“Oh no, no. It’s your hard work. This”—he makes a gesture to encircle the room—“it is not an easy undertaking. You should take credit. It looks superb.”
“Well, it’s not perfect. But thank you. We’re getting there.” I’m proud of Lillian’s, whether I admit it out loud or not. “And now you’re here, you need to try the macarons. As we say, ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating.’”
“Ah, you are right. What do you recommend?” He gives me a blue-eyed wink, like a partner in crime. A fellow baker.
“I recommend them all, of course,” I reply with a grin. “Take a seat and I’ll bring one of each.”
“Perfect. Shall we have coffee and you can give me the guided tour?”
I look up at Rilla. She is drying a cup and nods to me.
“Sure.”
He leaves the champagne, with its showy bow, on the counter and takes a seat at one of the tables. I notice the other customers lifting their eyes in his direction, women glancing at him over their coffee cups. That magnetism, like the type that first drew me to Pete. I take off my apron and try to smooth my hair while crouched down by the counter fridge. I choose a selection of macarons and wonder if the odd feeling in my stomach is hunger. Or a twinge of desire, perhaps unease. Probably both.
* * *
Marjory has become my regular morning institution. Rilla seems to like her. She says things like “Bloody glorious day outside,” which make Rilla laugh. Marjory has one of those white, winning grins paired with a salt-of-the-earth quality—exactly the opposite of what you would expect from her polished appearance. I often find myself staring at her careful beauty and bubbling confidence, wishing I could be bolder, more put together. When I am in the kitchen putting on a batch of macaron shells, I can hear her voice from the front of the café, telling some joke or lovingly complaining about her husband, Don. I always come out to personally make her coffee just the way she likes it. A cappuccino with low-fat milk and “no faff.” That means no cinnamon, no chocolate; just the steamed milk swirled into a leaf pattern. She allows herself to have one macaron with her coffee, daily, and gives me her frank opinion on some of my trials and new flavors.
“No good, Grace” or “Yup, awesome” seem to be the two standard responses. I tend to agree with her; my ideas do seem to be hit-or-miss. But I’m getting better with practice. I’ve been spending my evenings online, studying Parisian patisserie menus—Mulot, Hermé, Ladurée, Lenôtre—while Pete dozes in front of the television.
Today Marjory sits in her usual place as I wipe down the tables. A three-year-old boy has showered floors and tables and windowsills with sugar. It is crunchy underfoot. Fortunately, both mother and boy have left, his howls and whoops fading into the distance. I had watched while she let him slurp down half of her latte and he’d become tightly wound with the caffeine hit. Wiping the table next to Marjory, I offer an apology.
“So sorry about that. Wasn’t sure whether I should ask them to leave or not. But in retrospect …” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling.
Marjory just nods, unusually quiet. She seems strangely rigid in her chair. I come in closer to brush a few crystal grains from her tabletop and notice that tears are making wet tracks through her bronzer and dripping off the edge of her jaw. She is still wearing her sunglasses, and her features are frozen in smooth composure. Then she pats at her cheek, smudging her blush, bronzer, and foundation. The white napkin becomes muddy and soggy, and she twists it in her fist.
“Do you …” I start, and then pause. I look around furtively, noticing that all the other customers have left, a little break in the morning tide. I pull out the chair opposite hers at the table. The legs clatter across the tiles. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Her chin is tilted toward her lap, and she pats at her cheeks again with the napkin. “There’s nothing to say,” she says and sighs.
I stay seated opposite her.
Then her breathing gets ragged, her mouth squeezed shut and turned down at the edges. She gasps for breath through her nose before a low cry escapes her. “It’s Bianca.”
“Bianca?”
“My dog,” she explains. Her sunglasses make it impossible to see her eyes. I let go of my dishcloth, placing it on top of the table, lean toward her a little.
“She died. We had to … you see … we had to put her down.” She brushes absently at the dark pools her tears are making against her skirt, then shakes her head. “Shit. Sorry. This isn’t your problem.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
“I shouldn’t be crying in here. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay …” I put my hand on her shoulder, and she lifts her head.
“It’s not that simple,” she stammers.
I press my hand against her shoulder, trying to reassure her. I don’t know what to say.
She lets out a deep breath and finally takes off her glasses. Mascara is smeared under her eyes like war paint. When she catches me looking at her face, she twists her napkin into a point, rolling it slowly under each of her eyes. It doesn’t make any difference. Her painted face is undone.
“Why am I crying about this? I didn’t even like her. God, that sounds awful. I sound like an awful person.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” I say gently, feeling unhelpful. It has been so long since I have had a friend, I don’t quite know how to comfort her.
“I mean, really, she was a nightmare from the beginning, and now … it turns out she had a brain tumor. That’s probably why she was always so aggressive. Nothing they could do, nothing.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
She gives me a watery smile. “It’s okay. I’m surprised I’m so upset. You know, last week I was secretly hoping there would be some reason we would have to give her back. Or … something. She was an absolute monster at times. It sounds so horrible to say out loud.” She gives a wry kind of laugh.
I let go of her shoulder and put my hands in my lap. “Well, she did seem like a bit of a handful. I mean, you shouldn’t feel bad, you know. It wasn’t—”
“My fault? Yeah, I know. I know that logically. Rationally.” She shakes her head. “It’s just that I got up this morning, still sleepy, and put food in her bowl and then remembered … and then … I didn’t think I would feel like this.”
“I think it’s normal to feel sad,” I say.
“No. I mean, yes, I do feel sad. But I didn’t think I would feel so … lost?” She seems to look through me for a moment. “I used to be a dancer, you know. Oh hell, don’t tell any of the ladies that, they already look at me like I’m some kind of hooker.” She lowers her voice, picks at her napkin with her nail. “It wasn’t like that. Sure, we were a bit Moulin Rouge, you know, but classy, not strippers or anything. It was the best time, Grace. Seeing the world, getting drunk, suitcases full of gorgeous dresses. I had the best life I knew of, better than the other girls from school, ending up with quiet lives and boring husbands. Yuck. But I was getting too old for it in the end. That’s when I met Don. Then being a wife was really nice for a while, but now, I don’t know, I just feel …”
Part of me wants to offer her words. Descriptions that come to me so easily. Empty. Confused. Directionless.
As her voice trails off, she stares out at nothing. Then she sits up and looks a little embarrassed. “Hey, thank you. For listening. I guess I’m a bit stunned. Now I see Bianca was kind of … filling my days …”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Marjory sniffles and I wish I had something helpful or useful to say. I know what it is to feel lost. To have your dreams dissolve in seconds. Things that were supposed to be a certain way suddenly turning out completely different. Why can’t I think of anything to say? I glance around Lillian’s. Rilla is in the kitchen washing up; I can hear her, the sloshes and knocks of plates hitting one another in the soapy water. I love that sound, the stillness of the front of the café, the busyness in the kitchen. I realize with a jolt that I am thanking Go
d for this place. That I no longer feel quite so lost.
“It’s going to be okay. It will be okay,” I say again with conviction. I want to say more, but I can’t think how to say it. I hope Marjory feels some reassurance from me. She gives me a weak smile.
“Do you want a cup of tea? Chamomile? Or maybe a cappuccino?”
She nods. “A cup of tea would be great.”
We smile at each other, our eyes meeting across the table. She reaches out and pats my hand, and we both look down together—her golden, manicured hand lying on top of my pale, damp one with the short nails lined with almond flour.
“Thanks, Grace.”
“No problem,” I reply softly.
I get up and take out a cup and saucer.
* * *
We seem to have won over several customers who now always choose Lillian’s for their morning coffee or afternoon sugar buzz. Each has quirky habits I try to memorize. Some I learn the hard way, making mistakes, getting things wrong. Occasionally, just after I’ve mastered the customer’s order, she will change her mind. Other customers let me know their preferences from the first time they come, cutting straight to the quick, not mincing words. Gigi falls into this category, ordering her coffee as if she’s made the request every morning of her life.
She wears black trousers and a white shirt, the unmistakable uniform of a table games dealer, sans waistcoat, which the casinos don’t allow to be taken home. She can’t be much older than nineteen or twenty, although I find it difficult to tell with Chinese women. Their skin is always so taut and creamy; it’s hard not to be envious. The ponytail on her head is high and tight, and a dark fringe brushes her forehead. I imagine her on the other side of the green felt, sullen and bored. She pushes her fringe to one side to give me a strangely curious and angry look. She seems familiar.
“Hi, I’d like a cappuccino. Chocolate on top,” she says very quickly while I stare, trying to figure out how I know her.
“Sure. Take a seat; I’ll bring it to you. Magazines are in the stand on the left if you’d like something to read.” As I point she turns her chin and looks in the direction of my finger. When she turns back, I give her a smile.
“Thanks,” she replies curtly. No smile.
She moves from one foot to the other, staying at the counter. She holds her bag in front of her stomach protectively, as though it might be snatched from her at any moment. I wait a few moments for her to say something.
“Anything else?” I ask finally.
“Um, which is the best one?”
“Sorry?”
“Of these … things.”
“Oh, macarons.” I move toward the shelf on which their round bodies are lined up primly. “Well, it depends, I guess. I like caramel flavors; some people prefer a lighter taste, like rose, at least to start with. The chocolate-flavored ones are lovely, of course …” I am rambling; it is like choosing a favorite child, practically impossible.
“What’s this one then?” She points at my newest creation, a pale, creamy white with soft flecks of yellow, like glints of gold in white marble.
“Rêve d’un Ange. It means ‘dream of an angel.’” She tilts her head, interested, and I shrug. “Hopelessly romantic name, I know. Couldn’t help myself.”
“What’s in it?” she asks, lowering her voice.
“It’s my white chocolate macaron. Ganache, that’s a kind of chocolate cream, sandwiched in the middle. I’ve added a little lemon rind and cinnamon. Most people can hardly taste those flavors though. It’s one of my newest. Would you like to try it?”
She has been leaning in towards the counter, peering at it closely, her dark eyes wide. Now she straightens up briskly. “Yeah.”
She takes a seat at a table near the window. I expect to see her grab a fashion magazine, chatter to friends on the phone. But she doesn’t. She props her elbow on the table and rests her head upon it. Then she picks up the menu and reads it carefully, over and over. When I deliver her order, she looks down at the plate bearing the single macaron and then up to me.
“Thanks. I’m Gigi.” The words rush out as if unplanned.
“Hi, Gigi. I’m Grace.”
“You came to see my aunty,” she says, her eyes tracing over my face with a long, serious look. It’s then I remember her in the tracksuit, chewing gum, fiddling with a mobile phone.
“At the temple …” I reply slowly. It is my translator from the fortune-telling. She has that same darting, curious look.
Silence falls between us. Despite her youth there is something in her eyes that seems to suggest wariness, mistrust. That she has seen more than she should, that she has been dealt some bad hands. Something passes between us, and I can’t tell what it is.
“I just help out there. It’s not my real job,” she says.
“Oh, okay.”
“She’s my mother’s sister,” she adds and then looks embarrassed, as if she has said too much. I change the subject, glancing down at her uniform.
“So then you’re a croupier—I mean, a dealer?”
“Was.” She turns her head back to her macaron and away from me. It’s too awkward to ask her anything more.
“Well, good to see you here.” I smile and move off to the counter. When I look back, she is staring down at her stomach, arms crossed over it. There is a soft weight there. I wonder … The question sinks my heart like a stone. I brush it out of my mind with thoughts of chocolate ganache, dark, sweet, buttery, and as smooth as paint. Two women come to order coffees. I recognize them as friends of Linda’s. They lift their tortoiseshell sunglasses onto their heads and chat about their latest shopping trip in Zhuhai.
Dearest Mama,
What happened that day Mrs. Spencer told you I was never going to be any good at maths? You always made it the best story. I miss it. You have to tell it to me again.
All I really remember is the part where you rose to your feet and said something like “What exactly did you just say about my daughter, Pamela?”
Imagine—Mrs. Spencer having a first name. Pamela. Then she faltered and put her hand to her throat, touching those pearls of hers and not able to get any words out for a minute.
And you said, “Well?” with both eyebrows raised.
I can almost see her, pursing her lips and gathering up every ounce of courage she had from the soles of her small feet, right up to the pointy tips of her cropped hair.
“Well, Ms. Raven”—with a disapproving buzz on the Ms.—“Grace lacks conviction. She lacks action. If she would actually participate in class, rather than huddling down in the back, maybe she would learn something.”
That’s when she stood up too. A moment of great bravery for Mrs. Spencer, I thought, because she barely came up to your chest, and she knew that before she left the seat of her chair. It was going to give you an advantage right away, towering over her with a face full of fury. Then the best part—you pausing, leaning down, coming in close to her face. Close to that horrendous breath of hers; her mouth smelled like dead fish stapled to a wall for three weeks and allowed to rot. Whispering, “Seems you don’t know a thing about my Grace, Pamela. She is full of conviction, as it happens. She just saves it up. For. Things. That. Matter.”
That was the end of that, wasn’t it? You turned around and never went back for a parent-teacher meeting again. I’d give you the notices and you’d tear them up in front of me, the two of us giggling like a pair of parrots.
So, Mama, you’d like this—it turns out that, contrary to popular belief, a lily-livered waitress can open her own café. She can make it work. And she can make a profit, even if it is a small one … for now.
Your loving daughter,
Grace
Coeur Curatif—Healing Heart
Vanilla with Raspberry Markings and Raspberry Gel Insertion
Gigi, who has been coming to the café and staying for hours, is pregnant.
I can’t pretend that she’s not. Even Rilla notices.
In a rare chatty moment, R
illa murmurs to me, “Should she be drinking so much coffee?”
We both know what she means, but I don’t answer her. Pretend not to hear her and keep stocking the fridge with milk. Rude, I know, but I don’t want to talk about it. I cannot help the ache in my chest, looking at the swelling in Gigi’s front, growing day by day. She covers it with long T-shirts and big handbags, sweatshirts if she can, but the weather is heating up and stepping into summer. It’s there. Whether or not either of us prefers it wasn’t. Noticing it always makes me feel heavy, as if I have swallowed stones.
Gigi’s face is normally hunched over the classifieds section of the newspaper, probably searching for jobs. Usually she’s scowling underneath her makeup and dark eyeliner. Except, of course, when she examines the macarons in their case. Then her face softens, a strange melting, like butter in a pan.
Her favorite is the same as mine. L’Arrivée. That smoky, caramel sweetness, tempered with the sharpness of rock salt, the filling sticky and toffee-like. I watch her pick up crumbs with her finger and lick them off. She never wastes a single piece.
Week after week she is here, circling ads with a bright purple marker decorated with tiny cartoon mice and drinking her coffees. She must go to interviews but not get the jobs. I assume she is a Macau citizen, the most-sought-after employee in this tight labor market. Is it her attitude? Her lack of experience? Or the obvious bulge? I try not to think about it, or I begin to feel that little pinch of pity. One day I suggested she should try an herbal tea. Lightly, trying not to sound patronizing or judgmental. Maternal. She glared at me sharply, then asked again for a cappuccino, please.
But today Gigi has not been in. In fact, it’s been eerily quiet. Rilla cleans the milk frother and looks distractedly out the front window. There is a stillness in the air; even the sky seems to slump limply.
“It’s an odd day,” I mumble, to myself mainly. Rilla nods in agreement, her small, dark eyebrows bunched together.
There have been so few customers today, although Yok Lan came in for a couple of hours in the morning for a cup of tea and three of her favorite pink macarons. It was the most she’d ever ordered or eaten; Rilla and I exchanged curious looks. She sat close to the counter and smiled at us over the rim of her cup, happy to watch us work. She is a goddess of peace, that woman; I swear even angry dogs or stormy seas would calm when she is about.
The Colour of Tea Page 11
