I was mortified by the butter wedged under my boyfriends fingernails at an expensive Sunday brunchuntil I realised the impeccably suited man across from us couldn’t even pay for his own avocado toast.
The place was one of those trendy London cafés where the menu lists no prices, and there are more potted ferns along the walls than chairs on the floorit almost felt alive. Sundays: the day we all pretend life is effortless.
Id spent two hours getting ready. Makeup, hair, a dress that flattered neither my figure nor my wallet. All to ensure I didnt stand out, especially in front of Emma and her new fiancé.
James was exactly the sort of man social media sells as successful.
Pressed suit. Confident smile. Expensive cologne that lingered in the air. He worked in finance and techhe said it like it explained everything. He spoke loudly and with assurance, owning the table before the coffee even arrived.
Thats when David turned up.
Twenty minutes late, straight from a work emergency. He didnt smell of aftershave, but of engine oil, cold metal, and a long day. Still in his work boots, his high-vis jacket slung over his shoulder like it belonged. The cuff of his jeans was stained. When he sat down next to me, I noticed the black grease under his nailsdeep in his skin, the kind that no quick scrub washes away.
His chair scraped loudly on the polished floor, cutting through the low indie playlist.
I caught Emmas lookher eyes landed on Davids boots, slid across to Jamess suit, then back to me with a smile that made me both angry and a little sad.
I shrunk a little.
Couldnt you at least have washed your hands? I whispered.
David looked at metired, but not hurt. This wasnt the tiredness of a long night. This was tiredness in his bones.
Sorry, love, he said quietly. Main power cable burst in the centre. Had to hold it together until another crew came. Just about had time to splash some water on.
He only ordered coffee and a double helping of bacon. No cocktails, no fancy toast. Just what would keep him going.
For the next hour, James performed for us as if he were giving a TED Talk.
He went on about freedom, passive income, and those who trade their time for money because they just dont get how the system works. He laughed at people who work hard, as if that life was some sort of personal failure.
Then he turned his benevolence towards Davidcondescension, camouflaged as kindness.
Listen, mate, I could pull some strings. Save you from the tools. A lad like you shouldnt be breaking his back at thirty. Use your head, not your hands.
My whole body tensed.
David took a sip of his coffee.
I like my work, he said simply. The city needs power. When the lights go out, you cant fix it with buzzwords. Someone has to get up and sort it.
James smiled, almost pitying.
Sure, honest graft. But dont you want more? Travel, shopping without thinking about the costa proper life?
It stung because I wanted more too. I wanted clean Sundays. Clean hands. A life that didnt reek of exhaustion. I hated myself a bit for thinking that. Why did my life feel heavy, while Emmas looked so effortless?
Then the bill arrived.
A shameless sum. The sort that drags you back to earth with a thud.
My treat, James declared, snatching the billfold like a trophy. He laid a heavy platinum card on the table, expecting applause. Lets celebrate.
We waited.
The waitress returned, looking sheepish.
Im terribly sorry, sir your cards been declined.
Silence.
James laughed, too quickly. No chance. Try again.
She did.
Im really sorry insufficient funds.
His face flamed red, then went pale. He began typing frantically on his phone, muttering about errors and transfers. I glimpsed his screenthere was no error. Just a blunt alert: balance nearly exhausted. Overdue payment.
Erm I havent got any cash on me, he mumbled. Could someone cover? Ill pay you right back.
Emma stared at the table.
I peeked in my bag. I knew it was hopeless.
David didnt smile.
He didnt gloat.
He didnt preach.
He reached into his grubby pocket and pulled out a battered clip of banknotes. Real money, earned through hours of work.
He counted it calmly, set it on the table, and slid it towards the waitress.
Keep the change, he said softly.
When he stood, his back creaked. His body remembered the day. He rested a hand on Jamess shouldernot to belittle him, but to steady him.
Its alright, he said. Everyone has a rough month.
We left.
In the car park, James and Emma made their way over to their shiny electric carnew, noiseless, immaculate. James pulled at the handle. Nothing. Again.
Locked.
He checked his phone, and his face fell.
Its been blocked missed my payment
David led me to his old pickup. A dented bumper, mud on the tyres. Insidetools, a hard hat, crumpled plans, receipts. Nothing for show. All for work.
He turned the key. The engine started instantly. No fuss. It was his.
I looked at his hands on the wheel. The oil under his nails. The fresh burn on his thumb. Suddenly, they didnt look dirty at all.
They looked real.
You alright? David asked. I know I turned up like this Ill get a shower as soon as were home.
I took his hand. Rough. Warm. Safe.
Dont apologise, I said. I think youre the only real thing in this city.
Weve been taught to worship the image of success and turn up our noses at the labour that keeps everything upright. To believe a suit means security, and work-wear means trouble.
But that Sunday, I understood something simple:
Worth isnt shown at the table.
It shows when the bill comes.
When the front drops.
When someone pays quietly and leaves without making anyone else feel small.
And if you have someone who comes home exhausted, with hands that keep the world turning
theres no lack of shine to that.
Its proof that somewhere, something still works
because of him.
What, for you, is true successshow or substance?
