Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

‘Just thought I’d let you know that the meeting with Mr Camberwaddle, you know, the property tycoon, went really well.’

‘Oh well done, well done,’ her boss replied absent-mindedly.

‘In fact, he’s actually put us on a—’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Nigel said, laying his pen down for an instant and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘This is all wonderful news of course, it’s just that Will and I were in the middle of a session.’

‘A mind-mapping session,’ Will added, helpfully. ‘Advertising strategies, you know. Trying to net some serious cash for the firm.’

‘Oh, I see … well, I just wanted to—’

‘Do you mind,’ Nigel interrupted, smiling in the mildly strained way a grandfather might to a slightly irritating child, ‘if I could ask you to pop back later with the details, or jot them down? It’s just that you’re not meant to break the um … the …’ he looked at Will imploringly.

‘The flow,’ Will finished for him. ‘It’s one of the strategies of highly successful people I’ve been reading about,’ he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and shifting forward on his chair. ‘Pour your ideas onto the page and genius will out!’ He grinned, without a jot of self-consciousness.

‘So, if you don’t mind?’ Nigel said, nodding at her as if he wanted to headbutt her out of the door from four metres away.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Sure, no problem.’

As she closed the door she heard Will begin again. ‘Defibrillators! We could put our number on defibrillator paddles!’

Chapter Three

Standing in the queue at the local independent coffee house that lunchtime, her thermal cup clutched in her hand, Clare waited impatiently for her cappuccino. She had ten minutes left on her lunchbreak – easily enough time, but for some reason the server seemed to be sprinkling some sort of powdered masterpiece on the foamy top of the cappuccino he was preparing for the woman in front. Every now and then, he’d sigh loudly, scrape off his design, reapply the foam and get to work with his chocolate shaker again.

She’d chosen this particular coffee house as the takeaway coffee service was usually pretty rapid. On quieter days, she liked to visit the little tea shop around the corner, tuck herself away at a corner table and scribble in her notebook. Not legal stuff. Poems. She’d been writing in the same battered notebook since she’d been at uni – it was her guilty pleasure and a way of relieving stress.

Toby had found the notebook once. ‘What are these?’ he’d said. ‘Song lyrics or something?’

She’d felt suddenly possessive – as if he was asking to read her diary. ‘Nothing. Give it back!’ she’d said, sounding about five years old.

I mean, who writes poems? Plus, it was something that was just for her.

‘Honestly,’ the girl waiting for her coffee told the server now. ‘Honestly, it looks fine. I’ll take it like that.’ She glanced behind her at the growing line of customers apologetically, her immaculate blonde hair fanning out behind her as she moved. ‘It’s only coffee,’ she added.

Her words coincided with a break in the music, meaning that as well as being heard by her individual barista, they were picked up by the older, skinny guy operating the till who glared at her as if she’d been spouting some sort of anti-coffee hate speech. There was an awkward silence before the music kicked back in.

Finally pleased with his design, the barista straightened up and passed the coffee to the girl, who grinned when she saw the intricate rose pattern he’d created. ‘Suppose it was worth the wait,’ she said, flashing the top of her (probably cold) drink briefly to Clare like some sort of prize.

‘Lovely,’ Clare said, between gritted teeth.

‘Anything for our valued customers,’ the barista nodded, doffing his cap like a nineteenth-century chimney sweep.

Clare was normally a fan of a bit of chocolate powder on her cappuccino on the rare occasions she treated herself to anything other than the instant coffee and limescaley water from the work kettle. She glanced at her watch; five minutes to go. She’d have to forgo it today or risk being late.

‘Cappuccino, please,’ she said, ready to refuse sprinkles – especially ones with an intricate design. ‘To go.’ She handed him her reusable cup – white, with a pattern of musical notes – a present from Ann last Christmas.

‘Right,’ came the reply. The barista fiddled about with the stainless steel contraption, dispensed some coffee and duly spooned on some milk foam. Then he plonked the drink unceremoniously in front of her. ‘There you go,’ he said.

‘Excuse me,’ Clare said, feeling disproportionately angry, ‘but you didn’t offer me any sprinkles!’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘Well aren’t you going to?’

‘Yes, of course. Would you like any sprinkles, madam?’ he said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

‘No, thank you. It’s fine like it is.’ She picked up her cup in one hand, lid in the other, and went to move towards the till, hearing the collective sigh of the queue behind her.

‘So why make a point of it?’

‘Excuse me?’ she turned back towards the barista, slopping some coffee – which, she noted, was on the cold side – over her hand.

‘Why make a point of the sprinkles when you didn’t even want them?’ The barista, who must have been eighteen years old at most, narrowed his eyes at her as if she was some sort of troublemaker. ‘What are you, mystery shopper or something?’

‘No, I just saw … well, surely it’s your job to offer? And,’ she felt herself blush but continued anyway, ‘you spent all that time on her sprinkles; why not give all the customers that kind of service?’ Why am I always being ignored?

‘But you didn’t want them!’

‘Look, can I just get a coffee?’ the man at the front of the queue interjected.

‘But I might have wanted them. In fact, I DID want them. I just don’t have time for you to create a Da Vinci masterpiece on the top of my drink!’ she