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more skull-like every day. She looks like a little girl trapped in an old person’s body.
    ‘You gonna be okay bussing? Do you want to swap?’ I wouldn’t make this offer to anybody except Kylie. I hate bussing – cleaning tables and bringing the dirty stuff in to Roger. People like to sit with their chairs pushed right back and they never move for you, even though they can see you there, struggling with a heavy load, trying to get through. It’s the pits.
    ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ Kylie’s got a scratchy voice that goes up and down when she speaks. She smokes, so it could be from that. ‘What are you making?’
    ‘The biscotti. What do you think?’
    She puts her head over the mixer bowl and has a good look. Her shaggy red-brown hair looks like a wig, too big for her pointed little face.
    ‘Looks good.’
    ‘I’m going to put extra stuff in it. I’m thinking pine nuts, toasted hazelnuts … maybe some nutmeg.’
    ‘ That’s the way,’ she cackles, grinning.
    It’s a point of honour between the two of us that we deviate from the official franchise recipe with everything we make – on the generous side.
    She gives me a hug. ‘That’s what I like about you. You make everything with love, like me.’
    And she really means it. She’s a hearts and flowers girl. Two weeks after I started she gave me this naff card that said You’re so very special on the front of it. It had a picture of a little cat holding a balloon. It was to thank me for doing the close properly, making things easier for her in the mornings. Stu, the guy who works the kitchen on my nights off, leaves things looking like a shit fight after every shift, apparently.
    The bell dings and Emilio appears at the window. His brown hair is sweaty at the front and he looks tired. I’m expecting a food order but all he says is, ‘Hello, Carly, how are you?’
    I smile at him. ‘Good thanks, Emilio. How are you?’
    I do have a soft spot for Emilio. Not least because he’s a walking franchise manual: Make sure you greet every staff member as soon as they arrive. A good manager makes employees feel that their contribution to the running of the hospitality operation is important .
    I finish off the biscotti dough, shape it and put it in the oven. Then I lug the mixer bowl over to Roger. As I approach I see him wolf down the remains of a steak sandwich and my stomach turns over. He eats food scraps all the time and everybody pretends not to notice. Whenever I ask him if he wants me to make him something for dinner he says no. A couple of times I’ve pretended to get an order wrong and made an extra dish and then asked him if he wants it, and he’s still said no. He likes to eat other people’s leftovers. Maybe because he thinks it’s a secret. Like Kylie thinks the fact she doesn’t eat is a secret.
    ‘Behind, Roge,’ I say, leaving the bowl on the floor next to him.
    We get hit about half an hour later. The line for coffees and food stretches out the door. The little printer sitting at the edge of the window spews out food orders faster than I can get through them so that eventually the line of dockets almost reaches the floor. I don’t understand these people. Why don’t they go to a nice place? One of the funky restaurants in the back streets away from the Corso, where they can sit down and relax while some nice waitress comes and takes their order. Why do they like queuing to order, then carrying the coffees they’ve waited for around with them while they fight to find a seat in a faux French bistro? It’s the final proof that location is everything. We’re on a corner block. We’re a big café with a cavernous wooden interior and an expensive floral arrangement. People see the queue forming and rush to join it in case they’re missing out on something.
    Things quieten down at around eight-thirty. Marty comes out and stands behind me while I’m slicing the baked biscotti, pressing the whole of his body up against mine.
    I twist