If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  So there. Cheer the fuck up, and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. I’ve served your employer, and he certainly does. Even if he does wear sunglasses indoors because he thinks he’s too famous.

  A particular arse came in, demanded a discount because he’s so special, and then proceeded to repeat the same nonsensical order until I made an educated guess at the drinks and just said ‘okay’. He then wanted me to write the name of each person on their cup. An order of seven drinks. If there’s anything more insulting than being told that Ian is spelled ‘I-A-N’ when you have a fucking Master’s degree, I do not know what it is. Possibly being told how to spell ‘cat’. Or twat. But I feel quite comfortable with that word. Because it’s applicable here.

  I then apologised for the delay (which was HIS fault, because he was unable to use a pen on each cup and write the dreadfully complex names of his colleagues on himself) and he SCOFFED at me. Not even a ‘Don’t worry about it’ or a grunt of derision. He SCOFFED. Someone who was about my age, and addressed me as ‘blad’, thinks he’s better than me because he’s fetching coffee for the design monkeys of what may be the worst television show ever created, which, as it will still be going in fifteen years’ time, will definitely be responsible for the decline in humanity, IQ levels and my own will to live.

  I’d like to think of something witty to say at this point, but the only thing I can think of is:

  ‘FUCK YOU’. So I’ll stick with that. Itz well to tha point, innit blad? Dickhead.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Hey, Dad, how’s it going?’ Imogen balanced the phone with her shoulder while stabbing the plastic on a microwave lasagne. She smelled like stale coffee and there was mocha sauce on her elbow, and she absolutely did not care. Her article was up on The Type, and every single horrible customer had become a set of notes. She was on her way, and she wanted her dad to know.

  ‘Kori! Good to hear from you, sweetheart – how is London?’

  ‘Busy, difficult. Terrifying. But pretty great – what are you up to? Things good?’

  ‘Wonderful, just wonderful!’ her father replied. ‘We’re just barbecuing dinner, it’s a lovely night, and Babs redecorated the garden. It looks wonderful.’

  Imogen paused. ‘Is the fairy garden still there?’

  ‘Darling …’

  ‘Dad!’ she snapped. ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘I’m sorry. It was time.’

  ‘But … Mum made that …’

  It had been beautiful, her mother’s little fairy wood. Her father would always bring her mother big bunches of daisies. ‘Daisies for Daisy!’ he’d chortle, and her mother would look so happy. The whole fairy wood had daisies, and wildflowers, everything growing wildly and madly, with wind chimes singing and sparkling crystals hanging on branches so they reflected the light.

  Wild and free and perfect, just like her mother. Most of Imogen’s childhood memories were of the fairy wood. At Easter, eggs would appear, with little bunnies hidden amongst the daffodils. Then at Christmas there’d be presents and fairy lights and festive charms hanging from the trees. And for Imogen’s birthday every August, little presents resting in the hands of Frederick, the gnome.

  ‘You’re not coming back to live here, darling, and it’s Babs’s home now, too.’

  ‘So you’re not allowed any memories of her? I’m not allowed to visit?’ Imogen felt her throat close up at the thought of the fairy wood being demolished, Babs’s orange hands with their long manicured nails pulling apart the chimes and little bits ‘n’ bobs that belonged there.

  Her father paused, and then she heard him, the same stern voice he’d used when she was a child. ‘You’ve got your life now, Imogen. Let me have mine.’

  He hung up.

  Imogen was so shocked by this that she wasn’t sure whether to cry or scream. Her father, the father who had been inconsolable for years, almost catatonic for months. The father she’d sacrificed a normal life to look after, staying at home and studying part-time so he wouldn’t be alone, so she could do his washing and ironing and cook dinner and pay the bills … That man wanted her to butt out of his life. The new life he was making in her home.

  She didn’t even get to tell him the good news about her new column. But she wasn’t sure this new version of her dad would even care.

  *****

  ‘Have you seen that new column in The Type?’ one of the customers asked Imogen that week. She panicked, her chest constricted and her hands started to shake as she steamed the milk.

  ‘Mhhmm,’ she nodded, focusing on the temperature of the steamer.

  ‘Those people sound awful! Perfectly vile! I’m sure you don’t have horrible customers like that in here.’ The woman smiled, skin pulled unnaturally taut across her cheeks.

  ‘Well, no, not usu –’ Imogen started as she handed the woman her drink.

  ‘No! No, no, no!’ The woman shook her head, glaring at Imogen. ‘You’ve got it wrong AGAIN. I said I wanted it semi-dry.’

  ‘Yes,’ Imogen said, gritting her teeth, ‘and that’s how I made it.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t feel heavy enough. Do it again,’ the woman commanded, pushing the cup back to Imogen without having put the lid back on, so it spilled all across the hand-off area, and onto the cups, coffee machine and napkins. There were eight other drinks to make.

  ‘Yes, we never have arseholes in here,’ Imogen sighed, and realised that, even if the column became a success, no one would recognise themselves anyway.

  *****

  ‘So what did Super Cool Cousin think of the column?’ Dec asked. They were both on their breaks, and were lying in the sunshine, her head resting on his stomach, their hands intertwined. Everything was perfect.

  ‘She was jealous of the fact that I get to make money from being a bitch,’ Imogen laughed. ‘Her exact words, by the way.’

  ‘You’re not a bitch, you’re a woman of the people!’ Dec laughed, his stomach shaking beneath her. ‘Besides, you did that post about the customers you love who are kind and considerate and attractive. Didn’t find myself on there …’

  ‘I wouldn’t even know how to make a caricature out of you.’ Imogen pinched his fingers. ‘You’re chaos personified.’

  ‘How am I chaotic?’

  Imogen leaned up to look at him, sprawled out in the sunshine, sunglasses on, looking strong and relaxed and reliable. But he wasn’t. ‘You just … make things complicated.’

  ‘Like …’

  ‘The casual thing … the fact that I found four pizza boxes under your bed … that you keep your toothpaste in the cupboard with your pasta … and that you are never late for work even though you seem to wake up in a hurricane that flies out the door in a panic.’

  Declan laughed, lifting up his sunglasses to look at her. ‘This is just because I got biscuit crumbs in the bed, isn’t it?’

  ‘They’re gross and itchy and –’ Imogen took a breath, grinning. ‘No, it’s not about the crumbs. You’re just … interesting. Everything in my life has been pretty simple. Work, study, look after the house, look after the family. I quite like your complexity.’

  ‘Well, I like a lot of things about you …’ He sat up, twining his fingers into her hair and pulling her gently towards him. Just as he was about to kiss her, Imogen heard a voice.

  ‘Declan!’

  It was Ella, looking as beautiful as usual, her hair pinned up into a complex bun, two tendrils framing her perfect face. She wore huge sunglasses and a pout.

  Declan sat back quickly, removing his hands as if he’d been caught by a teacher. Imogen’s internal radar started ringing.

  ‘El!’ He got up and gave her a hug. Imogen watched as Ella’s hand rested on his arm, as her head tilted to the side, her lips curved into a smile. She nodded, reached up a hand to wipe away (what Imogen was in no doubt was an imaginary) something from his chin, and then she was gone. Ella briefly waved at Imogen, an overly wide smile on her face.

  ‘What was tha
t about?’ Imogen asked as Declan threw himself back onto the ground.

  ‘Oh, she’s finishing her shift and wanted to see if I was about to get dinner later,’ Declan shrugged, taking her hand.

  ‘Is that a usual thing?’ Imogen asked carefully, the word casual on repeat in her head. This isn’t any of your business, Imogen.

  ‘We’re friends. We’ve been friends for a long time, since I moved here. El knows more about me than anyone.’

  ‘Right …’ Imogen thought back to Ella’s warning to be kind with him. She’d seemed all right with the idea of them, so maybe they were just friends. But she had male friends, and she didn’t go around touching their faces.

  ‘So you’ve never been casual with Ella?’ Imogen asked, reverting to type. Be upfront. Why not?

  Declan scratched his head, and half-shrugged. ‘Yeah, sort of. I mean, Ella’s always been there for me. We got together for a bit when I first moved here, and then I’ve been seeing people, and she’s seen people. Sometimes, in between, stuff’s happened, but … we’re just really good friends. We’re close, that’s all.’

  ‘So … in between these casual acquaintances with women, you go running back to have sex with Ella.’

  Declan’s lips became a thin line. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And you think you’re just friends?’

  ‘We are,’ he grunted. His lips had almost disappeared.

  ‘And you think she sees it that way?’ Imogen rolled her eyes behind her glasses.

  ‘Yes,’ he said seriously. ‘I thought you said you had a friends-with-benefits situation?’

  ‘Yeah, but it wasn’t ongoing. It wasn’t someone I went to for anything else, or considered close. You don’t see this situation as a little fucked up? Like she’s waiting in the wings until this finishes?’ Something about the whole thing made Imogen feel … icky.

  ‘Well, maybe she is, but that’s not how I’m looking at it. I’m happy right now.’ He didn’t sound happy. He was gruff, shutting her out, and who was she to judge him, really? It was none of her business. That was the point. But suddenly Ella’s warning about all those other girls started to seem particularly pointed.

  Declan took off his sunglasses, squeezed both of her hands. ‘Come on love, I’ve made it clear I want to be with you. Ella’s my friend, one of my close friends in London. We have history, but it’s history. I don’t really want to fight.’

  ‘You are seriously the only person I fight this often with.’ Imogen growled a little. ‘Sometimes you make me want to pull my hair out. Chaos! Complexity! This is what I was talking about!’

  Declan sighed, moving a little closer. ‘We’ve all got history, Imogen. We’re all works in progress. I’m trying my best here.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, her hand limp in his as she looked around the park. She didn’t want to assume the worst of Ella. It was clearly her own insecurity. Ella was beautiful and lovely, and the idea of having to match up to that was a little painful. She was quite relieved she hadn’t known about it before she slept with him. And there must have been things wrong with Ella, because otherwise he wouldn’t have gone off to find other people. Bad feminist, Imogen told herself. Stop being a bitch about someone you don’t even know. You don’t own him. He can have friends.

  Demi had always told her she had excellent instincts, but was incapable of listening to them. It was true. Imogen’s first decisions were usually right, but she wasn’t good at accessing them beyond first guesses at pub quizzes. She got bogged down in the ‘should’s and ‘shouldn’t’s’ of it all. But inside there was a little alarm ringing quietly in the recesses of her mind that told her something was going on here. That maybe complex was a little too complex.

  ‘Besides,’ carried on Declan, gathering her up in his arms, ‘it’s no fun fighting if we can’t have fun making up.’

  Imogen laughed, looking at his face, so earnest and eager to please her. She ignored the alarm bells and went with chaos.

  *****

  It All Started with Soy Milk

  Too much of my day revolves around soy milk, to be perfectly honest, and while I am sympathetic to those of a lactose-intolerant nature, I am fucking tired of those lactose-ambivalent types. Soya is not cool. It is not a fashion statement. It is fake milk, made from beans. And it is extra annoying to steam, and smells pretty damn bad. Its only advantage is that if you buy it while living in a student house, you can guarantee it will still be in the fridge by the end of the day, even when you live with rampant tea-drinkers.

  So, as you can tell, I have pretty certain feelings about milk substitutes.

  The man ambles up to the counter, old and knarled like a house elf, or one of those trees that come to life from Lord of the Rings. His sour expression made him look more ugly, his skin like leather. I smiled my brightest, coffee-monkey smile, and asked how he was.

  ‘Do you charge for soya?’ American. Southern drawl. A bit like when Bill Hicks did impersonations of people he thought were stupid.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid we do, but it’s only thirty pence.’ I smile apologetically. Yes, it’s free if you have a loyalty card, but I’m not even going there. This guy scares me.

  ‘Well! Fuck y’all!’

  His hobbling exit rather detracts from his statement, but I’m shocked all the same. Laugh it off, move on.

  Except that he comes back two days later.

  ‘Do you charge for soya milk?’ He wrinkles his face in anticipation of the answer.

  However many times you ask me, I am not going to change the answer.

  ‘I’m afraid we do, sir.’ I don’t even bother smiling this time. Waste of fake-cheeriness.

  ‘Even for an Americano?’

  I pause, because this would mean just a splash of soya, and surely even a money-grabbing corporation like mine wouldn’t charge for a splash?

  ‘I’ll just check for you.’ And I look down the queue of people to my manager, who is restocking. ‘Do we?’

  ‘Not Americanos.’ She shakes her head, raising an eyebrow at the customer for my benefit.

  ‘Would you like one then, sir?’

  Then, he growls at me. ‘Yes. You know, you people are just ridiculous, money-grabbing fascists. You’re like those economists in history textbooks, you’re after everything you can get … trying to take my money, take my savings …’

  I don’t even know what to say to this. So I say nothing. I have had experience with paranoid old people before, but like hell is this in my job description. Well, the abolishment of self-esteem and general confidence battering, yes. But crazy old people? No.

  I hold my hand out for his pitiful twenty-pence pieces, which he throws onto the counter and shuffles off. Grumble grumble. Deep breath, and … smile. Next customer.

  I am tempted to call over to the girl on the coffee machine, and tell her to put normal milk in. I could pray that he’s lactose-intolerant, instead of barista-intolerant. Instead I just get on with serving the next customer, who seems to be trying to be extra agreeable to make up for the grouchy house elf who preceded her.

  And then he comes back, cup grasped in gnarled hand. He looks at me, walks straight up to my manager, and says, ‘Thank God you were here. She would have stolen my money.’

  Sadly, I do let the smile slip and say, ‘I checked it for you, SIR.’

  I will always regret that moment, because what I should have said was ‘Yes, that extra thirty pence goes straight into my pocket. In fact, I could have paid my rent for the month with my stealing ways. That’s actually how I get by here. They don’t pay me. I abuse those with dairy issues.’

  On second thoughts, that would have been stupid, too. Still, I blame Soya.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘So, childstar, how’s it been going shadowing the Infamous Tabitha Riley?’ Harry leaned on her desk. ‘Learning lots?’

  ‘Harrison,’ Tabby called over, ‘fuck off and do some work.’

  He winked at Imogen and called back, ‘Love you, too, lig
ht of my life.’ Harry turned back to Imogen, talking quietly. ‘Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s fantastic. Learn everything you can from her. Except the self-deprecation. It’s worth being arrogant in this field.’

  Imogen made a face.

  ‘Yeah, somehow felt you two were probably kindred in that way, too,’ he laughed. ‘Everything going okay, though? Feel free to come and moan at me if anything’s a problem.’

  ‘Are you very bored, Harry?’ Imogen asked cheekily, grinning at him.

  ‘Absolutely. I have to re-read this article that’s been edited about eight times and it’s still not right. I can’t even remember what it’s about and I’ve read it eight times. Bo-ring.’

  ‘Do you think maybe it shouldn’t go in the paper then? If the deputy editor thinks it’s boring?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not bad writing. I just don’t give a crap about horse racing,’ Harry laughed, ‘and sadly, at the moment, the paper is not “things Harry loves”.’

  ‘You can always dream,’ Imogen shrugged.

  Harry raised his fist, a Judd Nelson Breakfast Club moment. ‘Keep fighting the power, Imogen.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Like I said, any problems, I’m only down the hall … in the big important office.’

  Imogen shook her head and returned to her edits. ‘Cheers, Harry.’

  It was a massive relief when your boss, especially one who wears designer suits and looks like he knows how charming he is, turns out to be a massive goofball.

  Tabby came over. ‘Happy with the edits?’

  She sat on the corner of the desk, her cherry-print dress matching the red sunglasses on top of her head. If my life was a movie, Imogen thought, I’d get a makeover. A free makeover that would cut my hair and make me walk tall. And Tabby Riley would be my inspiration. She’d wave a wand and my cupboard would suddenly be filled with fifties-style dresses, and matching accessories.