‘Yes, I calculated exactly,’ Agnes said, striding off to the storage unit. ‘I was trying to give you a compliment. Learn to take positive feedback.’
‘Well, maybe I got so used to the negative feedback that I died from shock,’ Imogen grumbled to her retreating back. Gabriella, the transfer from the Notting Hill store, trudged up to the till, tying her long, dark hair back. She grinned at Imogen. ‘Don’t let her upset you. She’s just … Agnes. She’s famous around here.’
When Ella had first turned up at the store the day before, Imogen was pretty sure she was going to hate her. Mainly, and painfully superficially, it was because Ella managed to look ridiculously coiffed and beautiful every shift. Even the ones that started at crazy o’clock in the morning. And it wasn’t like she was trying. She didn’t come in caked in make-up. She just looked … together. Her Italian accent was soft and inviting and she had this way of looking at a customer who was rude to her that seemed to make them take a step back and mumble.
Ella made Imogen feel boring. Boring and unattractive and pretty damn bad at her job. Except one more annoying thing: Ella seemed really lovely.
She looked at Imogen pleadingly. ‘Darling, make me an espresso, please? I just finished my shift at Notting Hill and they asked me to come straight here to cover.’
Imogen smiled and started preparing the drink, trying to figure out what exactly it was about Ella that gave her that glow. Were her eyes wide because of a magical eyeliner, or a special concealer? Or was it just the physical effect of being completely okay with who you were? Damn.
‘So maybe I’m very nosey, but Declan was wearing a matching smile this morning … ’ Ella hummed, grinning.
‘Well … that’s very nice for him.’ Imogen tried for casual and failed.
‘Just … be careful, though, will you?’
Imogen tilted her head, handing over the espresso. ‘Why?’
Ella paused, as if she wasn’t sure she should say anything, then ploughed ahead anyway, her voice soft. ‘Just, be gentle with him. He’s been through a lot.’
‘O … kay.’ Imogen looked at Ella with suspicion.
Ella grasped her hand. ‘Look, Declan is a lovely guy, I’ve known him since he started, but … he doesn’t do commitment. He pushes forward and then backs off.’
‘But …’ Imogen frowned, thinking of all the stock he’d wasted to come and see her. That kiss had been … well, maybe it hadn’t been that good. Maybe she just had so little experience of actually being attracted to someone. The man was pure lust; he obviously had more experience than her. And he had wanted to get ‘horizontal’ immediately …
‘He likes the chase,’ Ella said softly. ‘He’ll throw the charm at you non-stop until he gets what he wants, but then he’s gone. He’s not lying when he says he’s broken.’
‘He told you that, too?’
‘He tells all the girls that,’ Ella shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not true. He’s got some demons … just don’t get your hopes up if you’re looking for a boyfriend. Dec doesn’t do boyfriend.’
Imogen tensed her shoulders, then pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know what I was looking for. I was just seeing what happened. Open mind.’
‘Just … don’t book any tickets for anything in advance: gigs, shows, things like that. It’s a pattern. He retreats, he shuts you out and then he’s gone.’
Imogen wasn’t sure why she felt like one of her vital organs was suddenly missing. She wasn’t good with disappointment, she knew that, but she hadn’t invested that much in Dec, had she? Not after one little kiss?
‘I just wanted you to know.’ Ella twitched her lips in an apologetic smile, and went to restock the coffee syrups.
It was the idea that she was just another in a long line of stupid girls who’d fallen for that smile and charm. How many other girls had told him it was okay to be broken? How many had sighed against his lips and felt like they were the single most beautiful person in the world at that one moment? Don’t book tickets, don’t make plans. Over before anything had begun. Imogen felt like an idiot. That was why she’d never done this before. You open yourself up to feeling something, and it makes you a fool. Better to stick with those casual friendships without any attraction. Safer that way.
‘Break,’ Agnes ordered as she marched over and nudged Imogen out of the way, placing her hand on the coffee machine. ‘Go.’
Imogen shrugged, grabbed a sandwich that she’d pay for when the crowd died down in the afternoon, and went to sit in the little park she’d found, hidden in the backstreets behind the coffee shop. She had a feeling it might be private, but there were no locks on the gates and no one ever seemed to be there. She lay her hoodie out on the grass, sat down with her sunglasses on and ate her mediocre sandwich.
She could text Dec, carry on the flirty little messages that had been continuing to arrive in the last couple of days, but that didn’t seem as attractive now. It was the same game he’d played however many times. How many girls had written texts just like hers, sent inane smiley faces and counted the numbers of kisses?
She wasn’t angry at him; he’d said he was ‘casual’. That should have been a clue. Whatever that actually meant. It was painfully addictive, though, that first flourish of attraction and appreciation. Imogen kept replaying the kiss in her head, the feel of his hands on her, the smell of his aftershave. How his lips felt on hers. She couldn’t really think of another kiss that had affected her like that, and couldn’t tell if that was impressive on his part, or just plain sad on hers.
Imogen scrolled through her email on her phone. Dec had set up a few functions from the website to an anonymous email address. Most of the time it was just people subscribing to the site, or the occasional comment. Those were starting to get addictive, too. She’d said she wasn’t interested in the comments, but seeing people really get what she was doing was powerful. Even the few stupid arguments that she was clearly a miserable, horrible person who was probably crap at her job didn’t really leave a mark. She was connecting. She was doing something real. She felt alive. That was enough.
An email that wasn’t a subscription or a comment came up. It was a private email from the ‘Contact Twisted Barista’ button Dec had installed. Imogen had originally hated the idea, but he’d insisted – maybe someone would want to get in touch. ‘It’s important to keep those channels open – you never know who’ll come knocking,’ he’d said, and she’d caved because he seemed to know better when it came to this stuff.
And apparently he was right.
Dear Twisted Barista (Great name by the way!)
My name is Tabitha Riley, and I’m a journalist for online newspaper The Type. Maybe you’ve heard of us? I’m in charge of the blogs on our site, and we really love what you’re doing here. It’s hilarious, new, sarcastic and honest. We’re lacking a bit of that in the news these days, something that applies to almost everyone. People know the customers you write about, either from when they’ve worked in bars or restaurants or coffee shops, or when they’ve been standing in a queue behind that arsehole and feeling really sorry for the person who has to deal with them. We love your voice. It’s unique and engaging and I’m going to have to stop myself getting over-excited here!
We’d really love for you to come in and talk with us about hosting your blog on our site. I’m sure you’re getting a lot of offers, but I can promise we will make sure you’re completely appreciated. And compensated. And that you won’t have to deal with any arseholes (beyond our deputy editor).
We’d love for you to come into the offices sometime during the week, so feel free to call me on the number at the bottom, or respond to this email.
Yours, fangirling,
Tabby Riley
Imogen blinked.
Fuck.
She’d emailed The Type when she first moved to London. Emailed, and found the right departments. She’d left messages, and sent letters, included portfolio pieces. And Tabby Riley?! She’d left comments on her blog about sh
adowing her. Imogen had been reading Miss Twisted Thinks since it started. Part of the Twisted Barista name was an homage to Tabby Riley. She was an idol. A one-woman kick-ass machine in the world of journalism! And now she wanted to work with her? Wanted her to come into the offices, and pay her to write?
It could be a set-up, Imogen thought practically, watching as the pigeons carefully pecked their way over to the sandwich she’d dropped halfway through reading the email. Maybe it was BeanTown executives, trying to lure her out by posing as her idol. Although that might be illegal, in which case there’d be no point as they’d lose the advantage …
Should she go? Should she go in disguise, or pay someone to pretend to be her? But what if this was her actual ‘big break’, or medium break, or even teeny-tiny-just-on-the-ladder break? Shouldn’t she just go with it?
As far from casual as it was, there was only one person she wanted to tell, and who might be able to tell her what to do. And he happened to be calling her name.
‘Hey, space cadet, I was waving for ages like an idiot.’ Dec thumped down on the grass beside her. ‘You okay?’
Imogen simply held up the phone and showed him the email, watching his eyes as they skimmed the words.
‘Have you googled this Tabitha person, to see if she’s legit?’
‘She’s legit,’ Imogen huffed. ‘Or at least, Tabitha Riley exists, and I’m a big fan of hers. But if this person is pretending to be her …’
‘Easy enough to check,’ Dec shrugged, and cross-checked all the professional emails, blogs and websites that involved Tabitha Riley. Imogen just watched him, the way his eyes scanned the screen, squinting a little to reveal creases, intensely focused on the task at hand. He could be hers for a little bit, if she stayed casual. If she remembered that, as always, she was just like every other girl. Not very special, not very memorable, but nice enough to spend some time with. It was nice just to laugh for a while again.
‘It’s really her,’ Dec said, looking at Imogen expectantly. ‘Whatcha gonna do?’
She stopped focusing on Dec and focused on the question. Imogen felt the smile on her face widen until it hurt. ‘My favourite writer thinks I’m talented and wants to work with me? That’s what you’re telling me.’
‘Damn straight, darlin’.’
Imogen held up a finger. ‘You have to forgive me for just one second.’ She threw her arms up in the air and squealed ‘Eeee!’
Her face scrunched up like a child who’d just been given the best birthday present and Imogen was trying to recall the last time she’d felt such joy. Declan grinned at her, eyes twinkling. Oh yeah. That was the last time.
‘So, what you waiting for? Email her back!’
Twenty minutes later, in a flurry of back-and-forth emails with her writing idol, Imogen had an meeting at The Type the following week. She also had a text from Agnes:
I said go on break, not go to Antarctica. Come back now.
‘No rest for the coffee monkey,’ Imogen said, dusting herself off.
‘Damn, and I didn’t even get a proper hello,’ Declan said, reaching for her, but she dodged him, a little backwards dance that she didn’t even want to explain. That kiss had been special. Knowing what she knew, the next one would be complicated. Why not just keep one perfect kiss in her memory?
‘Gotta run before Agnes kills me,’ she shrugged, jogging away from him and waving. ‘Bye!’
‘Hang out tonight?’ Declan called after her.
Whatever the hell you want, she thought.
‘I’ll think about it!’ she yelled back, thinking that she was smart enough to know better, but probably not smart enough to stay away.
*****
Twisted Barista’s Guide to Being a Decent Customer/Human Being
Say ‘hello’ back. It’s just basic courtesy.
Do NOT rattle out your massive list of drink orders without warning me that there will be fourteen drinks, or before I’ve even uncapped my pen. Just because you’ve been rehearsing how to order your drink on the way up to the counter does not mean I have super-human speedy hearing.
Speak UP, damn it. It’s a loud place, with the machines whirring, the customers chatting, the staff shouting orders to each other. You speaking in mouse impersonations, and then getting tetchy with me, is not right.
Don’t order your drink, and when I pass on the order to the barista making the coffee, say ‘Yes, I just told you that, can you not hear correctly?’
Don’t, when I turn to pass the drinks order to the barista making the coffee, put your money down on the counter, and then when I tell you the price, nod your head with a satisfied grin, and a roll of the eyes. So when I look down and see a ten-pound note on the counter, I somehow look like an idiot. Because then you look like someone who can’t bear to almost touch hands with someone who works a minimum wage job, you snob.
Don’t try and trick me into giving you free stuff just because someone else has done it before. Funnily enough, we’re not all the same person. If my manager gave you free whipped cream once, well whoopdidoo. Not happening here, mate.
Don’t get all shirty with me because you’re ordering in a different language. That’s not my fault.
Say ‘thank you’ when receiving a drink, or ‘you, too’ when someone says ‘have a nice day’. Again, we’re in England. This is what we’re known for, as well as having sticks up our backsides, and conquering stuff.
When I say ‘hello’ or ask for your order, do not step back in shock and say, ‘Wow, your English is really good, where are you from?’ Because my answer will always be ‘England’. And do not respond with ‘Then why are you working here?’
Don’t cut in line, or shout at me when someone cuts in front of you and I don’t notice. I’m a server, not a babysitter. I am, equally, not your: Mother, Girlfriend, Financial Advisor, Tour Guide, Map Reader, Wingman, Best Friend, or Translator. I operate a magical device with a drawer that, when you tap the special buttons, pops open so I can take your money, and give you some back. Then I talk to another person (who is also none of the above) who presses some buttons and makes some milk hot, so we can give you a beverage. And for the most part, we do this with a smile.
(An extra special one, because it’s too ridiculous to be left out.) Don’t complain to ME about the price of the coffee. You think I have a say in it? I don’t even buy drinks here. I do, indeed, think it’s nuts to pay £2.30 for a small drink. Can I do anything about it? No. If I could, I’d probably lower the prices and increase my wages. Which is why I’m not in business.
Now, if I could only get them to paste these rules on the front door, I think we’d all have a much more pleasant coffee experience, don’t you?
Chapter Ten
Imogen had been channelling a secret agent when she disappeared for her meeting at The Type that morning. The dark sunglasses were fine as it was the summer (although continuing to adamantly wear them on the tube was perhaps a bit much), but it was the insistence on wearing all black that seemed the strangest thing.
‘It’s discreet,’ she’d argued with Demi on the phone the night before.
‘You’re not robbing a bank, you’re going to an interview – you don’t want to be forgettable!’
‘I also don’t want some important snobbish banker who I serve a triple macchiato to every day noticing and connecting the dots. Working for The Type means working for BeanTown. No coffee job equals no writing job.’
Demi exhaled deeply and said nothing for a few seconds. ‘Imogen, from the way you’ve described your customers, do you really think they’re going to notice you outside in the real world, not serving them coffee? They won’t recognise you, and if they do, they won’t care. Those types of people are never bothered by what the staff are doing in their free time.’
‘Profound.’
‘Honest,’ Demi replied. ‘You’re going to meet the person who is doing the job you want to do, who is going to show you how to do that. Make a fucking impression.’
S
he hung up, always one to be dramatic, and Imogen realised that if anyone but her younger cousin spoke to her like that, she’d probably have stopped answering their calls a long time ago.
So she compromised. In her oversized bag was a brightly patterned pashmina and a cute pair of earrings. She shouldn’t need style to make an impression. Which was lucky, because she was pretty sure she had none. She watched the other travellers on the tube from behind her dark glasses, enjoying being able to spy unnoticed. Everyone seemed so busy, so full of purpose and intention. They all had somewhere to be, and it was terribly important that they got there as efficiently as possible. Imogen wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
When she struggled out of Oxford Circus station, she took a deep breath and oriented herself, marching over to the building with her head held high. She could do this. She could totally do this.
Of course, walking into a huge glass building and mumbling her name to the (frankly terrifying) six-foot, blonde model-type behind the desk was another matter.
‘Sixth floor. He’s expecting you,’ the receptionist said, gesturing loosely towards the lift.
‘He?’
‘Mr Shulman? The deputy editor of the paper? … The person you’re having the meeting with …’ The receptionist laughed, tinny and mean. ‘Might want to google him on the way up.’
Imogen didn’t bother to say she was meant to meet Tabby, not wanting to deal with the receptionist one moment longer. She waited until she was inside the lift to try to desperately connect to Google, but there was no service. She felt her shoulders shake a bit and took a deep breath. She’d wing it. She had something they wanted. She was in the position of power here. All she had to do was stop herself being embarrassing around Tabby Riley.
She recognised her instantly, standing by the lift when the doors opened. She wore a pair of black leggings, coral ballet flats and a coral shirt that seemed to have images of frolicking Bambis on it. Her hair was longer than her picture, and she had glasses now. Imogen wasn’t sure why she had so much expectation about this woman who, after all, was just a normal person living her life. Tabby held out a hand. ‘You must be Imogen.’
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 7
