He paused, considering it. ‘No, I’m here with you.’
Imogen fought back the temptation to say ‘Then be here with me! Not on your frigging phone!’
‘You’re sure?’
He stood up, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I am absolutely, positively, definitely, completely sure that I want to be here with you.’
He kissed her, tentative and sweet, paying attention as he gently bit her bottom lip. ‘But I think we should go for dinner in case we stay here and wake up the fairies with all your screaming.’
‘Excuse me?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You think you’re that good?’
‘And will be happy to prove it to you, madam, once I’ve been properly fed and watered,’ he grinned, resting a hand on her bum. ‘Come on, you’re going to need the calories. Lots of energy for later.’
Imogen rolled her eyes, but let herself be dragged by the hand out of the door, to the nearest steak restaurant.
*****
Receipt Deceit
You can tell a lot about a person by how they respond to being offered a receipt. Some baristas just automatically hand the receipt over without asking, but when I try to do that, I end up standing there for ages in some sort of homage to a stand-off at the OK Corral.
Look down at hand holding receipt.
Look up at customer.
She looks down at hand holding receipt.
She then looks up at me.
Raised eyebrow.
‘Would you like your receipt, madam?’ I ask, making it overtly obvious that the piece of paper I am trying to thrust at you is, in fact, yours to keep. Or not. Just tell me what you want.
‘No. Why on EARTH would I want that?’ Her voice rises and she appears offended as she puts away her purse (Miu Miu) into her bag (Dolce and Gabbana). ‘Do I LOOK like I need to worry about where my money is? Do I?’
Wow. Well, I suppose the stick up your arse is decorated with Swarovski crystals, too.
There are a few possible responses to this:
‘No, I don’t suppose you have to worry where your HUSBAND’s money is, you anti-feminist 1950s cliche.’
OR
‘Yes, I do. That’s clearly a fake D and G bag. I saw that in Wembley Market last weekend.’
Instead, I shake the shocked look off my face and replace it with a smile.
‘Of course not, madam. I’m very sorry to have insulted you with proof of purchase. I would offer you a paper bag for your purchases, but that might infer you are incapable of holding things. I would also give you a cup holder, but that might suggest your fingertips are overly sensitive and you can’t hold your drink. So I’ll just leave you to get on with your day without providing any of the services I am obliged to provide. In fact, I could just not make your coffee at all. Is that preferable?’
Of course, I don’t say this. (It’s rather disturbing just how much time I spend coming up with clever retorts in my head for customers who have already left.)
I smiled, I nodded, chuckled a little as if she was making a joke, and screwed up the receipt with more force than absolutely necessary. Then I told her to have a nice day. Because that’s what good coffee monkeys do. Even to entitled people with fake designer handbags. Ooh, I do hope she paid full price for it.
Probably didn’t get a receipt, either.
*****
‘Are you taking a picture of me?’ Imogen frowned at the little man with the huge circular glasses as she handed him his drink.
‘Um … well …’
‘Is this for that miserable barista thing?’ She widened her eyes. ‘Because I’m pretty sure taking pictures of other people without their consent is a violation of basic privacy rights.’ She wasn’t sure of that at all, but spoke with authority, while Agnes nodded aggressively from the till.
‘Well, you just looked so irritated when I asked you to change my drink …’
Yes, because you’ve made me remake it three times, and you wanted a medium three-shot-decaf, one-shot-caffeinated black Americano with ten ice cubes and a thimbleful of soy milk. I can’t imagine why I’d be irritated.
Imogen stared at him blankly. ‘My mother just died.’
He almost fell backwards in horror. ‘Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I didn’t, I mean … should you even be at work? You’re obviously not in a state …’ He grabbed his coffee and disappeared without even taking a straw.
‘Is that true?’ Agnes said suspiciously. ‘Because I think by law we have to give you time off.’
‘If you classify “just died” as ten years ago, then yeah, it’s true,’ she huffed, irritated at herself. ‘It was a low blow. I’m just tired of these idiots coming in taking pictures. I’m controlling my temper, my politeness, my words, but sometimes my face does things I don’t want it to. Including telling people exactly how annoying they are.’
‘I don’t think we have any control over your face in the barista guidelines, but I will look,’ Agnes said seriously, and Imogen just looked at her.
‘Joke,’ Agnes sighed. ‘I am joking. Sometimes I do that. Your face can do what it likes. I’m going for a break.’
She stormed off and Emanuel replaced her, holding up his hand for a high five.
‘Hey! I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!’ Imogen said.
‘I’ve been having adventures,’ Emanuel said, grinning to himself.
‘Shacked up with a pretty girl for a week until it all went wrong?’
He shrugged. ‘Love is complicated. C’est la vie. Onwards and upwards, Imogen.’ He turned to the next customer, an unimpressed-looking young woman wearing a vintage spotty dress and a hand-knitted beanie, even though it was July. Emanuel smiled, his voice taking on a languorous tone. The girl ordered a chai tea latte, and Imogen knew. Why he picked his crushes on beverage choice, she had no idea.
‘No, no, mademoiselle,’ he held up his hands, ‘I cannot take your money. Such a beautiful woman should never have to pay for her drinks.’
‘Oh, I …’ The girl paused, confused, and then smiled, preening just a little. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘You are most welcome. Have a lovely day.’ He nodded.
‘Thanks. You, too!’ The girl was no longer unimpressed, and Imogen noticed a slight blush on her cheeks. She handed her the drink and turned back to Emanuel.
‘You know it’s super creepy when you do that, right?’
He shrugged. ‘I was being friendly. I gave someone a compliment and a free drink, and it brightened their day. Where is the harm? It was one of my free drinks for the day.’
‘Well, maybe, if you’re so concerned with brightening people’s days, the next free drink and compliment should go to a man!’
Emanuel rolled his eyes. ‘Imogen, darling. If I give a man a compliment I will end up with my head through the coffee machine. Also we both know I’d be lying.’
‘So what happened to last week’s adventure?’
‘She was the light of my life, for a brief perfect week, and then she was gone. Back to her husband.’ Emanuel shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some. But our time together was perfection.’
Imogen bridled a little. ‘I don’t even know how to talk to you sometimes. That’s disgusting.’
‘Ooh, moral indignation. You think because two people sign a piece of paper it means anything? It means tax breaks and mortgages. Everyone’s got a story, Imogen. You should know that better than anyone.’
‘What, you mean she was stuck in a loveless marriage to a horrible man and she turned to you for comfort? Yeah, right.’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘And why should I know better than anyone?’
‘Because of Dec,’ Emanuel shrugged. ‘And because you’re a writer, you collect people’s stories.’
Imogen frowned, about to ask what, exactly, Dec had to do with anything, when Emanuel continued without looking at her.
‘Darling, just pour me an espresso please. You’re entirely too uptight. People do what they want, when they want, with who they want. You don’t control tha
t. You’re just available for the journey or not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t stalk anyone. I don’t force myself. I make it clear that I’m interested and then I leave them to it. That’s all I do.’
Imogen quietly fumed, still sure he was wrong, but not really sure what to say. It didn’t help that the chai-drinking-beanie-girl came over with her empty cup ten minutes later, said ‘thank you’, and left a piece of paper with her number on for Emanuel.
He grinned at her, pocketing the piece of paper.
‘You prat,’ said Imogen from the end of the bar, eating a teaspoon of whipped cream from a little pot in irritation.
‘Don’t hate,’ Emanuel laughed. ‘I just know how to play the game.’
Imogen’s mind still held questions, but maybe it was better to ask Dec upfront. If she even knew what she was meant to be asking.
Chapter Fourteen
‘So this is your hideout?’ Tabby said, fingers resting on the table in the Hope and Anchor as she slid onto the bench opposite.
‘Yep, impossible to write in my little bedsit situation. Although it’s looking better now it’s been given a splash of colour, so I may give it a go,’ Imogen shrugged. ‘Want a drink?’
‘Think I’ll stick to lemonade just now,’ Tabby shrugged. ‘But the writing is going okay?’
Imogen pursed her lips. ‘Yeeees … is there something I should know about?’
‘No, no, not at all. Everything’s great! Except …’
‘Except …’
Tabby sighed. ‘The last couple of posts haven’t been as vitriolic. You know, like you start criticising someone, and then you make apologies for them halfway through. Or you apologise for being bitchy. That kind of defeats the point.’
Imogen nodded. She’d sensed she was becoming too mellow for the blog posts.
‘Yeah, sorry I’ve just been …’
‘Happy?’ Tabby offered.
‘… Well, yeah. Everything’s good and I guess I’m not letting them shit all over my parade.’ Imogen pulled a face. ‘But I guess my parade sort of depends upon being shit all over, doesn’t it?’
‘Just a smidge. Why don’t you just take a break from yoga or whatever for a week? Let your blood pressure rise a bit?’ Tabby said seriously, sneaking a crisp from the packet Imogen had lying open on the table.
‘Because I might inadvertently beat someone to death with the whipped cream cannister?’ Imogen replied. ‘Besides, I don’t do yoga.’
‘Running? Gym? Long walks on the beach?’ Tabby questioned.
‘Nope.’
‘Sex.’ Tabby nodded. ‘You’ve got a fella. And screwing him is screwing with your mojo.’
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure it’s worth sacrificing sex for my mojo, to be perfectly honest!’ Imogen snapped.
Tabby considered. ‘I’m not sure we didn’t mix our metaphors a bit with that one. Look, take a week off from having sex with the boyfriend –’
‘– not a boyfriend.’
‘Whatever. No sex for a week. See if it makes your writing more angry. We need your rage, sweetie, really. It’s what makes the column pop. I mean, the occasional appreciative one is nice, but we’ve got great momentum here and we’re going to lose it if you’re too gentle. We need scathing and hateful. Sign up for a double shift or something. Get the not-boyfriend to be annoying.’
‘You want me to make myself miserable to be a better writer.’
‘Just in the short term. Consider it the opposite of a writing retreat. Put yourself under an immense amount of pressure, write it all down and then have a week off and know you’ve got four or five weeks of work done. Thoughts?’
‘Um … urgh?’ Imogen grimaced. ‘Does that count as a thought?’
‘Will you please try it, for me?’ Tabby wheedled.
Imogen’s phone buzzed. Dec. ‘Sorry, need to cancel tonight – Ella needs me for something.’
Imogen tried to stifle her immediate thought, which was – ‘Yeah, your dick’. She looked up at Tabby, shaking her phone. ‘Well, the not-boyfriend being annoying has already been ticked off the list.’
Tabby waited patiently, until Imogen sighed.
‘All right. I will try. But just because the Amazing Writer that is Tabitha Riley told me to. And if I have a stroke and end up in the hospital I expect a huge fuck-off bouquet of flowers.’
‘Believe me, there’d be chocolate, wine, wailing fans at your bedside, the whole shebang.’ Tabby grinned. ‘So we’ve got a deal?’
‘Deal,’ Imogen said miserably. ‘But expect me to moan – a lot.’
‘Well, duh, that’s kind of the whole point of this. Get whining lady,’ Tabby laughed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date in the sunshine with my own stupid boyfriend-type person.’
‘Sure, just stop off and encourage misery, and then disappear …’ Imogen grinned, but said seriously, ‘Have fun. I’ll send you this when it’s done.’
‘It’ll be brilliant, trust me.’
As she exited, Keith came over and gave her a half pint of cider and a glass of lemonade. ‘Didn’t know which you’d prefer, so I brought you both.’
He patted her hand, his whiskered eyebrows twitching as he laughed. ‘Carry on the good work, love.’
‘Thank you!’
Keith had long since stopped letting her pay, but she kept sneaking notes into the tip pot, which she was sure he’d noticed. ‘Actually, Keith. Got any horrible stories about customer service?’
‘Love, I’ve been in Kensington for over ten years. What do you want to know?’ he grinned, sitting down opposite her, ready to tell a story.
*****
Mother (Tonka) Truckers
This title is not inferring that I’m ranting about mothers who drive trucks. I hope you get that. Good luck to those women, whoever they are. This is about mothers who think their darling angel children can do no wrong. So basically, any mother with a child under five years old.
Now, I understand these poor harrowed women probably come to a coffee shop to get out of the house, to escape the monotony of ‘brekkie doodle’, ‘twinkle twinkle la la’ time, followed by ‘tinkles’ and ‘beddie byes’, but seriously. Just because you love your child, doesn’t mean I have to.
And just because you’ve decided to procreate and bring another child into this overpopulated universe, doesn’t mean I have to clean up after them.
So there’s this lady, and she’s pretty and softly spoken, and has two little kids that she dresses in pink so people will know they’re girls. And they’re cute. She sits there for about an hour, not doing much except looking around at this strange ‘outside’ world that other people are inhabiting. And I kind of feel for her. Except she never cleans up after her kids.
They take coffee beans from the side, smush cake into the sofas, pour drinks on each other, pull out all the straws/sugar packets/napkins and shred everything like eager little guinea pigs. And then they leave.
You know what cleaning up the mess of someone else’s inability to correctly use contraception feels like when it happens every day? It feels like you’re now not only a barista/therapist/waitress/emotional punching bag, but you’re also a nanny.
There are others, like the women who spend fifteen minutes standing at the till saying to a child who CANNOT TALK YET, ‘Sweetie, tell Mummy what you want. Tell Mummy! Do you want this one? No, what about this? Do you like this? What do you want, darling? Tell Mummy!’
Well, hey there, four-month-old, would you like me to tell Mummy what you want? What’s that? You want Mummy to stop expecting you to be a child-genius and order what she wants so the other paying customers can get served sometime today? Oh, how surprising. Me, too!
Then there are the mothers who make a big deal of getting their child to ‘tell the nice lady what you want’ and then spend the next five minutes telling them why they can’t have it. There are the mothers who are so used to shouting ‘JEROME NOOO! PUT THAT DOWN! DOWN, I SAID! DOOOOOOWN!’ that they have no qualms about doing
this while ordering, and thus automatically screaming in my face. I usually give these women decaf. Just to protect the eardrums of their younglings.
There are mothers who are so excited to see other mothers that they spend ten minutes arguing who should pay for whose lunch, both waving cards at me while cooing over each other’s children. The baby-talk automatically overlaps into ordering. And ‘I’ll have a Latte-wattee, yes, I will!’ is just terrifying.
And occasionally, there are the mothers who come in with cute, quiet babies, order a coffee, sit and enjoy it, and when they leave, the only proof they were there is an empty coffee cup with a bunch of baby wipes they’ve used to clear the table with. These mothers are angels. Please, come again. And tell your friends … how to behave in an environment that is not focused solely around your sweet little bundle of DNA.
Chapter Fifteen
Imogen hadn’t seen Dec in over a week, except when he came running in asking for (completely reasonable) stock to borrow. The summer had properly hit London and all anyone seemed to want was frozen coffee-flavoured milkshake that had nothing more than a whisper of a coffee theme about them. It was basically coffee-flavoured fat, with ice. Imogen did what she’d said she would, working double shifts, which at least gave her a reason to be busy when Declan was busy with Ella. She was still ‘having a hard time’, which Imogen was starting to doubt, because every time she saw the girl, she was flirting with a customer and smiling ear-to-ear. Especially at Imogen.
‘I’m sorry you haven’t seen Declan this week,’ she said sweetly. ‘I know it must be tough. I miss him when I haven’t seen him in a few days! But luckily you’re so busy at work you couldn’t have seen him anyway, could you?’
She sauntered off, saccharine, and Imogen sighed deeply, growling a little on the exhale. All into the blog. All for the column. It was useful for work. It was. When it got to the end of the week, she had about ten vitriolic pieces of writing, and a need to scream. But she had a week off.
The problem was, Imogen realised, she hadn’t really cultivated any hobbies. She hung out with Dec, she wrote, she worked, she went to The Type, and for the most part that didn’t leave any time to do anything else. She needed a hobby. But first, she needed a day in London to herself.
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 12
