My face flushes with shame. Dee Cavendish is such a hard worker. She built this business up from nothing. I hate letting her down. ‘On it,’ I reply, resolving to work like a machine in order to make amends. I deliver the plates to table six, grab an apron from the back, and get to work, taking orders and clearing tables. But even though I’m trying my hardest, my mind just isn’t on the job. All I can think about is Bella. And each time her face comes to mind, a mixture of doubt and fear overwhelms me.

‘Excuse me.’

I turn back to an elderly couple sitting by the window. The man is pointing at his bacon buttie. ‘I didn’t order this. I asked for eggs royale. And my wife wanted scrambled egg, not a full English.’

‘I’m so sorry. Let me—’

‘Hello! ’Scuse me!’ Another customer is trying to get my attention. It’s a young guy in dusty overalls seated with two other workmen. ‘You’ve given us the wrong food.’

I realise I must have got the two orders mixed up, so I apologise profusely, my face heating up. Other customers are staring now. Dee glances across from the counter, taking in my mistake. She doesn’t say anything, but she must be inwardly cursing me. I know how important customer service is these days. I just have to hope the couple don’t go online to leave a negative review – they look the type, I think uncharitably.

Getting the orders mixed up isn’t that big a deal; mistakes happen all the time. But I feel jittery and on edge, like I’m on the verge of losing control. Like I can’t cope with any of this. In my haste to switch the food orders around, I’m not paying proper attention to what I’m doing, and the plate of eggs royale slips from my grasp as I cross the room. While trying to save it, I also manage to drop the plate of scrambled eggs and toast. I watch both plates fall as though in slow-motion. The two plates smash to pieces on the bleached floorboards, fragments of china and food bouncing and flying under tables and splattering on several of the customers’ legs.

The whole café falls silent for the longest second. Then everything speeds up again. A few people cheer, and a couple throw me sympathetic glances. I don’t dare look at Dee. Instead, I mutter apologies, drop down to the floor and start picking up shards of broken plate. I should really go and get a dustpan and brush, but I’m utterly mortified and shaken up. Not thinking straight at all. Thirty seconds later, Dee comes up to me with cleaning products and a broom. She apologises to the customers who were splattered and tells them their breakfasts are on the house.