Divided by Magic Read online

  "Oh, and Curtis?" he addresses me directly which I find surprising.

  "Yes, Mr. Gregorio?"

  "Clean your shoes. They look like you walked through a swamp to get to work." And with that he leaves. I look down. It’s true, they don’t look great, so I grab some damp kitchen towel and try to clean them as best I can. I can see that Ella is failing to disguise her desire to laugh as she reaches behind the bar to play the restaurant playlist on the sound system whilst I unlock the doors and raise the blinds.

  She’s not the talkative type, but underneath the silences and often long periods of deep thought that I usually find her in, she’s funny, smart and kind. Even if Mr. Gregorio and Fred aren’t that taken with me, at least she shows some softness, even if it’s hidden behind a lot of teasing and holding me at arm’s length.

  The brunch arrivals wander in a few minutes later and the morning follows with a steady stream of customers. A few people come in and I show them to their tables, take their orders and send the slips of paper through to the kitchen. Ella makes coffees and teas behind the bar and helps to carry food through when needed. There are only ten tables in the place so there are rarely more than twenty or thirty people to serve even at its busiest in the morning, and most of the regulars know not to be in a hurry when they come with one man working in the kitchen.

  Mr. Gregorio always fills in where he feels he is best needed. This morning it’s helping to take orders and serve food in his smart suit, chat to the customers and generally ensure that everything is going smoothly. At busy times he actually swaps the suit for an apron and helps in the kitchen, although I consider him extremely brave to step into Federico’s territory when he does that.

  By mid-afternoon I’m exhausted and starving. Thanks to some heavy persuasion from Ella, Federico makes us sandwiches. The cold Italian meats and cheese are like the best thing I’ve ever eaten, I’m so hungry.

  I’m grateful when Federico steps out of the kitchen to the back alley to have a cigarette and Mr. Gregorio retires to his office to eat his lunch. It leaves just Ella and me on the restaurant floor, and we clean a table to sit and eat at together. This is how lunchtime has gone for almost every weekend that I’ve been here. Her and I, sitting at a table in the solitude of the empty restaurant, me trying desperately to flirt and gauge whether or not I’m getting a response.

  I can feel that bubble of panic rising up in my chest again now. This is the perfect time, I can tell. Those tickets that I was up until 3am trying to get are for her favourite band. No one in the universe could say ‘no’ after being offered these, I hope.

  The fact that we share the same taste in music feels to me like a sign that we are ‘Meant To Be’. But it seems that fifty-thousand other people also share that same taste, and all of them have been trying to get tickets for this London show, so either they too are Meant To Be with me or my theory is possibly a little flawed.

  My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest and my mouth suddenly becomes incredibly dry. I curse myself and take a gulp of water from a glass that she has placed on table for me.

  "You okay?" it’s her turn to ask.

  "I, er, yeah. I was wondering," I start to say between another mouthful, trying to sound as casual as possible and not get a piece of salami stuck in my throat, "if you'd like to come with me to see the Flaming Fools of the Azure Octopus next week?"

  Ella looks slightly surprised and chews a little slower, but her eyes are discernibly wide with excitement that she can’t hide. Then she raises an eyebrow. "Like a date?" she asks.

  "Er, no," I panic and reply a little too quickly. "I mean, do you, er, want it to be? It could be?" She starts to frown, and I quickly try to backpedal. Oh God. Is the frown because she doesn’t want it to be a date or because she does? "Date? Pfft, no, of course not. Just two friends, er, colleagues hanging out and seeing their favourite band." The heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. Am I blushing? How embarrassing. That bubble of panic I had pushed down inside is now about ready to explode.

  "Do you really have tickets though? I heard they sold out weeks ago."

  I pull out the precious goods from my back pocket —two genuine printed out tickets that someone kindly emailed me over in the small hours of the morning. I slide them across the table as if showing her the map to the Holy Grail and she studies them for a moment, nodding to herself. My hopes lift, and then she says, "So, not a date?" she asks again. I’m so confused as to what answer she’s hoping for that I shake my head on instinct. She leans back in her chair and studies me for a moment, skeptically. "I don’t think it would go down well if Mr. Gregorio found out we were going on an actual date," she explains quietly. It had never occurred to me that it would be a problem, so I shrug.

  "Not a date, okay?" She seems to relax a little even though saying it almost, almost kills my excitement. "So, what do you say?"

  "I’m coming. You’d be hard pushed to keep me away," she grins and I feel a wave of relief wash over me. "But how are we going to get the night off? I doubt Mr. Gregorio will let us both off at the same time and I'm sure they aren't doing matinee performances."

  I’ve been thinking about this long and hard, figuring that it will only work if I can get the staff on other shifts to cover us. I say as much and she nods in vague agreement but I can see that she’s not sure how that will be possible.

  The restaurant is grossly under-staffed, and I think the only reason that I’ve been kept on is because they have been steadily losing waiters over the past year. I’ve often wondered if this is because Federico is impossible to get on with or the previous staff haven’t been able to put up with the lack of appreciation from the management, but now there are only six of us plus a cleaner who comes at the end of the day, which I know isn’t enough to cover the workload.

  I have a plan to solve this dilemma though.

  Ella and I do evenings and weekend lunch times and two of Mr. Gregorio’s nephews, Marco and Giovanni, do the weekday lunch and weekend evening shift, with the occasional need for us all to work together during busy times.

  With the lack of staff, Mr. Gregorio is forced to close up for us to have lunch, but he tries to keep it at the minimum and I’ve barely finished my sandwich before he’s out on the restaurant floor unlocking the doors and telling us to get back to it. With the Asking On A Date out of the way we’re pretty much straight back into work, but Ella seems a little chirpier than usual. She can go days without smiling, I’ve noticed, and I always try and make the effort to get her to laugh even if I’m not a naturally funny guy. I’m the first to admit that.

  It isn’t until Marco and Giovanni come in at 5pm that I can do anything more about the date-not-a-date planning, and I get right to it as soon as I see the two of them walk in the kitchen door.

  "Hey, Gio," I say jovially. Giovanni Gregorio is a friendly 20-something aspiring graphic designer, but without too much work being thrown his way he spends his afternoons and Saturday nights at his uncle's restaurant making a bit of money whilst he works graphic design in the evenings from home. His brother, Marco, is doing the same shifts but with the goal of saving up to travel the world by his twentieth birthday.

  "Curtis, come stai?" he asks, slapping me on the shoulder in a friendly manner. He has a similar London accent to me but throws in the odd Italian just to remind everyone where he’s actually from.

  "All good, mate, thanks. Listen, I have a huge favour to ask you."

  "Go on then," Gio replies, removing his jacket and putting on a serving apron just as I’m removing mine.

  "Do you think you and Marco could cover mine and Ella's shifts on Friday night? I got us tickets to a concert and I was hoping I could get your help," I say, knowing that if Gio is on board then Marco will follow suit.

  I know that Gio, who asked Ella out well over a year ago, had been painfully rebutted, so he looks surprised for a moment but recovers quickly with a huge grin. He slaps me on the shoulder for a second time and laughs heartily.

>   "Of course, although in exchange I'd like to know your secret for getting her to say yes to a date with you of all people." With his Italian dark hair and deep brown eyes, and always with the hint of a tan, Giovanni is probably a more appropriate match in terms of looks for Ella, compared to me, for whom the word scrawny was invented. I’m not totally sure what colour my eyes are, thinking they are some colour not that dissimilar to mud. I’ve gone through phases of trying to make my hair do anything but look like a bird’s nest through my teens, but in the end copious amounts of hair gel are all that will put it into some semblance of hairstyle (which I rarely, if ever, bother with), and underneath my half West Indian heritage I’m probably an unhealthy shade of grey.

  "Well, it's not totally a date so I can't tell you any secrets, but in exchange we'll cover any shift you need," I reply, confident that I can get Ella on board with that.

  Gio is easily pleased and already has a date in mind for us to cover. I shake his hand and get ready to go.

  The restaurant closes at midnight on Saturdays and opens early on Sunday for breakfast, so knowing I have an early start tomorrow I don’t want to hang around longer than I need to. I find Ella in the kitchen talking to Federico in hushed tones, but she sees me and gives me a wide smile. I feel disarmed for a moment but welcome the sight all the same. I tell her I’ve sorted it all out and that we’ll have to cover the others’ shifts next Saturday evening, but she shrugs happily and says it’s no problem. Federico gives me a slightly dirty look with narrowed eyes, as if somehow he knows I’m up to no good, which makes me feel guilty for no particular reason.

  Ella doesn’t seem to be wanting to go home herself, so I give her a small wave goodbye and head out into the crisp November air, pulling my jacket collar up around my neck.

  I walk home with a bounce in my step and a permanent flutter in my stomach. I don’t even mind when my Dad makes some snide comment as I walk in the house. He’s watching the TV but manages to take his attention off it for a second to tell me how I’m wasting my life. I don’t care. I‘m going out with Ella, date or not. My heart does another somersault and I go upstairs to my room to get an early night, but all I can now think about is her. I fall asleep with thoughts of how to turn the ‘not a date’ status into a proper date, and a smile on my face.

  The remaining days of the week feel like a little bit of a blur until Thursday night. Unfortunately, some time during the day the dish washer in the restaurant decides to pack up and the cleaner calls in sick. Mr. Gregorio breaks the news to us half way through the evening shift and promises to pay us over time if we will stay late to clean up. Although I wouldn’t usually agree, Ella seems to be happy enough to stay so I volunteer to help her, even though I realise that means washing a hundred plates, knives and forks by hand.

  As soon as the last customers leave the shop we set about clearing the restaurant, which is the reverse exercise of what we have to do on weekend mornings. The table cloths go in the washing machine, all the dirty dishes go in a huge sink in the kitchen and I don a rubber apron to start tackling the pile.

  Ella offers to clean the bar and coffee machine as she knows better than I how to take it all apart, and Mr. Gregorio undoubtedly trusts her more with a £3000 piece of equipment like his espresso maker. I didn’t even drink coffee before I worked here and now I’m on two cups a day thanks to the restaurant.

  "Shall I put on some music?" she asks, putting a CD on without consulting me on what to listen to. I nod happily when I hear the familiar sound of the Flaming Fools of the Azure Octopus come over the sound system.

  We chat briefly as she brings in more and more dishes for me to wash and I get to scrubbing them, but she leaves me to it before long to clean out the coffee machine. After fifteen minutes my fingers and arms are starting to hurt from being immersed in soap suds. I pull my hands out and my fingers are completely pruney. I search around for some rubber gloves to no avail, but then I remember that Giovanni is a little bit obsessive about doing the dishes and keeps a hidden stash somewhere.

  I remember hearing him complain loudly about the fact that the cleaner conspires against him to throw away or lose all the washing up gloves, and that he had bought his own pair for the odd occasions that he needs them. Feeling a tiny bit guilty I decide that my fingers can’t bear it anymore.

  I search all the drawers in the kitchen. Nothing. I check on top of the shelves and in the cupboards. Nope. The only place that I can think he would hide something like that is perhaps the staff cloakroom that we are supposed to use as an office but never do.

  I don’t really want Ella to see me steal a pair of Gio’s rubber gloves. Something inside me gives me the idea that she might think less of me for needing them. How dumb can I be? But rather than ask her outright I sneak quietly through the swinging double doors and slip into the staff room. I can see her side-on, standing at the coffee machine and wiggling her hips, still singing to the music that is blaring out from the kitchen. It’s a sight that makes me want to go over and dance with her, if I could dance.

  Sensing that I’m safe for at least a few more minutes, I begin to rummage. After several minutes I’ve still come up with nothing, even trying to break into the safety deposit box tucked away on the shelf. I reckon Gio would be paranoid enough to hide his rubber gloves in a locked box, but after wiggling a paperclip in the lock for several minutes I’ve had no luck. They make it look so much easier in movies to pick locks.

  Sighing defeatedly I place it exactly where I found it. I know that if it’s even moved a corner he’ll probably notice.

  Not trying to conceal myself any longer considering I actually have nothing to hide, I make to leave the room, but as Ella seems to be beautifully ignorant of my presence I admire her for a moment longer. Ponytail swinging, head and hips moving to the drum beats, she’s almost irresistible. If we were dating I’d be able to go up behind her, swing her round and kiss her right now. She’d laugh, put her arms around my neck and kiss me back. I shake my head. One step at a time, Curtis. I realise this is probably a bit creepy and I should probably just slither back into the kitchen before she suspects I’ve been watching her. That could blow the whole date-not-a-date thing right out of the water then and there.

  But right before I make my move to leave something bizarre happens.

  There she is, taking everything apart and cleaning it quite happily, but obviously a little absentmindedly. As she air-drums a particularly good part of the chorus the jug we use to steam the milk flies off the counter. But rather than fall on the floor as I’m expecting it to do, she spots it quickly and it suspends itself in mid-air. She looks towards the kitchen as if checking for something. I realise that she’s checking to see if I’m about to walk in the door. Of course I’m not, I’m hiding in the cloak room like an idiot. She waves her hand casually and the jug rights itself and lands gently back on the counter where it was a few moments before.

  I blink. I shake my head. Did I imagine what just happened? I don’t move for several seconds and she carries on as if nothing has changed.

  She wipes down the front of the machine with a damp cloth and begins to remove the coffee taps, emptying the used-up coffee grinds into the bin we use. The first one comes off easy, the second one not so much. As I’m never allowed to use the machine I’ve never done much more than help her empty the bin once in a while, but I know that the right tap is stiff. She’s told me on more than one occasion, or more accurately she’s cursed it loudly while trying to prepare a customer’s latte.

  But rather than call me for help to loosen it she glances back at the kitchen doors, which are between where I’m standing and where she is. She still hasn’t spotted me lurking in the shadows of the cloak room.

  My heart sticks in my throat. What am I seeing here?

  Her hand presses gently against the metal of the coffee tap. The whole thing starts to turn red with the extreme heat that seems to be coming from somewhere. Is the metal expanding? Impossible to tell for sure but then s
uddenly I know. She lets go and she points at it, as if she’s about to tell it what to do. A small spark leaves her finger and the tap works itself loose, removing itself easily and tapping out the used-up coffee into the bin.

  I nearly pass out with the blinding realisation; Ella is an Augur.

  CHAPTER 2

  I stand there for several minutes. The little display that she had been putting on for me unwittingly seems to have ended and she carries on wiping things down, washing them out and humming along to the music all the while.

  Pretty soon she’s going to need to empty that coffee bin. I do my best impression of a ninja, clinging to the shadow on the wall and slip back into the kitchen when her back is turned towards me.

  I stand at the sink for a few moments, immersing my hands in the water and picking up where I left off but not really paying much attention to what I’m doing.

  My head is completely swimming. I had seen her drop the milk jug. The milk jug didn’t fall but seemed to just right itself without any effort. Levitation. Telekinesis. I saw her struggle with the stiff coffee tap. Its lever had been stuck and I’ve known since I started working here that it’s always been a problem for her. There had been redness from the heat. A spark had left her finger. The coffee tap had turned itself without her touching it, emptied itself into the bin and she had just carried on as if nothing was happening. The ability to channel energy.

  I’m no expert but from what I’ve heard this is definitely Augur magic.

  But it seems like a ridiculously risky thing for an Augur to do. Yet she thought she was effectively alone with me in here doing the dishes. She probably thinks nothing of doing Augur stuff when there’s no one about.

  I now feel guilty for even having seen it. But the guilt doesn’t replace the biggest feeling of all: pity.

  My mind wanders as I listlessly wash the dishes, slowly scrubbing each plate and rinsing it. How can someone go their whole lives having to hide like that? Has she always had to hide? Did she always know she had powers? You’d think that people would be used to the concept by now, but there are probably only one in a thousand Augurs that I’ve heard. Then the thought occurs to me: what if there are more but they’ve just never revealed themselves? What if the statistic is more like one in a hundred but they’ve been clever enough just not to come out into the open about it, for fear of being rejected by society?