[Déjà Brew] un jour à Londres (Madelyn)

Vivianne Courtois had been to London to take a look at some robes at Marchesi London and had visited some galleries. She had intended to go to Tate Modern or the National Gallery as well but her feet were already aching. She had considered wearing comfortable shoes but, frankly, when she was taking a day trip to London and went to designer shops and expensive galleries she just could not turn up in flats.

Her red pumps looked very pretty with her tight fitting grey robes and, of course, Vivi had a handbag, nail polish and lipstick in exactly the same shade of red. Her brown hair looked as though she came immediately from a hairdresser but if one looked more closely at the witch, it was obvious that she was tired and longing for a break. While she had apparated from one place to the next she could hardly apparate from one painting to the next in an art gallery.

Arriving in Diagon Alley, Vivianne found herself in front of Déjà Brew, a place that looked like a coffee shop and was probably a good option to rest her feet. Hopefully the coffee would be better than the one she had recently had at the cafeteria of the French Ministry…

The area downstairs was pretty crowded and so Vivianne chose to make her way upstairs, her hand gliding over the knotty banister. She liked the sound the wooden stairs made as she stepped on them. It was charming somehow, as was the entire place as far as Vivianne could tell. She gracefully sank down on a seat at an empty, medium sized table by the window and sighed in relief as she stretched out her legs below the table, crossing them at the ankles.

A waitress approached her soon after she had chosen her table and Vivianne offered a cordial smile, happy about the prompt service. “Hello,” she began in English and even this one word already revealed her strong accent. Vivianne spoke the language quite fluently but had never been able to lessen her accent.

“Can you recommend a beverage that helps against aching feet?”

@Madelyn Underhill

Madelyn had worked later last night than she was supposed to, but she reminded herself of all the favors she was racking up covering shifts for her co-witches. This time (as with the last three), Rachael’s babysitter fell through, and Madelyn covered for her. The young witch yawned, the back of her wand-holding hand covering her mouth, as she magicked away some refuse leftover on a table. Luckily for her, the assistant manager took pity on her tired soul and let her wait on the slow tables upstairs instead of running the register on the ground floor. Unluckily for her, it meant she had to work harder for her tips.

Hearing the click-clack of red pumps as they approached, Madelyn took a little too long to stare at the woman who took a seat in her section. Madelyn would never be a witch like that, she was too poor for fancy things and too lazy to learn all the right spells, but she didn’t hate those heels. “Aye,” she said, a soft smile floating to her face, followed by a dash of sarcasm. “Ought to suggest different shoes, though, shouldn’ I,” Still smiling, Madelyn pulled her little notebook from her apron, and a quill floated over from the counter.

“How about a flat white with a bit of Ms. Poesy’s soothing potions, then?”

The waitress seemed tired and Vivianne had been aware of the looks she had given her. It was nothing new. Vivi was used to being looked at. She liked the attention. Fine clothes and the perfect makeup had an effect on people.

The girl’s comment amused the French witch. “Yeah, you’re right,” she responded lightly, “but, you see, these shoes are perfect for my outfit.” She was tempted to kick the pumps off her feet by now, feeling the desire to get them out of their confinement but she knew better than to do such a thing in public.

“If the soothing potion doesn’t make tired then, yes, please, that sounds like a plan. How about you make yourself a pick-me-up? You look like you need it and you could tell me some more about the potions that you are offering here while you have it so nobody could accuse you of neglecting your job.”

It took a lot of willpower, but Madelyn reminded herself she'd get less tips if she outwardly rolled her eyes at the lush witch seated in her section. While those heels might have been brilliant on her, Mads had never understood the price of beauty. Without meaning to, the waitress gazed down at her own feet. She sighed at the sight of her worn out trainers -- her favorite pair, actually -- and the sticky foam she'd spilled earlier clotting on the top of the laces. Nothing magic couldn't fix up later, but a far cry from the likely wildly expensive heels in front of her. Different worlds, Madelyn thought and another sigh crept up her throat.

She spoke to keep herself from making a face, and shook her head as politely as possible. "Ain't going to make you weary, just a bit more peaceful, refreshed even." Despite the stereotypical connotations of her Bimingham accent, Madelyn was far from unintelligent. And while she wasn't the best at brewing potions, she was proficient enough to keep her job and understand the workings of most recipes.

It was hard not to take the customer's next words as a backhanded insult wrapped in a charitable offer, and Mads's face betrayed her need for tips; her lips pressed into a thin line. "No thanks, mam, I'm fine," Where Madelyn came from, telling someone they looked tired was the same as saying they looked like trash. In reality, Madelyn felt exhausted since she was fifteen years old. She struggled to make ends meet, woke up weary most mornings, and rarely had much to look forward to. She wasn't truly unhappy, merely felt drained most of the time. However, she did not need a woman in pricey pumps to tell her to take a break.

"I will get your drink, excuse me," Mady moved away from the table and back to the counter. Scooping beans from containers, stirring cauldrons set to boil, and pulling levers that spit foam, Madelyn mumbled under her breath. It must have been delightful to be so wealthy, she griped, refusing to look back at the witch even though she wanted to. Maybe it was jealousy, bitterness, or simply a lack of energy, but Madelyn felt especially insulted now.

But she had a job to do.

It took about five minutes, but when she returned to the woman, Madelyn had a tray with a single tall drink and four smaller trial cups. After a few deep breaths, Madelyn realized that even if her comments were insulting, that might not have been how they were meant. She could hear the accent of the woman's words, and told herself it must have been a language barrier. Maybe fancy witches, from fancy countries, commented on each other's tiredness all the time?

"I've brought ova some samples," Mady explained as she set the tray down onto the table and slipped into the seat across from the woman. She pointed -- but was careful not to touch the cup -- at the first of the small glasses. With a soft smile, Madelyn began to explain the elements of the cup. "This is a latte with a bit of eloquence potion mixed in, quite useful for a witch like you, should taste like cherries." Language barrier or not, Madelyn could punch back underhanded insult-compliments, just as well as the next witch.

Vivianne raised her eyebrows ever so slightly in bemusement at the younger witch, telling her that she was fine. She had not intended to insult the other woman. In fact, she had been sincerely concerned because the waitress did look tired. She probably worked several jobs, took all the extra hours she could get to make a living. Vivi couldn’t relate to that, she had never worked for a long time herself. While she had tried her luck in the family business, her private life had always come first.

Her parents, however, had told her that she needed to be aware that other people lived differently. They had told her about the working class, about these poor fellows that worked in several low paying jobs, relying on overtime and tips and who had to count their money and sometimes ran out of funds to have a decent meal towards the end of the month. Probably this waitress was one of these people, just working hard with no time to actually live. Vivi wondered if this was by choice (but who would ever choose this?) or if she was born into this kind of life. There had to be a way out of it, though. Vivi thought that with some ambition and creativity there had to be a chance to get a better paying job.

The waitress returned after about five minutes, carrying a tray with several cups and, after placing it on the table, sitting down on a seat across from her. Once again Vivianne raised her eyebrows, this time in a mix of surprise and amusement as she was introduced to a latte with eloquence potion.

“Useful for a witch like me,” Vivianne repeated, looking at the other woman. “How considerate of you. I take it, you deem it eloquent to hold back comments of genuine concern. That’s fair enough.”