She can't be more than seventeen. Small, slender, red-lipped, skin hasn't settled down yet. Straight cornsilk ponytail held back by an Alice band, and the coffee-shop job sure didn't pay for those glasses.
She makes me an excellent strong latte with a fern-frond pattern, to get me through the next few hours of the bookshop sale. (Apparently the reason coffee grounds kill snails and slugs is that the caffeine makes their heartbeats speed up till they die of exhaustion. You heard it here.)
If she's working at a coffee shop in the city on a Sunday morning, and in rough old Hindley Street at that, then she's probably an enterprising seventeen, temporarily out of school uniform and into franchise ditto, which is at least a bit cooler than the school one: black and tight.
The uniform also involves a name badge.
'Brenton', it says.
Okay. What happened in 1989, when someone gave birth to a little blonde baby daughter and called her Brenton? What family dramas were behind it? And what family dramas have ensued?