Beauty by Louise Mensch Page B

follow procedures – there wasn’t too much left to do.
    Dimitri and Gil had listened to her. She’d made things happen at the Greek diner; she’d been innovative. But Mount Java was already a major company. It was expanding nationwide and Alex Markos didn’t need much from her. There was only room to execute his ideas well – not bring in her own.
    Dina knew she wanted more. Was she ungrateful? She hoped not. She was learning, soaking it up like a sponge. The simple importance of quality was what Markos’s store taught her. They imported the best beans, ground them finer than most, used all-natural flavourings and changed the water often. That was the secret – sound expensive; be fresher than the other guy.
    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.