Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 5. EPISODE 4: BUMPED

EPISODE 4: BUMPED

I arrived at Paullete, this small, quaint, and fairly expensive but satisfyingly delicious patisserie that serves cakes, pastries, and French breakfast just across Aldi’s.

Fifty pounds for a six-inch pistachio cake is considered a hard sell for broke people like me.

But their crispy leg confit, fried duck egg, mustard maple syrup waffle, and smoked duck breast, poached eggs, hollandaise, siracha eggs benedict were to die for.

Normally, I’d never take a step inside this very posh bakeshop, but I used to know the owner, and she had given me discounts in the past.

It was practically free since I had saved her from being mugged a couple of years back.

And three years ago, she charged me £30 for a £60 bill.

That was nice of her.

Today, I wanted to treat my son to something special since he liked their waffles the last time he ate here, and the two of us could share.

There were two available seats outside the patisserie, covered by a black awning with its namesake, Paullete, in big letters.

A quinquagenarian dressed in a tweed jacket and flat cap was seated at the adjacent table, reading a newspaper while sipping tea and eating an open sandwich with heirloom tomatoes, capers, and pickled shallot bruschetta.

This chic pair was sitting at the table to my left, but they were too absorbed in their phones to be noticing anything.

They were talking to each other while reading internet articles on their smartphones with their eyes glued to them.

How anyone can converse in such a way is beyond me.

Salivating at the scrumptious sight of a hearty breakfast, I quickly left my groceries as a form of reservation at one of the only two empty tables available, in case someone snagged the seat.

Another elderly woman, who was blind, was scouring the area for a seat while swishing the ground with a white stick.

I felt awful.

I gathered my groceries and pointed the table in her direction.

I pushed the door open, and the bell tingled.

The moment I stepped inside, the sweet and savoury smell wafted through my nostrils.

The ambrosial scent of the cakes and pastries knocked through my stomach, and the sounds that came out were a deep, guttural cry from the stygian pits of hell.

My stomach grumbled, and there was a pang.

I hadn’t eaten properly in 36 hours when I had the soup and some crackers yesterday morning.

But seeing Brady have the last eggs and toast was enough to start my day.

A number of people started to cramp the space inside the bakery, and luckily, I was third in line.

Minutes later, there was a pattern of shoes and boots clomping through the patisserie.

And with the door behind me tingling nonstop, as soon as I glanced behind me, a queue had already formed.

While waiting in line, I glanced up at the menu board and prepared my order.

Settling my eyes to meet the attendant’s gaze behind the counter, I smiled at the young woman in front of me.

Her cheeks lifted with a slight head tilt and a slight squint, evoking racy undertones I was not expecting.

Returning to the gesture, I smiled back rather uncomfortably.

She swerved around the unfavourable attendant who was grabbing a baguette and proceeded to murmur something inaudible to a brunette her age who kept chewing gum.

The two attendants glanced at me and giggled near the end, as they threaded inside a swinging door to the kitchen.

Peering sideways at the display of bread and pastries on the countertop, I suddenly felt conscious for some reason.

Maybe I was underdressed with this jacket and tracksuit.

Maybe I gave the impression that I was destitute with the way I looked.

When my turn came, I was greeted by the unfavourable attendant staring at me.

"Welcome to Paulletes. How may I help you?" she said, disgruntled at my face.

Pale flesh wobbled from the attendant’s arm as she swiped her hand on her apron.

Her greasy black hair bounced under the bedraggled hairnet, threatening to spill over her reddened cheeks and plump face.

Strips of sweaty hair glommed onto her cheeks, as globules of perspiration passed over her ears, and I blurted out without thinking, "Perhaps you need a handkerchief, miss?"

Her beady eyes inspected me and said laconically, "Welcome to Paulletes; how may I help you..."

More than anything else, she looked annoyed at me and the world, coming across with a bizarre and churlish obsession to turn me down, so I proceeded with my order.

"Yes, er, I’d love to have the avocado on toast, please, and..."

"We don’t have it anymore."

"Er, ok."

She looked so offended by my suggestion.

I might as well order waffles for Brady, I thought.

I looked at the menu, and it’s £24.50.

Geezus, bloody Mary, I can’t afford it.

What the hell was I doing here?

Why is my broke arse ordering things intended for people with money?

It struck me that I cannot afford anything.

What was I thinking?

"It’s alright; I’ll just have the basic cappuccino," I said.

At least their cheapest coffee’s reasonable for two quid and thirty pence—not expensive, but not cheap either.

That’ll fill up my stomach until I can toast some bread at home.

They also have an option for a branded cappuccino for around £10.89. That coffee ought to taste like Buddha’s arse.

And then, a blonde woman with long curls and a face you’d see at a Betty Crocker commercial gracefully stepped in behind her and whispered, "Tammy, get inside the kitchen now. You’re not supposed to be here at the front desk. You’re meant to do prep work, not assist customers and take orders. Please go back to the kitchen and start slicing the avocados."

The large woman rolled her eyes and tossed a side-eye at the slender figure hovering behind her. "Go now, before I lose it, Tammy."

She waddled her way into the kitchen, while the woman who was now behind the counter gave me a big smile.

She pulled up the stray hairs behind her ears and said, "Sorry about that. She’s my niece and she likes to stir up trouble. You know how it is...family. Anyway, how can I serve you this morning, Greg?"

"You remember me?”

She snorted briefly with amusement.

"When the girls said that there was this very handsome man at the counter, I had a feeling who it was. And then it turned out to be you." I scratched the back of my head, embarrassed. "Are you just having the cappuccino?" she asked.

"Er, yeah."

She started pressing on the POS system and said, "Don’t be silly. We’ll get you the duck benedict and the duck waffles, and the burger for your dad, like the last time, right? "

I immediately waved my hand. "I'm sorry. But I can’t afford it. I’ll just have the coffee, thanks."

Wishing to prevent me from feeling discomfited by the awkward staring at the floor, she said, "Ok. Here’s the deal. You pay me five quid and we’re settled. How about that?" She grabbed my hand and said softly as though we were the only two people in her shop, "I’ll do as much as I can to help, like what you did for me that day. It was truly remarkable, Greg, what you did fending off the muggers. I could not thank you enough."

I smiled as I handed her the £5 note.

"Thank you."

She then pushed a tray of a carrot cake I didn’t order together with a table number and the cappuccino.

Noticing an additional pastry, I looked at the red velvet cupcake and pointed at the thing.

"How much for the cake and the cupcake ma’am? I can pay for that."

"Nonsense," she said, speaking softly with a lyrical cadence fit for an audiobook narrator. "The cake is for you to go along with your coffee, and the cupcake is for your child. Every child loves my cupcakes, I can assure you that. And I’m certain Brady will love mine."

I remember mentioning my family to her when I was interviewing her at the precinct.

She was trepidatious and jittery; she had a torn sleeve, some scratch marks on her face and breasts, and she was catatonic.

I had tried my best to console her fears, for I needed to get a statement interview.

She responded to me when we talked about my kid and my dad.

It was surprising that she still remembered after all these years.

I grabbed the tray and began making my way outside.

Before opening the door, I heard her say, "I’ll see you around Gregory," echoing from behind.

I stopped for a second, balancing the tray on my hands, and said, "Definitely, ma’am. See you around, Ms. Paulla."

The rain had subsided, but the clouds were still up for several rounds of light drizzle throughout the entire day.

Looking around for any vacant seat, there was a table with a man reading a newspaper that covered his face.

The table seemed empty, with just a coffee and a half-eaten eclair.

I assumed he wouldn’t mind if I sat at his table. I asked, "Would it be ok to sit here?"

The man answered, "Sure. No worries."

Placing the tray on the round table and my groceries by my foot, I was finally able to sit down and relax after all the walking I did.

It took me an hour to get from Ryan’s place to Waitrose and another thirty minutes of walking to get to Aldis.

Travelling by foot for 45 minutes to get home—that’s money I’d be saving right there by skipping on the bus fare when I head for home later.

I was sipping on my coffee, immersed in calculating the remaining budget for the week, and deduced that the £180 was enough to last us for a week until I get paid £400 for my shift next week.

Keeping my mind preoccupied was all I could do.

Maybe there was still time to call it off.

Maybe Danny hasn’t told his employers about it.

I haven’t signed anything as of yet anyway, so this might not be a done deal after all.

I did agree out of hopelessness...but will they understand if I still have some sense to back out?

Feeling the need to tinkle, I stood up from my seat and accidentally nudged someone with my elbow.

I looked to my left, and there was a woman.

Fair-skinned with her parloured brown locks, expressive grey eyes, pear-shaped jaw, and a small face, she was a middle-aged woman who coasted through everything in life based on her looks.

Her newly doctored lips and cheekbones say it all.

Immediately apologising, I turned to her and said, "Sorry ma’am."

She gave me a once-over, the kind where there’s a bad smell and that person is making you think it’s you despite knowing fully well that you’ve showered, and that this person’s just being a cunt.

"You hit me!" she screamed, accusing me of something I never did, with her tennis bracelet filled with glistening rocks as she pointed her accusatory fingers towards me; she wasn’t having it, and neither was I.

The only thing to do was to say, "Excuse me?"

I’ve seen that look countless times; the eyes of partiality are easy to notice.

Add disgust and irrational hatred, and you’ve got a good mix of bias and prejudice.

Her emotions quickly flared up the moment she saw my worn jacket and frayed tracksuit, assuming I was poor and desperate.

She was right.

I was poor.

And maybe I was desperate.

But I’m not a disgusting person she could easily turn her nose up, lording over me like she owned me and that I was the scum of the earth.

"How dare you hit me!"

"I didn’t hit you ma’am," I said calmly.

Accompanied by her son and husband, she said confidently, "Don’t you dare lie to me," with her two knights and shining armour standing idly behind her, ready to back her up.

"I didn’t hit you ma’am, I promise. I was just about to go to the loo till my elbows nudged your bag. I swear."

The people around us have already noticed her unfounded outrage.

Glances and stares were directed at her performance, which was worthy of an Oscar.

But what she said next surely got everyone on her side.

"Don't lie to me! I am not having it," she said, her eyes bottling out. "You hit my breasts, and this is sexual assault! I am calling the police."

"What are you on about ma’am?"

Her husband was quick to grab my collar. "You fucking creep! How dare you touch my wife you bloody skint!"

Their teenage son said, "He’s not getting away dad," as he held onto my shoulders, pinning me in place.

I could have easily overpowered the two.

I have been trained in hand-to-hand combat, and pacifying rowdy situations was my expertise.

But what’s the use?

What’s the point?

These people would just accuse me in court of battery and assault with the help of their expensive lawyers, and I’d be locked up for days on bail I couldn’t afford.

So I had to consider the one person who would bear the brunt of this injustice: my son.

Therefore, I didn’t move.

I allowed everyone to look at me as the monster they thought I was—this creep who assaulted women for fun.

The three of them began shouting expletives in my face as I took all the insults, the nonsensical accusations, and the heavy expository monologue deemed to be aimed at putting me down.

She even accused me of being a terrorist from the Middle East, despite my genealogical history tracing back to Scotland and Denmark—all because I tanned easily and had dark features.

Racist is what she is!

One person has had enough.

One person called her out of her on-the-nose posturing, and bullshit, as he stood up in his seat, and weirdly enough, with a very posh accent, told her exactly what she needed to hear.

“Sorry miss, but you are a vile, disgusting woman. A dredge in society that has purloined the filth and muck in the earth like the vermin that you are. How dare you? How dare you—"he looked at me"—accuse this man when I have evidence right here on my phone that he did nothing. See for yourselves.”

He propped up his phone with a video recording of me enjoying my coffee while I was looking in the distance.

Had this guy taken a video of me?

"Erm, crap. Not that one." He fast-forwarded the video and said, "There."

The recording was stealthily shot from an angle below—below the newspaper he’d been holding on to cover his face.

A few seconds later, the video showed me standing up and bumping onto the woman’s bag, instantly clearing my name.

When their teenager saw the evidence, the poor lad said to his mum, "What have you done?"

The woman burst into tears with her theatrics and appealed to the betterment of the audience with a maudlin confession, and an indirect admission of her fault, "Honey, I was mad at your dad. We were arguing. I was just feeling tense and angry at him."

She looked at her husband as they both started chasing their son, stomping in the opposite direction.

"You’ve done it again mum. You were a literal Karen and a total bitch!"

She quickly apologised to me from a distance and mouthed the words, "I’m really sorry." She couldn’t even say it aloud. Her son’s right; his mum’s a wanking trollop.

Paulla came out with the takeaway. "I heard shouting outside. What happened?" She walked behind the man, who began showing her the video as proof.

The quinquagenarian pulled down his cap and said, "This man right here was accused of assaulting a woman. Gladly, it was proven to be false. People these days and their quick-witted mouths...they ought to go to jail for that."

"But that’s insane," she said, handing me the takeaway bag. "He’s a police officer."

"Former police officer ma’am," I corrected her, grabbing my groceries on the floor and Brady’s cupcake on the table. "It’s alright. No harm done."

I smiled at her, totally enervated, as though all I wanted to do was sleep to end this shitty day and wake up the next morning having forgotten this incident.

"Are you sure you’re going to be alright luv?"

I nodded and feigned a smile in this predicament.

"Yeah. I’ll be ok. Thanks for everything ma’am. I’ll never forget this," I said, lifting the takeaway bag as I tilted my head exhaustingly and headed my way.