Page 6 of Cream & Sugar
My teeth start to chatter. I resolve to buy myself a cup of tea and carry on with the job hunt.
I stand up just as a rogue gust of wind comes along and whisks my pile of CVs into the air. They swirl around me in a blizzard of fraudulent paper.
“Shit!” I make wild grabs for them but they’re moving too fast to catch.
Behind me, the workmen laugh and jeer. I feel my face reddening.
I only manage to rescue a couple of the CVs, and the rest are swept away into the sky. Examining the two crinkled pages I’ve saved, I find both of them are damp and dirtied by the wet pavement. I’m tempted to rip them up in anger, and I would if I wasn’t facing homelessness.
With my two sodden résumés firmly in hand, I flip a middle finger to the workmen, then dash off before any of them can catchme. A little too late, I wonder if they’re looking for any more staff. Probably too late to ask now.
I turn onto the high street. With only two CVs left, I have to be careful who I give them to. No handing one over to some disinterested sales assistant who promises they’ll “keep it on file” when, in reality, it’ll sit at the bottom of a drawer for years or go straight in the recycling bin. From now on, only places with an actual vacancy in the window.
I stumble across a second-hand video game shop looking for someone to work weekends and rush inside to apply. I smile awkwardly as the nerd behind the counter turns his nose up at the grubby piece of paper. Though he says he’ll pass it on to the manager, it’s clear from his expression that I won't be getting an interview. Still, I’m not quite shameless enough to ask for it back. Instead, I high-tail it out of there, clutching my final CV close to my chest like it’s a kitten I’ve rescued from a tree.
A few more minutes walking and the high street spits me out onto the esplanade.
The smell of frying chips and vinegar hangs in the air. It must be approaching lunchtime. My belly growls as I set off along the pavement, mouth watering.
There are two chippies on the seafront. The first isn’t hiring and the cheapest thing on the menu is a small chips at £2 per portion, so I can’t even afford to fill the growing void in my stomach.
The second is also fully staffed and their small chips are even more expensive. I ask shamelessly if they’ll do me a half portion, a tiny chips, if you will. The greasy man behind the counter eyes me up and down like he’s not sure if I’m winding him up or not. Then he gives me a full portion and, when I try to offer him my £1.62, tells me it’s on the house. Either he’s the kindest fish & chip shop worker in the world, or I must seem truly pathetic.
Stuffing chips into my mouth, I stroll along the seafront wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
I could always make an OnlyFans. I’m good looking enough and cameras don’t bother me one bit. Might end up being a bit of a road bump on my future music career though, and I’m not sure Rory would be happy with me running my account out of his spare bedroom. He’s already pissed at the number of guys I bring home for one-night stands as it is. Still, desperate times. I could always tell him I’m doing work-from-home data entry, or something equally menial and soul-destroying, so he doesn’t get suspicious. I’ll just have to hope he doesn’t accidentally walk in on me one day while I’m “fudging the figures.”
Up ahead, there’s a jingle as a door swings open and a middle-aged couple step out onto the pavement. They’re carrying a couple of steaming takeaway cups. I don’t remember there being a coffee shop here. Must be new.
My heart leaps as I spy the piece of paper taped to the door.
PART-TIME BARISTA WANTED
I fold my arms, for warmth more than anything, and read the rest of the ad. I’ve never been a fan of hipster coffee, or coffee in general, but a barista? I could do that. Probably. How hard can it be?
The place looks nice enough—nicer than anywhere else I’ve hustled today. It’s like one of those fancy joints you get in Edinburgh or Glasgow, all varnished wood walls and bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling by their wires.
A quick glance at the menu makes me balk. The prices are insane. I didn’t think West Marbank was ready for a place like this; we only got a Starbucks last year and even that was a bit of a culture shock.
At the bottom of the menu is the café's logo in thick, bold letters.
CREAM & SUGAR
I can’t help but smirk. Only a place this bougie could pull off a name like that without sounding like a granny’s tearoom. Or a drag double-act. Catching a glimpse of my hungover reflection in the glass door, it’s doubtful whether I’m presentable enough to work here. Guess there’s only one way to find out.
Tossing my empty chip packet into a nearby bin, I grab the door handle and push.
Rory’s words echo in my head as I step inside:Last chance, Freddie.
I plaster on a smile. Here goes nothing…
4
Shaun
Thebellringsbehindme, followed by footsteps as someone shuffles inside.
“Be with you in a second!” I call from my crouched position behind the counter.
