That Girl From Nowhere by Dorothy Koomson Read Free Book Online

home. Especially Pride weekend – I have a lot of customers that morning. But mostly, I open at eight and it works.’
    ‘Right. So I’m not going to get a coffee from you?’
    ‘Not before eight, sorry.’
    ‘OK.’ I don’t move. ‘I’m not going to get a coffee even though I’ve stood and listened to you talk for far longer than a person who doesn’t know you should have to?’ I say.
    He grins. Naturally he has flawless teeth because he is disturbingly, almost unrealistically, handsome. He seems to have been drawn and constructed from the blueprint for the perfect man, rather than birthed like the rest of the human population: the shape of his eyes, the size of his nose, the curve of his mouth, are all precisely proportioned, his dark brown skin is smooth and touchable, and his hair is shaved at the sides and at the back, short and neat on top.
    ‘I suppose I could make an exception just this once,’ he says. ‘It’ll teach me to remember to lock the door.’
    ‘Thank you.’ I unhook my bag from over my shoulder and place it on the black vinyl padded stool beside me. It’s not often my cheekiness pays off. I hop up on to the stool next to my bag.
    ‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he says. ‘It’s a coffee to go.’
    ‘I know, but there’s nothing wrong with sitting while I wait.’
    He moves to the far side of his machine, places coffee beans into it. There’s a brief grinding sound before he removes the small metal basket, the shape and size of a small tea sieve. He taps down the top with what looks like a metal stamp. In all the times I’ve been to cafés to buy coffee, I’ve never watched someone make it before. There’s always been a queue, a rush, something better to look at. Watching him work is fascinating. When he fits the solid metal sieve thing into the front of the machine, he grabs a paper cup and stands it beneath the curved metal spout where he inserted the sieve.
    ‘Where are you coming from with that cute little accent?’ he asks over his shoulder. While he speaks he pushes a button and the black liquid of my coffee swirls down the curved spout into my cup.
    ‘ “Little” accent?’ I reply.
    He bobs down in front of his fridge, removes milk and glugs some into a metal jug. He moves to the other end of the machine and places the jug over the spout that I know is the milk frother. It hisses a little as he heats and froths the milk.
    ‘Sorry, where are you coming from with that cute accent of yours?’ he corrects.
    ‘Nowhere,’ I reply. In my head, in my heart, that is where I am from: nowhere. ‘I’m from nowhere.’
    ‘Everyone’s from somewhere,’ he says.
    ‘
Not me
,’ I reply silently.
    ‘I can’t place your accent. Usually I’m quite good with them, since I speak to so many people on a regular basis. But yours, it’s a mystery.’
    ‘I was born in Brighton and lived out near Lewes until I was about three, so that’s where most of my accent comes from, I guess. We then moved to a place called Otley just outside Leeds where I lived most of my life, I went to university in Liverpool, and recently I moved to Leeds proper, which has all probably influenced my voice. Add to that the fact my dad was Scottish, and my mum, even though she’s from Leeds, sounds like she grew up in Buckingham Palace, and you get an accent like mine.’
Add to that the fact that I’ve never felt I’ve belonged anywhere and you get a girl from nowhere. You get me.
    The milk is frothed and hot, so he moves back to my cardboard cup and pours it in then spoons on the white foam. ‘Wouldn’t you say that was more “everywhere” than nowhere?’ the coffee guy says.
    ‘Depends on how you look at it, I suppose,’ I reply.
    ‘Most things do – depend on how you look at them, I mean,’ he says. The white, moulded plastic lid with the cut-out oblong drinking hole is fitted on to the cup with a dull pop.
    ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ I say to him. We stand at the door, his hand