Coffee, Croissants, and Broken Dreams
She descended the stairs quickly, she had all day. It was a rainy Saturday morning, she wanted to relax. Sit in a cafe, alone, drink coffee, maybe a croissant. Then wait for the phone call.
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She walked along the street. She had no time for slow coaches who blocked her path. Her heels clicked, she stopped and pushed the cafe door open, looked around and chose a table next to the window. She could watch the street while she waited for the call.
The call would come through, it was important. Her career depended on it. She had a good agent. She had made the right choice.
Her friends had had agents. She would get hers now.
She ordered a croissant and some coffee.
“Can you warm the milk?”
“Yes”
“Not too much, just above room temperature.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Wait. Yes.”
“What?”
“The butter should be cool — from the fridge.”
She opened her bag, took out her mobile phone and checked the battery level. Fully charged. Good, happy. The call, it would come soon. What time did he say, she can’t remember the agreement about time. Surely they had said a time.
She frowned. Her fingers nervously rubbed the surface of the table.
She felt the cool air brush her face, the door opened and a man walked in. She liked his dark jacket, expensive. She looked out into the street. Maybe the silver Mercedes, maybe that was his.
She looked down at her dormant phone, and anger threatened to rise in her. She had waited long enough. She suppressed her feelings.
Maybe that was the agent, not a phone call, a visit. That could be it.
She tried to catch his eye, but she couldn’t see if he noticed. He was smiling, happy to see her. She calmed herself, he doesn’t know her. She was nervous and making assumptions. Stop. She looked at the phone. Frowned and pushed it to the edge of the table. She noticed the empty seat opposite her.
He could sit there. She mustn’t be pushy, agents like to power play, do things to worry their clients. He’d want to keep her on the hook, but use her talent. Let him play his game.
She allowed him to sit at the table he’d chosen. She watched as the waitress brought him coffee and two croissants. He cut into the bread, then split the rest with his fingers. As he buttered the croissant, she noticed the flakes of brown crust stuck to his fingers and wondered what he would do about it.
She looked down at her table, searched for the serviettes. Why don’t they lay out serviettes anymore?
She raised her arm above her head and called out, “waitress! Can you bring me some serviettes?”
The waitress, carrying a shiny metal tray, stopped and looked at her, then nodded. She brought the serviettes.
“Here’s the paper towels you wanted, okay, sweetheart?”
“Serviettes. I asked for serviettes.” She pushed her fingers into the pile of white tissues, “but these will have to do, thank you.”
The waitress was walking away, but she called out after her, “Please don’t call me sweetheart — I’m an actress, didn’t you know this?”
She lifted a serviette from the pile, then held it between her fingers. She saw a small stain on the paper, she ripped at it, then it was gone. But now there was a hole that bothered her.
When she looked across at the man, she could see that he was an agent. Surely he’d seen her. She’ll hand him a serviette. Then he’ll know, they’ll recognises each other.
She stood up, told herself to stay calm and walk, hand him the serviette and return to her table. He’d get it, see her, and come to her table after she seated herself again.
She reached his table then stopped. He looked up at her and smiled politely, his face questioned her.
She waved the serviette in front of him, then laid it onto the table. He looked down, confused.
“You don’t have any, I brought you one,” Then she pointed at his buttery fingers.
He picked up the serviette, then wiped his fingers, and said thank you. His soft voice surprised her.
She returned to her table. She didn’t like his soft voice.
Agents should have strong, confident voices that everybody can hear. That was something she was sure about.
She saw him move his head, he wanted to look. She knew this. They always look in the end. Power plays. She knew how an agent worked.
He looked, she looked back at him and smiled, then she couldn’t help herself. She waved once. He looked away and shook his head while he looked at his mobile phone.
He seemed to be scrolling through his numbers. Maybe he was looking for her number. He’d surely have it.
She should have been straight up with him, confident. Told him immediately who she was. She would have said, ‘I’m the actor, the one you want. I have talent you can use.’ Then she would have offered her hand, they would have shook hands, he’d have offered her a seat. Then he would have told her how surprised he was, definitely talented, you’re just what the agency needs.
It had happened before, long ago. She had been told by agents that she had talent. They put her on the books, used her talent. She was doing well back then.
If he’s planning to call her from his table, maybe to assure himself that he’s in the right place, the right cafe, then it would be alright, she would accept his offer, she supposed.
Her face became tight, and her eyes swelled a little. She’d been silly, lacking confidence. Why hadn’t she spoken outright, introduced herself to him straight away? She always ruins her chances, right at the last moment. Always when it counts, she buckles, draws away and waits too long. She consoled herself, she was shy, always had been. You have to be tough in this business, never give up.
She watched as he put his phone away. He drank the rest of his coffee, and for a short moment he looked at the serviette. She thought he was smiling, but then she saw him scowl. His face pinched, then reddened. He stood up, then he walked to the counter where the waitress leaned on a pile of cake trays, he paid and gave her a good tip.
She watched him go out. She expected him to climb into his silver Mercedes, but he walked along the street. She watched him, as always, until he melded into the shadows.
