I think Wayde told me even less about himself because I didn’t find out nearly as much about him as he did about me. That’s not how conversations usually go for me. ABS say nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, except for when I am there – then they can count on it. I just laugh it off; it’s only because I’m interested, is what I usually say. I know more about the people I’m talking to than they do about me.
I heard shouts from our bedroom.
‘Shell! Come! Come! He’s resigned! Things are going to change now!’
Flowers, he was going to wake the kids, the bloody idiot. How was this the same guy I met working as a manager at Mortons at the Waterfront? He was there for dinner and we chaffed each other so hard we ended up having sex in the disabled toilet. Not classy, no. But sexy as flowers. I lost my job over that. Didn’t matter, I’d lost my mind over a short Jewish guy from Joburg who had chutzpah for days. The crazy thing was that he was equally mad about me. But when your heart is broken like mine was and something comes along that seems to fix it, you go with it, don’t question it at all. From that night, we became Jerry & Shelley, and I didn’t question my luck to find him. I don’t know why, other than it was a new thing having a good guy wanting to look after me. Young, dumb, broke – and motherless. That was me. Jerry made me feel loved and cared for. He said I was the most important person in the world to him, and I believed him.
I didn’t tell Wayde any of that.
Me: Okay, I need to go. Will wait to hear about Friday.
Him: Rad. You’re quite something, you know that schweet Shelley Jacobsen? Happy Valentine’s, I think I might just dream of you. Winky face emoji.
3
Psych.
I dreamed of him.
Hair and abs and puffy Cupid lips and Pina Colada Coconut Vanilla Dessert.
I was Totally Good Enough. And it was Epic – my funny Valentine’s had a happy ending. I wanted to cry when I woke up and realised that it wasn’t true, that instead of Wayde and his ways, it was simply an ordinary five-thirty in the morning with Jerry snoring and two kids in my bed, kicking their feet into my back and my stomach. The dream was over. In the old days, it would’ve been something to tell ABS, for us to laugh about, and everyone would tell me I was mad. But today it was a delicious secret to leave folded up in my head. Just for me.
I could pretend I was whatever I wanted to be.
Coffee & Cream, with a side of Wayde
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
4
Thursday, 15 February
‘Where’ve you been?’ Di hissed, her words escaping through a fake side smile as I slid in behind the marble-topped counter that curved against the back wall of the shop. Our accountant knows, but I still haven’t told Di or Jerry exactly how much it cost – they would freak. When you stand outside the shop, the oversize rose-gold lettering of Coffee & Cream on the glass store front seems to float over the counter in a perfect arch. I think it just about calls women in. It would call me if I were out shopping. The counter shows off the Astoria espresso machine (the one I can’t work) and the three custom rose-gold-and-ceramic cake stands I commissioned from Urchin Art. Deep glass bowls of chocolate balls stand guard at each end. I wanted to display bottles of champagne on the open shop-facing shelves below the counter so that the trifecta of coffee, cake and champagne would be visible from outside the shop, but we don’t have a liquor licence, so that killed that idea. Instead, I filled the shelves with cream-coloured handmade soaps and bath goodies. I hoped the whole scene said, Relax, come in and spoil yourself. That counter is my pride, my own design. I give myself a hundred-and-ten per cent.
‘It’s only been half an hour …’ We didn’t have a clock on any of the walls of the shop; I didn’t want a shopper to be aware of the time, like in the casinos. I think I left at twelve-thirty. I swung my arm up to activate the screen on my Apple Watch. It was five past two. ‘Not that long.’
‘It’s been over an hour. You said you were only going to get a quick half-hour mini-mani at Sorbet. The courier guy’s been – again – and delivered four more boxes. I nearly sent him away – I thought you were done shopping? And you do realise that I can see you in Poetry and in The Pause Room? Just because there is a passage and escalators between us and them doesn’t make you invisible in there. I rang you, but you didn’t answer.’ Di was cross, but this has become normal in the four months since we opened Coffee & Cream. I’d started feeling like her kid. Today, her voice sounded precisely like when she was cross and talking to one of her girls – pitch too high, ready to crack like a thin slab of peanut brittle. I could understand why her girls sometimes roll their eyes at her – she is nearly always right and there is nothing else to do – but I didn’t dare. I don’t have any divorced-child guilt to trade on like they do.
‘Keep your panties on. I couldn’t answer with my nails getting done, could I? It’s not that busy,’ I said, looking around the shop. I hadn’t meant to take so long, but I haven’t had my nails done in yonks, and I ended up choosing Matador Red Gelish at the last minute, which took longer than the ordinary file and paint I was used to. Two of the four round tables in front of the counter had a single woman nursing a cappuccino, and two other women were working their way around the sides of the store, staring at the little stories I’d created with each collection of gifts. Happy days! One woman was clutching three rose-gold soy candles.
‘I only looked in Poetry for a minute while I waited for the Wellness Warehouse smoothies I ordered for us. Here, untwist yourself.’ I held out the takeaway cup as a peace offering.
‘You know we can do without advertising for other places.’ Di narrowed her eyes at me. She was never easily swayed. It had been hard work to convince her to do Coffee & Cream with me: a shop selling the kind of gifts and small décor bits that I loved to buy, with a few tables where customers could have the coffee that Di loved to make. She had been bored doing admin work with Owen, and I was bored being a mommy and not working. Coffee & Cream would make us both happy, I’d said. I’d sold her on it. Let me do the finance (I meant Jerry and Jerry’s accountant would do it) and the shopping and the decorating. You run the coffee side. We bought in cakes and pasticceri from Trecastelli in Blouberg. We didn’t serve any other food; I’d wanted to in the beginning, but the cost of staff and the space needed for a full kitchen was more than the savings I had. We weren’t making any money yet, and we’d expected that – we were both prepared for that – but Di was under more pressure to make money sooner. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but I know she used a big chunk of her divorce settlement for this, so she needed Coffee & Cream to be a success. I had Jerry as a safety net, she reasoned. Di didn’t see that it was still my own money, worked for and saved from the proceeds of my interior design business. I needed it to work as much as she did. If I lost those savings, I would be completely financially dependent on Jerry, and I’d never wanted that. I took the risk; I believed in the idea of opening Coffee & Cream with my best friend rather than running around on my own like I did as an interior decorator. Di didn’t see that. She just saw Jerry backing me.
Truthfully, I hadn’t been prepared.
Not for the changes in our friendship or for the sheer number of hours that the shop ate out of my life. It felt like every waking hour was spent either thinking about Coffee & Cream or being in it. I’m sure it didn’t seem so hard to have a business twenty years ago. Di said I’d gone soft.
‘I was doing research in Poetry and in The Pause Room. I wanted to see what