All That and Then Some

ALICE - The Glamorous Life

A WARM EVENING BREEZE whispers off the deep blue Ionian Sea. It slips up the cliff edge, rippling through the cypress like soft fingers and bringing the scent of thyme and rosemary from where they grow wild across the rocky outcroppings.

The sky is warmly pink. There is a distant clatter of dishes from the open kitchens that dot the cliffside.

I am standing on the Italian Marble terrace, looking out toward the sea. A glass of prosecco fizzes in my hand, laughing bubbles joyfully escaping the fluted crystal glass.

The breeze lifts the silk scarf that is draped carelessly across a bare shoulder. The warmth of the day's sun still radiating from my skin, I am wearing something floaty and white — no, not white, too obvious plus VPL — but something chic and expensive. Form-fitting, cut on the bias, the kind of thing you absolutely have to wear Spanx under to avoid looking like a lumpy cheese log, except in this particular fantasy, I am svelte and lumpless even without Spanx. I've also become a dedicated face-yogi (face-yogist?) so my skin is supple, tight and glowing.

As the sky dims to a lavender hue, I hear my lover call from inside.

"Alice..."

He is waiting for me inside the presidential suite, a scattering of rose petals across — no, that's stupid,  ditch the rosepetals — he's waiting for me on the crisp linen draped bed. Not to be rushed, I sip from my glass and wonder again why Italians eat supper so late. My stomach growls hungrily.

"Alice?"

I suppose there are ways to fill the time. I turn away from the ocean and toward the light of the suite with a knowing smile. As I enter the beautifully appointed suite, I see him on the bed, adrift in clouds of down bedding. He is dressed for dinner but his white shirt is unbuttoned and his masculine hand rests on his tanned, smooth stomach. He lifts his head from the down pillows, but I can't quite make out his face.

"Alice," he says, reaching his hand out for me, beckoning me over to the bed.

"Sorry, but are you actually listening to me?" he says. The peaceful Italian cliffside suite is suddenly replaced by the aggressive din of a chain coffee shop. With a bumpy thud, I land back in reality.

"Of course, I'm listening," I snap. I wasn't. I hadn't heard anything since he mentioned Sicily. It's not my fault. The mere mention of travel after 2 years of covid restrictions is enough to send me daydreaming. I would be thrilled to go anywhere at this point — but a five-star Italian seaside hotel even with a rumbling volcano nearby? The very thought has rendered me helpless and a little bit sweaty with desire.

"Are your pupils dilated?" Joss Carvil asks from across the sugar-sticky table. I notice he's wearing a white shirt, open at the neck.

Stop it, stop it, stop it, I warn myself sternly. Now is not the time to be indulging in immoral fantasies about travel or otherwise. You're here to find out how this man thinks your cafe might be saved.

"Listen," I say as if he's the one who hasn't been paying attention, "I don't have very long. I left the baby with a friend of mine and she isn't what you'd call maternally oriented."

"Right, that's the baby you had with you at lunch the other day? Don't take this the wrong way but I thought you were too young to be a..."

"Mother?" I laugh just as he says, "Grandmother."

Ouch.

I press my lips together (face yoga!).

"Anyway," he continues. "I know you have two children: Maeve and Timothy. Husband: Victor MacKenzie. You had a career in PR, heavy hitter, very impressive resume. Small scandal around an awards dinner — potted plant got the worst of it I think — then dumped it all to open a neighbourhood cafe with the sole purpose of providing employment training for street kids."

I gawp at him, open-mouthed. There's nothing in his summary that isn't publicly available information but it's odd to have your life story read back to you by a relative stranger.

"Well, I wouldn't say that's our sole purpose," I clarify. "I mean, yes, we are helping kids get off the street. But mainly, I just like coffee."

He crosses his arms and nods, "Me too. And yours is especially good, I must say. I was impressed that day I came in to leave you my card. I'm glad, by the way, that you decided to take me up on my offer."

"I haven't decided anything. But someone pointed out to me that it couldn't hurt to hear you out."

He lifts his hands in submission.

"Fair enough. I'll get straight to the point, then. Your little enterprise is cute. I like the feel-good story you're selling, but it's clear to me that that's all you're selling. A coffee shop that's empty at 9:30 in the morning? That's a business in trouble."

I start to protest, but he's probably right.

He continues, "That video though. An interesting move. Smart. Strategic. You don't take yourself too seriously. You're ready to throw yourself on the grenade to save your shop. I like that."

I don't bother to correct him. That video was neither strategic nor selfless. I am as uncomfortable with its existence now as I ever was, but it's easier to pretend the joke was my own.

"You'll find that I'm a straightforward person, Alice MacKenzie. You and I complement each other. We each have something to offer the other. I want to be in business with you."

I take another sip of the awful latte in front of me and grimace. I think I know what he's referring to. Googling Joss Carvil dredged up some acidic opinion pieces that accuse the whole Carvil Foods empire of being a typical profit-before-all, climate killing machine. From local water theft by their bottling plants, animal abuses in their factory farms, union-busting their low-wage workforce and generally behaving like an all-around self-interested psychopath (as corporations do). I imagine with press like that, he wishes he could grab a little bit of our feel-good press for himself.

"Joss, you are a great big giant. I'm just a tiny little... human-sized person. There is nothing I can do to help your bad press — you might consider examining your business practices and aiming to be a little less..."

"You're wrong. A human-sized (your words) story is what I need right now. I'm willing to invest in your business — a sizeable investment that will allow you to grow and ensure your—"

"You mean buy my business and take over."

"No, I don't mean that. What do I need another coffee shop for? I already have thirty-two thousand of those. I'm not suggesting Carvil Foods absorb your cafe." He laughs wryly. "I want to give you money and help you make what you started work. Help you keep it alive."

I eye him critically.

"Why?"

He looks deep into my eyes like a golden-eyed hypnotist.

"Because I like you. I like what you stand for."

I blink.

"And maybe," he continues, "Because I want to be more like you."