’s the regency mullet shag-fad, isn’t it?” Lauren sticks a finger in the air as if it– and her word– are magic wands. Her own poker straight,ghd-ed to the max, platinum-blonde sheet of salon perfect hair, which hasn’t been updated since the noughties, nods reverently in agreement as she continues to assess today’s hairstyle through eyes ringed and winged in piercing blue eyeliner. “All that’s missing is the short fringe curled inward, like a pair of insect pincers.”
“I think you’re muddling Eloise up with herimpossible-to-live-up-to-in-the-competition-stakes older sister, Daphne, but thanks for the compliment… I think.”
That soon shuts Lauren up. Although, I suppose there are worse things to say about my appearance. Truth be told, I do rate Claudia Jessie, the unassuming ‘middle-child’ actress, who plays Eloise Bridgerton, as the most beautiful of all the ladies in the show. And, like yours truly, she certainly has an independent streak.
Reluctantly, I stash my list away behind the counter, resigning myself to the fact that launch day has started already. I step out into full view on the café floor. Now Lauren finally remembers her charge, directing the young whipper-snapper to capture the custard tarts in all their glory, before shoving him out the door into the sea-breezy spring air.
“I think a few external pics of the premises would be good,” she tells him. “It’s key to capitalise on the blue, yellow and white of the café’s signage and interior décor. Match it up with whatever natural and man-made elements you can find out there. I know you’re not dressed for it, but maybe hunt out some pretty shells, rocks, and bits of seaweed on the sand.” Two words spring to mind there: ‘needle’ and ‘haystack’. “Ooh, and before you do that, a shot of the pier, looking back toward the beach, is a must. And a few contrasting pics of the amusement arcade. Here you go.” Lauren extracts a note from the roll in her giant designer purse and hands it to the lad. “Treat yourself to a full English brekkie while you’re at it, and I’ll meet you at the Jag at 10 o’clock, ready for today’s biggie.”
So much for the kid’s apparent enthusiasm formyfoodie offerings. Custard tarts are worshipped in a certain country two and a bit hours’ flight south of us, at this particular time of day. And so much for my mugshot appearing in any of the promo. If I’d known he’d zip around the premises with the speed of a bullet train, I wouldn’t have bothered trowelling on this amount of mascara and blusher.
Lauren finally puts her laptop and handbag down, dumping them with a mammoth huff on one of my spotlessly clean tables. I cannot help but wince.
“Well?” She raises her manicured hands into the air. “I’ve just come off the motorway, where I’ve had to endure the joys of that oversized kid intermittently– very loudly, I may add– chewing gum and rapping Cardi B songs over the soulful mezzo-soprano lyrics of my Adele CD. Are you going to offer me a coffee to settle my frayed nerves, or do I have to pour it myself?” she says with a pout.
“Oh, right, erm, yes.” I get back behind the counter and fling myself at the coffee machine, cursing myself under my breath. I’m not employed by my sister, for goodness sake (and thank the career goddesses for that). Lauren’s all right really and her heart truly is in the right place. It’s just, well, she’s a tad bossy. Always has been. It’s as if the midwife sent her home with a decree the day she was born: ‘thou shalt be mother hen to your little chick sisters the second they join you.’
“Are you sure he’ll be all right out there– whatever his name is? Has he been to the pier before?
And what about his suit? He’ll get it wrecked on the beach after all the rain we had last night. It’s like a mud bath out there. Those shoes looked expensive, too.” I call back over the counter as I press the magic buttons that transform bean to elixir. “Shouldn’t you be supervising?”
“Perk of the job. I point, he moves.”
“I see.” I wrinkle my nose at the wall so Lauren can’t see me.
“I certainly had to do my share of skivvying when I started out in the industry. Fair’s fair.” Lauren adds self-righteously. “I’ve also warned him before about the pitfalls of dressing above one’s station.”
I know I should be used to that acid tongue by now but I’m actually a little speechless. I could never imagine taking any of my staff for granted, not even our little sister who will be joining me imminently during her uni holidays, not even if I end up running a fleet of custard tart cafés, doing whatDunkinhas done toDonuts. I will be rolling my sleeves up and mucking in with every aspect of the business. Treat the janitor with the same respect as the MD, that’s my ethos. But knowing Lauren, she sees her method as tough love.
I’m not as convinced by all things alternative as my good friend Kelly, whose current obsession is numerology, but I am a firm believer in reincarnation. Who knows how and when we will meet the people from this lifetime all over again in one of our future lives? That’s my mantra as a business owner and it was my mantra throughout school and catering college. It’s my mantra pretty much everywhere I go. Just recently my friends and I somehow managed to acquire an entire movie screen all to ourselves on a girls’ night out at the local Odeon. Kelly and Radhika had gone a little haywire having a popcorn fight, and I’d painstakingly scrambled around every single seat and row during the less dramatic parts ofIn The Heightsto locate the errant kernels, dispose of them in the bin, and pen an apologetic note to the cleaners. None of which is to say I’m a pushover. It just pays to be smart about these things, and manners are an investment.
“Talking of perks, my goodness, this new role comes with visual benefits.” Lauren stares dreamily into space. “The new guy working with me is an absolute hottie.”
I try my darndest to control the tremble of my hand as Lauren’s shop talk jolts me from my own daydreams. It’s ridiculous, when I’m about to serve real customers day in, day out, but this is how it has always been with my older sister. Sometimes Lauren’s demeanour makes it hard to relax. I set a steaming cup of black coffee in front of her, returning briskly to the counter with my trusty tongs to seize what she will hopefully consider the most acceptable custard tart to accompany it. I’ve barely laid the pastry on a plate when Lauren is off again.
“Heck, no, Bonsai!” We’ll get to where that moniker came from in a bit. I can assure you my sister will use it more than once before this morning’s through. “What are you like? I can’t take liberties inmyline of business. Put that back immediately.”
“But you’ll walk off the calories on your way back down the pier,” I dare to bargain, hovering between counter and table. “And this is the perfect breakfast custard tart: cherry and berry; the sheer amount of fruit in it eradicates every gramme of fat. It’s Mum and Dad’s favourite, and Caitlyn’s pretty partial to it too. I’m sure she’ll be breakfasting on it soon enough when she’s back from uni.”
