Chapter Four: Looking for a job?

"Vodka. Gimme vodka."

"Hard day?"

"The worst," Lizzie Tyler moaned, setting her bag down on the bar with a thump that would've startled any patrons who didn't know her. Those that did just nodded to her. God, she was becoming the city's pity case. Poor little Lizzie. Well, screw them. Screw everyone. She could do this, no, she would do this and then they'd see. "Harv, why do people suck?"

"Sweetheart, if I knew, I'd tell you. Another no?" The vodka burned on its way down. Lizzie grimaced but motioned for another. She'd been going to Harvey's since she'd been able, even her parents had drunk there back when they went out drinking and it had been O'Callogen's then. It was a Tyler family tradition, booze, the seafront and desperately struggling to forget the problems that haunted their days.

"Yup," Lizzie said, popping the 'p' before downing the second shot and sighing. "You're not just quite right for us. What is? Some twig bitch with tits the size of basketballs, that's who. You know what, fuck them. They can stuff their job."

She'd been looking for work since college. It turned out that a History major without any inclination towards teaching wasn't something people really wanted. Sure, museums looked at her resume, but after years of trying to get internships or placements she'd given up that particular dream. Then it had been bar work, the odd coffee shop. People liked her, at least, people who weren't in the position to hire her liked her.

But then her last gig had gone bust. Thanks, Joe. So, it was CVs and rejections, which would be fine if the rent was piling up. Her parents hadn't a clue, she couldn't bare to see their faces. Christ, it would be worse than the stupid places she'd dragged herself 'round already.

No, she'd get there. Surely, someone would take her. Surely?

"I might have something for you," Harvey told her. He rummaged beneath the bar for a moment and then, like a child proudly presenting their artwork to a baffled parent, he slapped a piece of paper on the bar. "Guy I know, just about to open up. Remember the shop down on Pine?"

"Cakes and Coffee?" A terrible name for a terrible shop.

"Yeah. Like I say, the owner's a good guy. Could do a lot worse."

"Who don't you know?" Lizzie scowled playfully but still took the paper. It was short, simple and told her that this mystery man was clueless.

Help wanted. Front of house work. Experience required. Pay negotiable. Advancement opportunities available.

"He have any idea what he's doing?" Lizzie asked, arching one hastily plucked eyebrow at Harvey.

"Sometimes."

"And why're you signing me up to babysit a newbie?"

"Just give him a try," Harvey said patiently. "You never know, it could be good."

"And it could suck."

"Lizzie, you never know 'til you try."

Lizzie chewed over the proposal after three more drinks, thankful that Harvey had agreed to set up a tab until she was back on her feet. On the one hand, she needed the work more than Harvey knew. On the other, she didn't want to get paid nothing for some idiotic moron to take all the credit. She'd met owners like that before. Idiots with flashy smiles and loud voices. The kind who'd yell and bribe their way to success, riding on the work of people who actually knew what they were doing.

Her apartment wasn't far from Harvey's. The cool harbour breeze whipped at her leather jacket, sending chills up her back and reminding her that she really did need to get a winter coat. Just another thing to add to the list. It definitely sped her home, not that she wanted to open the door.

Sarah, her flatmate, uni friend and all-around put-together adult, would be waiting. It took a few minutes of dithering on the sidewalk for Lizzie to finally bounce up the stairs and open flat 12's door.

"Lizzie? Lizzie, that you?" She sounded stressed. Great.

"Unless you've got a new flatmate since I've been gone," Lizzie replied, throwing her keys into the hideous green bowl by the door. The flat was cheap and it looked it. Second-hand shoe racks, bendy coat stands, mismatched furnishings and kitchenware and a jar by the door that was filled to the brim with spare quarters and dollars for takeout.

Sarah was saving for a house with Mike, it made Sarah feel sick - both because she had no idea how she'd afford the flat on her own and because Mike was disgustingly sweet. God, she hoped he was at work.

"Hey, Lizzie!" Of course. Lizzie silently cursed whatever cruel deity was punishing her, before throwing her jacket into her bedroom and shutting the door.

"Oh. Mike. Hey. You're here."

"Sure am," Mike's happy voice confirmed from the kitchen, seemingly ignoring the blatant confusion and annoyance from Lizzie. "You eaten? I'm sure I can rustle you up something."

"No, I'm good." Trying not to drag her feet like a child, Lizzie trudged around the small corner that made up their hallway and looked into the kitchen-cum-living room. The kitchen was tiny and seemed even smaller with the larger-than-life Mike, a sparkling white apron tied around her neck and a wooden spoon in his meat hook of a hand. He looked every bit the typical house husband. Clipped and trimmed hair, sparkling white teeth and brown stubble to match his dark brown eyes. Cupboards hung above thin countertops, which were filled with Mike's neatly chopped vegetables and organised chopping boards.

Meanwhile, curled up on the long plush sofa that was the only thing Lizzie had spent any money on in years, was Sarah. Lizzie knew that no one would put them together as friends. Where she wore jeans and tatty jumpers, Sarah would always be clad in some form of office dress that perfectly complemented her perfectly applied lipstick and perfect nails.

That evening was no exception. Despite the time and the fact her dinner was being cooked, Sarah wore an elegant green dress, nude-coloured tights and a silver necklace that was probably worth more than Lizzie's tab with Harvey. Unlike Lizzie, Sarah had managed to become a curator at SAM - the Seattle Art Museum - all thanks to her minor in Fine Art.

"Where have you been?" Sarah always did like to pretend she was Lizzie's mother. It had been the same when they were at college.

"Harvey's." There was no sense in lying. "What? It's been a shitty day." Sarah's pale blue eyes flit to Mike and too late Lizzie remembered the number of times she'd said Mike didn't like swearing. They were basically sixty already, despite Sarah's twenty-five years on the planet.

"More rejections." It wasn't a question.

"Mhmmm," Lizzie hummed, joining Sarah on the sofa. "Got this though." She passed her flatmate the advert Harvey had given her. "Some guy downtown, looking for help with his shop."

"You going for it?"

"Don't see why not," Lizzie shrugged. Work was work and whether he was going to be a dick or not, she needed the cash. "Not like anyone else is dying to give me a job."

"I know."

"I'm trying, Sar."

"I know," Sarah said again, more gently. She'd never once demanded money, not even when Lizzie had been sacked at Christmas and Sarah had had to dip into her savings to cover Lizzie's share. It just made Lizzie feel worse, but at least they'd not been kicked out. "Look, just don't do anything stupid, okay? If he gives you the wrong impression, leave. I've got you covered, as long as you need."

"You're the best."

"I know," Sarah smiled, pulling Lizzie into a one-armed hug. "It'll all work out."

"Didn't you say that about the last six times?"

"They clearly weren't right. When it works, it'll be amazing. You'll see."

"Sarah's right," Mike chimed in, as if anyone had asked him. "It'll work. These things always do."

"Guess I can't be a bum forever," Lizzie muttered, trying to resist the temptation to snap at his stupid optimism. "I'm gonna, you know, early start and all that."

The couple bade her goodnight and Lizzie practically ran to her room. It was the only space in the house that was a chaotic mess. It was perfect. Day-old clothes lay scattered across the floor and draped on the back of her desk chair. Battered books were arranged as neatly as she could manage in the bookcase Sarah had given her the year before, although a stack she'd been unable to fit was stacked to one side and threatened to fall over at the slightest touch.

Lizzie threw her jumper on the floor, unclasped her bra with a relieved sigh and stepped awkwardly out of her jeans. It only took her a few minutes to find the ridiculously large college top she always slept in, which for Lizzie was a decent record. Most women her age would be out, and if she had the money she would've stayed at Harvey's, but Lizzie maintained there was nothing better than a quiet night. Book in hand, a half-eaten chocolate bar on her pillow and the gentle light of her bedside lamp, Lizzie finally relaxed.

oOo

Harry was beginning to think his shop was never going to get off the ground. So far he'd interviewed twelve people and all of them had been awful. Either too aggressive for customer service or they had no idea what they were doing and simply hoped he'd give them a job before they disappeared to uni the following summer.

Houria had at least finished the shop, so there was no worry of any muggles walking in while a real-life fairy shouted at him to put his back into lifting. Despite their very transactional relationship, Harry had come to enjoy the time he'd spent with Houria and, by extension, Jackson. The two were an odd combination, one far too talkative and the other completely silent. But it worked and the shop looked better than anything he'd ever imagined.

The books were slowly arriving from various wholesalers. His science-fiction section was perfect, although fantasy left something to be desired. Romance, non-fiction and cooking were due to arrive later that week and he'd been dragged from his bed by the loud knocking of the UPS driver who was delivering the final bits and pieces for his myths and legends corner.

He was knelt down behind the counter unwrapping the box when the bell told him he wasn't alone. Avoiding the countertop, which he'd not done several times over the last few days, Harry rose from his collection of myths and legends. Before him stood a woman. A very pretty woman. She was just a touch shorter than he was, with tightly curled black hair held out of her face by a dark red hair tie. Beneath a black leather jacket, she wore a light blue blouse and dark blue jeans.

Scanning the shop critically, Harry could tell in an instant this woman was more impressive than anyone he'd interviewed before. Most of them bounded to him, trying to impress with her attitude or appearance, but this woman was checking if the shop was good enough for her. It was refreshing.

"Hi, are you here about the ad?"

"I am." The woman's voice was confident, assertive even. When she was sure she was going to continue she stepped forward, holding out a dark-skinned hand for Harry to shake. "Lizzie."

"Harry." They shook. Her grip was firm. Everything about this woman exuded the type of confidence that he hadn't felt since arriving in America.

"You're British." He was hearing that a lot.

"I am." There was an awkward lull. He was terrible at this. Interviewing psychos, sure, he could that. Interviewing people to work with him, not so much. "Sorry, would you like a drink of anything? Water? Tea?"

"Coffee?"

"That was kind of what I was hoping you'd be able to help with," Harry said a little awkwardly. "Erm, sure I can't get you anything?"

"No, thank you."

"Right." He was fairly certain he was doing terribly, but he pushed on. "So, I guess I should start with what I'm doing. Apart from the obvious, you know, bookshop. I've just moved actually, a few weeks ago and I was thinking of working in this place on my own. For a while. But a friend of mine asked what I was going to use the kitchen for. I figured, maybe in time some baking, cakes, biscuits, that kind of thing. But first I should probably do drinks, right? And I'm not exactly brilliant at that stuff. I can make a cup of tea but…

"Anyway, that's where hopefully you come in. I'm looking for someone who can help with that most days and maybe train me up. I wouldn't want to have that all on you."

"The ad mentioned career opportunities."

"Yeah." Feeling much more comfortable, he felt himself leaning against the countertop. "So, I was thinking the team'll grow. Bakers, more staff for the coffee, hopefully some admin stuff. Whatever you're interested in, I'll help that happen. I don't want to run this on my own forever."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You're not serious?"

"Why? Is that wrong?" It was probably wrong.

"Most people don't lead with the five-year plan."

"Well, I guess I'm not most people."

She didn't say anything, but Harry could practically feel her trepidation.

"Look, I've been dreaming of opening this place for ages. I'm going to give this everything I've got but I know I can't do it on my own. The way I see it, we could work together - if you got the job - and build it up. I wouldn't want to offer you a job you'll just quit in a year. What's the point of that?"

"That's how this normally works."

"Like I say, I'm not looking to do normal. Anyway, enough about me, what about you? Why'd you want this?"

"Honestly?"

"I'd prefer it," Harry said. He tried his best to smile but was so nervous he probably ended up looking deranged.

"I need the money," Lizzie told him. She crossed her arms, defensive body language. Not now, Potter. It was impossible to switch off the years of study into human behaviour, but he was trying. "Harvey said I should come here. I never really wanted to get into this type of thing. I did History at college, but one thing led to another and I'm picking up shifts in coffee shops and bars. You want someone who can make a latte, I can do that."

"But you don't want to forever?"

"I don't know what I want."

"Do any of us?" Harry asked. When she didn't say anything, he continued. "I was a, erm, police officer." That was sort of true. "In England. I'd dreamt of being one since I could remember and then I got there and it was… terrible."

"I can imagine." There was a genuine kind of sympathy in her voice that he hadn't been expecting.

"So, I took a chance on this place. I wanted to connect with people, actually, properly connect with them. I wanted to share something I love; instead of bringing people bad news all the time."

"That thing books?"

"Yeah, since I was a kid. I kind of fell out of the habit, I went to boarding school so…" he trailed off, trying not to reveal too much about Hogwarts. "But I always loved it."

"Me too," Lizzie said, smiling for the first time since she'd walked through the door. "Most History majors do."

"What was your area of study?" He'd been discouraged from learning any magical history by the truly woeful Binns, but the older he got the more he wished he'd tried harder.

"The railroad." Harry wasn't stupid enough to assume she meant actual trains. "Firsthand accounts mainly, how they moved people, what that was like."

"Well, I've got a history section over there," he pointed to the bookcases to the left of the large staircase. "What am I missing?"

"Seriously?"

"Consider it the skills part of the interview," Harry said. The answer to his question was a lot. John Hope Franklin, Neil Irvine Painter and many, many other names fell from Lizzie's mouth like a cascading waterfall. Her attention then turned to the rest of the shop. She suggested adding a section for Seattle authors, where the local independent writers could give him copies of their novels, and magazines near the counter. He'd been given his magic permit, finally, so made a mental note to rustle a stand up when Lizzie was gone. And before long she was reeling off authors he had to read, some of whom he'd never heard of. It turned out that Dursleys had kept his reading fairly limited to British authors, as had Hogwarts, but that was hardly surprising.

"So," Harry began when he felt his stomach remind him rather forcefully that it was well past lunchtime. "What do you think?"

"You're not what I expected," Lizzie admitted. "I thought you'd be an idiot."

"I'm flattered."

"It's not a high bar."

"Still flattered."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay. But I want ten dollars an hour."

"I'll go no lower than fifteen to start, and I've already got the insurance stuff sorted." A fact that had boggled his mind after an entire lifetime of free healthcare. The minimum wage was $5.15, according to his research, but he'd be damned if he was going to give anyone the lowest he could. Besides, he wanted to find the middle ground between room to develop and actually initially giving her a good place to start.

"You're a terrible negotiator."

"Depends on what you think I want," Harry told her. "Most people go for value for money, I prefer value for you. I want to keep the best people around. As far as I can see, that's you. So, if you're up for it, I'll get a contract over to you and we'll get you started next week."

"But you're not open?"

"No, but I could do with some help getting to grips with this damn thing." He pointed at the coffee machine that sat partially assembled on the counter. "And I think you've got an idea for what the shelves need. So, what do you say?"

She was quiet for a moment, chewing her lips as her dark brown eyes fixed on his as though she were trying to figure him out. Finally, she nodded and suddenly the anxiety left her and the confident woman who'd entered the shop reappeared.

"Monday it is."

And with that, Lizzie left. Triumphantly, Harry tore down the advert on the window and hurried down to Harvey's to get the flyer he'd handed to the bartender and to thank him for sending Lizzie his way.

Everything, finally, was coming together.