If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  She was just contemplating exactly how depressing this was on a scale of one to ten when a voice behind her made her jump.

  ‘Hey!’

  She took a deep breath to steady herself.

  ‘You scared the crap out of me,’ she breathed, trying to smile as she looked up at him, standing just behind her. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ Dec smiled, and somehow she sensed he’d made an effort, too. His reddish-brown stubble was slightly more styled than usual, and he had on a grey, thin-knit top that strained across his biceps when he moved. He gestured at her. ‘Do you wanna slide down so I can sit next to you?’

  She blinked at him.

  ‘So I can see the screen and we can do all the stuff we need to do?’ he said slowly, waiting for the penny to drop.

  Imogen shook her head. ‘Yeah, sorry. Thought you’d want to grab a drink first.’

  Now he looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, of course. Sorry. That makes more sense. I’ll … go do that.’ He bounded off to the bar, where Keith grinned pointedly at her, moving his eyes between them. Imogen briefly closed her eyes and took a second to breathe. Calm the hell down, for God’s sake, she told herself, he’s just working on your computer.

  In her head, Demi’s voice conjured a fair few dirty responses, and that made her feel better. She slid her bag and stuff down the bench to make room for him. Declan reappeared with a pint of coke.

  ‘Thought an Irishman would be all about the booze. Especially if you worked a morning shift,’ she grinned as he sat down.

  ‘Actually, I don’t drink.’

  Imogen tried not to feel like she was staring. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t drink. Maybe just that with her family it was a pastime, an excuse to spend more time with people, much like food. An excuse for celebration. She wanted to ask why, but it seemed inappropriate.

  ‘I get that look a lot. The Irishman who doesn’t drink. Should be a short story,’ Dec laughed, sipping at his coke.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I was surprised,’ Imogen blushed.

  ‘Societal norms? Stereotypes? The fact that drinking is a lot of fun and being sober sucks quite often?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. You should hear the bollocking I get at family occasions.’

  Imogen looked at her own pint hesitantly, and he noticed. ‘You can drink yours, you know!’

  ‘Keith actually gave it to me out of habit and I was too embarrassed to turn it down. It’s nice to have a local, but you’re not allowed to change at all.’

  ‘Well, we know that feeling more than most. We connect through routine,’ he shrugged, turning his attention to her laptop screen. ‘So this is the hosting service you’re using?’

  She pursed her lips and raised her shoulders slowly, before simply pushing the laptop towards him. He wasn’t sitting particularly close, but the warmth from his shoulder brushing against hers was making her shiver a little, and the scent of his cologne, manly and slightly spicy, was setting her aflutter. She felt like she was constantly waiting for something. It only seemed to cease when they were talking.

  Declan focused on the laptop, frowning at the settings and making adjustments, mumbling to himself, and Imogen took the chance just to look at him. To notice how his nose slanted, slightly crooked, and his bottom lip rounded perfectly. How there was one patch on his cheek where hair didn’t seem to grow, and a pucker on his earlobe from where he’d once had an earring. His eyelashes were luscious, curving prettily, and she saw a thin silver chain around his neck, the pendant dipping down under his shirt. There was something rugged and strong about him, like he could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away. Like he could protect her. She hadn’t been joking when she’d guessed he was a UFC fighter. He looked solid, powerful, but light on his feet. Maybe it was just that he carried himself well.

  He was also, as it turned out, a geek. Or at least that’s what she was assuming from the technical jargon he was spouting about her computer.

  ‘I have no idea what you just said,’ she laughed, taking a tentative sip of her cider.

  His eyes flicked to hers, lips quirking. ‘Don’t worry about it. But you should look at this.’

  He swivelled the laptop back to face her, then leant over her shoulder to point at the graph. ‘You’ve been running this blog for what, two weeks?’

  Imogen nodded. ‘About that. I’ve been writing something almost every day, depending on how exhausted or rage-fuelled I am.’

  ‘Look at that number,’ he pointed. ‘That’s how many people have read your work in two weeks.’

  Imogen blinked. ‘Wwenty-seven thousand? That can’t be right.’

  ‘Okay, well they may not have read it, but they definitely stopped to look.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Why aren’t you more excited? You have a readership! You’re a writer in London. You’ve done what you set out to do! Drink up!’

  Imogen exhaled in disbelief, staring at the graph on the screen. ‘You’re sure it’s not a technical glitch or some virus or something?’

  Dec turned to her, a little too close, and tilted his head. ‘Say it after me: I, Imogen Cypriani …’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  He just shrugged and waited.

  ‘Uh, fine. I, Imogen Cypriani …’

  ‘Have something of value to share with the world.’ He nodded at her to copy.

  ‘Dec, come on, it’s hardly “of value”. It’s me moaning anonymously about my day job.’

  ‘And if even a couple of hundred out of those twenty-seven thousand readers are working jobs like we are, and it makes them feel better? Isn’t that worth something?’

  Imogen smiled to herself, looking down at the rough wooden table top and tracing her fingers along the edge of it. She looked at Declan’s hands, actually surprisingly delicate for such a bear of a man. All shaped edges and tidy nails, but the grooves stained by coffee grounds, just like hers were after every shift.

  ‘I’ve realised what it is you remind me of.’ She bit her lip, looking at him mischievously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A golden retriever.’

  He burst out laughing, not even demanding an explanation, just looking at her with a strange mixture of affection and incredulity.

  ‘You make people feel better. And you seem to be ridiculously positive all the time. Always look on the bright side of life and all that crap,’ Imogen added, laughing at herself as she tried to explain.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and relaxed back into the chair. ‘My darling, if that is how it looks, then I’m doing a damn good job of hiding how fucked up I am.’

  ‘Ooh, intrigue.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Does that get you all the girls? You promise them you’re broken and they want to fix you and make you all shiny and new?’

  ‘Do you ever stop looking at things like a writer?’

  She shrugged. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Of course you bloody are, you ridiculous woman.’

  Imogen raised an eyebrow, feeling pretty damn pleased with herself. She had a blog lots of people were reading, and she was on a date with a man who made her insides feel like they were melting. A new experience for her.

  Even the ‘friends with benefits’ scenarios she’d had back home, none of them had really been about attraction. First it had been about getting things out of the way, then later, about scratching an itch. Or even, she was ashamed to say, just to make sure she didn’t go too long without human contact of some kind. Turning up at a friend’s house, playing video games and eating pizza, then half-heartedly shagging a bit … well, it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t dangerous.

  It never felt like this, though, like every sense was fine-tuned towards picking up vibrations from this man. If she thought about how close he was, his arm now casually leaning across the back of the bench where she sat, she started to shiver, a delicious chill down the back of her neck and down to her fingertips. She guessed that was why they called it electricity. All Imogen knew was that she had never had an insatiable n
eed to nibble on someone’s collarbone before. But here Declan was, being adorable and supportive and sexy as hell. Damn him.

  ‘So then, really, the question is,’ she started, taking a chance, ‘did you tell me how broken you are because you want me to fix you?’

  He looked up and his eyes locked on to hers, like he wasn’t really sure what to say. Instead he lifted his hand to twirl a piece of her hair around his finger, smiling at her. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I don’t think that all broken things need to be fixed,’ she said simply, letting her hand hover above his, as he gently traced her face with his thumb.

  He moved closer, and she half-closed her eyes in anticipation, as her cheek rested in his hand. ‘I … really wish I had something witty and smart to say right now,’ he whispered softly.

  ‘Just say what you’re thinking,’ she breathed back.

  ‘Better not. Bit dangerous.’ His breathing was shallow and words seemed difficult. Surely he was … was he really not going to? He was staring at her intently, but obviously wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d messed up the timing, or she’d got it wrong. She smiled uncertainly at him, and turned away to look back at the laptop, when suddenly his lips were on hers. Soft and insistent, warm as he guided her, slow but not languorous, strong but not bossy. Responsive. She leaned in, feeling his arm around her shoulders and his hand resting on her waist as her lips started to tingle. And then it was over, their foreheads resting against each other to breathe, as if they were both in shock.

  ‘You feel this, right? This crazy thing between us?’

  ‘Um, yes. I mean … yes.’ Imogen was a little embarrassed to look at him.

  ‘Because whatever Emanuel’s said about me –’ Declan looked at her intently, his thumb gently stroking her hand.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything, except taking the piss out of me for blushing when you turn up,’ Imogen shrugged. ‘What did you think he’d say?’

  ‘Just that I’m a sad bastard who keeps making up excuses to come in and see you …’ He looked embarrassed, focusing on the grooves of the tabletop.

  ‘Was he right?’

  Declan twitched his nose. ‘Only half the time … all right, 60-40, but …’

  Imogen laughed. ‘I didn’t even guess, you know. I just figured your manager was crap at ordering.’

  ‘Oh he is, but now he’s got a much worse reputation for it.’ He took a swig of his drink, shaking his head. ‘In fact, I think Darrel actually complained to him about how much stock we’re taking from you guys.’

  ‘Shit, what happened?’

  ‘My manager told me I’d better ask out the pretty girl before I cost him his job.’

  Imogen looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure you actually took his advice, you know.’

  ‘What, we’re on a date.’

  ‘It’s a date in disguise. It’s a date in blog-related-work’s clothing,’ Imogen sniffed. ‘It’s literally only a date because when we arranged it you said “it’s a date” and then ran off!’

  ‘You knew!’ he laughed.

  ‘Did not! You could have been really interested in my blogging pursuits!’ she argued.

  ‘I am. Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the rest of you,’ Dec shrugged. ‘So what do people do on real dates then? Eat fancy food and drink wine and talk about art?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ Imogen snorted and sipped at her pint. ‘I’ve only ever done the whole “hanging out” thing.’

  Dec nodded. ‘Ah, yes, I’m familiar with that myself. Wanna hang out?’

  ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing now?’ she replied, eyebrow raised.

  ‘I meant hanging out more horizontally,’ he grinned, brushing a piece of hair away from her cheek, and briefly pressing a kiss against her neck. She felt herself twitch.

  ‘I can’t tell if I would have said yes if you’d phrased that slightly more nicely.’ She wriggled away from him, but laughed. ‘I think there’s like a minimum amount of vertical hanging out I’d like to reach first.’

  Declan grinned, eyes almost glittering as he shrugged and leaned back against the bench. ‘That’s cool. I’m casual.’

  ‘So casual you almost bankrupted my store by stealing our stock?’ She pressed her lips together to avoid laughing.

  ‘Well, it got you here, didn’t it?’ he laughed. ‘Actually, speaking of being utterly pathetic, I made you something.’

  He pulled a folded piece of thick sketchbook paper from his back pocket and handed it to her, eyes not meeting hers. She unfolded it, and smiled. It was a line drawing of a girl who looked a lot like her. Dark hair tied back into two pigtails, dark eyeliner and a mischievous, knowing look. The girl’s apron was slashed and was tied around her waist at an angle. Above her head was a speech bubble that said ‘Be nice or I’ll put you in my blog’.

  ‘Dec, that’s awesome, thank you!’ Her fingertips traced the thick inky lines and she smiled at him. ‘Honestly, this is so brilliant! Maybe you could do a logo for the website? Although something a bit more … anonymous?’

  ‘Whatever the lady wants.’ Dec squeezed her hand, and then made to get up. ‘Speaking of, I hear on these real “date” things that people go and have dinner. Want to do that?’

  Imogen twitched her nose and shrugged. ‘Eh, I’m casual.’ But he took her hand as they walked out of the pub, Keith whistling as they left.

  *****

  Reading, Listening, and Other Skills

  ‘Are you paying by card, madam?’

  ‘Yes.’ She waves it in my face like I’m a moron.

  ‘Well, if you insert your card, and press the enter button first, you’ll be prompted for your pin.’

  I watch as she obviously ignores my instructions. I’ve turned my head away, but I can tell she’s typing in her pincode. She hasn’t pressed enter. It will ask for her pin again.

  ‘But I’ve just typed in my pin!’ she exclaims in shock. ‘Why does it want it again? Are you charging me twice?’

  She looks at me over the rim of her glasses like we’re suddenly in a court room and I’m the defendant. On the day in question, did you purposefully try to gain £2.50 in double pincode abuse?

  So what do I say? ‘Well, if you’d listened to me, and actually read the screen, you dumb bitch, you would realise you have to press the Big Green Button.’

  No, I don’t say that. Apparently that’s not appropriate.

  ‘It won’t charge you again, if you just retype your code, please. You have to press the green enter button first, usually.’ I smile in an ‘Oh well, never mind’ sort of way.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you tell me that, then?’

  I start to think I’m having an existential crisis. I do not work here at all; it is a figment of my imagination. I’m actually locked up in an institution somewhere, sticking playdough in my hair, and the smell of the doctor’s coffee (along with the drugs) has triggered a hallucination.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, madam, you’re right, I should have told you.’ Another little piece of my soul slithers away, out the door and straight into oncoming traffic.

  ‘Yes, yes, you should.’ She nods at me, pleased, like she’s trained a particularly difficult terrier, and walks off to collect her appropriately charged coffee.

  And then this happens.

  ‘How much is a large hot chocolate?’ the next customer asks.

  He’s staring right at me, and I am desperately hoping that he’s actually blind, and that’s why he didn’t bother to consult the massive board displaying prices behind my head. I turn to look at said board and point at it, telling him the price.

  ‘Oh, so all the prices are up there?’ he asks, and I feel my chest constrict with the pain of not crying.

  ‘Yes, sir, all the prices are there.’

  ‘So, how much is a medium latte?’ he asks, looking at me again. Please, please finish that sentence with ‘I’ve left my glasses at home’, or ‘I’m short sighted’. Please, please …’

  I tell him the price. He then as
ks me the prices of almost everything, and my neck is starting to twinge from looking behind me so often.

  ‘Okay, thank you,’ he says, as I list off what is probably the only thing on the menu he hasn’t already asked about. Then he walks out without buying anything.

  The next customer is paying by card. And you already know what I’m going to say.

  Chapter Nine

  Even Agnes’s continuous barking at her couldn’t dampen Imogen’s mood. Her day was full of flirty texts and pictures sent of little doodles to make her laugh. The problem was she was too happy to focus on the horrible customers she needed to pay attention to. Somehow, their jibes and arrogance and, occasionally, pure stupidity just seemed to bounce off her.

  ‘New girl! Five frapshakes – one cream with coffee whip, one coffee with cream, one strawberry and cream with a shot of coffee, two decaf-extra-icy-extra-shot-fat-free-with-cream.’ Agnes tilted her head to see what Imogen would do.

  She just nodded and started making the drinks. She swirled, poured, shook, blended, finished each with an extravagant swirl of whipped cream, and put them on the side of the bar. Agnes walked over to inspect, nodding, ‘hmming’ and ‘aahhing’ as she held each one up.

  ‘The order was correct,’ Agnes nodded.

  ‘And disgusting. Who puts coffee in strawberry milkshake?’ Imogen winced, looking for the customer.

  ‘No one, it was a test,’ Agnes said with satisfaction. ‘You passed.’

  ‘Well, whoopdidoo,’ Imogen muttered, dumping the contents of each drink in the sink, and throwing the containers away. ‘Do you know how much money we just wasted?’