Perfect Blend: A Novel by Sue Margolis Page A

been on my way here.”
    Amy and Brian immediately started hooting with laughter and agreed that it was one of the funniest stories they’d heard in ages.
    Zelma seemed perplexed. “But Monsieur Etienne at Sandrine’s would have sacked me for something like that. Back in the sixties, us shop girls used to have to clock in, and if we were more than five minutes late, that was it. You were out on your ear.”
    “Well, this is not Sandrine’s and I am not Monsieur Etienne. You are totally forgiven. Now, how about a cup of something before you get started.”
    Zelma said she’d have a milky tea—coffee gave her palpitations—but if it was all the same to Brian, she’d prefer to get started straightaway. With that she took off her pink tweed suit jacket and pulled her neatly folded overall out of her bag. “So,” she said to Amy as she slid an arm into the sleeve of her overall. “How did it go last night with that new man of yours?”
    Amy explained. Zelma sighed and patted Amy’s hand and told her not to worry, as there was plenty more kasha in the knish. Amy laughed and said she didn’t have the foggiest what that meant but she got the picture.
    Zelma patted her hand. “Every lid has a pot,” she said before calling out to Brian, who was in the kitchen. “So, darling, how you getting on with Maddy?”
    “Not so good.”
    She exhaled heavily. “So what is it this time? A big nose? Bandy legs?”
    “Webbed feet,” Brian came back.
    Zelma gave an exasperated shake of her head and turned to Amy. “I’m telling you, that boy needs to find a new head doctor, because the one he’s seeing isn’t doing him any favors.”

    TEN MINUTES after opening, Café Mozart was filling up fast. It was the same every morning: foggy-headed folks on their way to work queuing for large, double-shot espressos to bring them around. The men would also take a croissant or pain au chocolat to go. The women might have an organic smoothie or, if Zelma had worked her magic on them, a slice of buttered wholemeal toast. A few people would sit down with their coffee and grab one of the newspapers off the rack. Café Mozart provided The Times, The Guardian, The Independent , and The International Herald Tribune .
    Mega-earning alpha mummies with four children under eight, a house refurb, and a UN peace deal on the go would dash in, their Burberry cashmere coats flying. Somehow they managed to order coffee and search through their purses for the right change while conducting frantic conversations on their mobile phones, usually with the nanny. “Look, Tracy, I’ve just this second realized that I’ve forgotten the going-home bags for Oscar’s birthday party tomorrow. Be a darling and pop into John Lewis and pick up thirty Nintendo games. Get whatever you think the kids are into. I’ll send a courier over to you with my charge card.”
    THERE WERE a fair number of Café Mozart regulars. First there were the authors, journalists, and other media types who worked from home and came in after the early-morning rush with their MacBooks and sat sweating over articles and TV proposals. Several took a real interest in the coffee. They were lavish in their praise of Brian’s espresso and often broke off from what they were doing to ask him about the provenance of this or that blend. Like him they referred to “complex” noses and “astringent, lingering” aftertastes.
    Amy couldn’t help noticing how the journalists—inevitably on a deadline—stabbed the keys on their laptops far too hard and kept looking at their watches, after which they always muttered “fuck” or “bollocks.” She could almost feel their adrenaline and couldn’t help feeling jealous. She’d approached a couple of them for advice about breaking into journalism, but each time the message was the same: With the recession, freelancers were struggling across the board. Payments were lower now than they had been ten years ago. A couple of them were kind enough to give