If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  The extra horrible hours had the added bonus of extra money. So on Monday afternoon, after an epic lie-in and the usual apologetic text from Dec (that she was by this point just ignoring), she decided to walk through London in the sunshine. Eventually, after pounding pavements, walking through parks, getting lost, and finally seeing what the fuss was about with Hyde Park, Imogen jumped on the train and picked a random station.

  When she exited Tottenham Court Road, she realised she had no idea what she’d been expecting. It was just … London. Busy, bustle, people with places to go and things to do. It was like the walking pace from the park had been quadrupled and everything was on fast forward. She bought an ice cream from a shop, adjusted her sunglasses and slipped onto a backstreet, eager to just amble along at her own pace, no irritated business people or dedicated tourists behind her. She wasn’t really a tourist now, was she? Was this weird place now home? It didn’t feel like it at all. London felt like a beast, this weird Kraken that kept unfurling underground and getting further and further along, expanding outwards, never sleeping.

  It was there that she discovered Tin Pan Alley, and knew exactly what that excess money should buy, and what that hobby should be.

  *****

  Imogen had spent a wonderful afternoon strumming away on her new blue guitar. It was perfect – soft acoustics, with a midnight blue at the bottom that graduated to a turquoise at the neck. She lay back on her clean sheets, legs up against the wall, strumming pointlessly. Her mother had had a guitar, she remembered faintly; it was light wood with little daisies painted around the centre. She could remember a few distant songs, a twinkling of off-key singing and laughter in the back garden. The guitar had sat unused those last few years, as her mum had little interest in anything towards the end. It sat in the corner of the living room, behind the big puffy chair she’d always curled up on, and there it had stayed, by silent agreement between her and her father. Imogen dreaded to think what had become of the little daisy guitar, now that Babs had invaded. She’d probably take up the ukelele to compete somehow.

  She strummed haphazardly, just getting a feel for the notes and the chords she recalled from years ago. The sunlight streamed into her little fairy garden room, and Imogen smiled to herself. There was a breeze through the open window, and the world was quietly perfect.

  Her phone buzzed. Dec.

  ‘You about? Just finished work.’

  Imogen paused, not sure whether to bother answering. Declan was complication, chaos and that odd buzzing in her stomach that was somewhere between exhilaration and weakness. And in her room was only calm and quiet.

  ‘I know you are. I can hear you playing through the window. That is you, right?’

  Imogen rolled her eyes, putting down the guitar and crawling across the bed to look out of the window. There was Declan, sunglasses on, holding a bunch of yellow freesias.

  ‘Beautiful music m’lady,’ he called up, saluting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she yelled down.

  ‘Came to whisk you away on adventures’ He shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked up. ‘You game?’

  ‘Umm …’

  Imogen was torn. On one hand, they were casual, she enjoyed spending time with him, and he brought her flowers. On the other, that little part of her pride was itching at her. He doesn’t get in touch at all, then turns up and she was meant to just jump at the idea of spending time together?

  Then again, don’t cut your nose to spite your face …

  ‘I’ll buzz you up …’ Imogen yelled down, shrugging.

  ‘Well, don’t get all overwhelmed with excitement,’ he huffed and disappeared through the front door.

  Imogen wasn’t really sure how she felt about anything. No, that was a lie. Imogen wasn’t sure how she felt about Declan. Or Declan and Ella, more specifically. It was easier to stay separate, wasn’t it? Stay whole?

  Imogen thought of Ella, with her thin cigarettes and her perfect eyeliner, a Sophia Loren figure of perfection. Imogen looked down at her flowered flip-flops, ripped jeans and tank top. Certainly not perfect.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ Declan leaned on the doorframe staring at her. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  He held out the flowers.

  ‘Making them sore, more like,’ she smiled. ‘All right, stranger?’

  She took the flowers, filling a jug with water and sticking them in without looking too closely at them. Instead, she looked at Declan, tracing the lines of him, the bright eyes and bristled jaw, the sunglasses hooked on to the front of his t-shirt, and the tattoo of the compass on his forearm. She’d missed him.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ He put his hands around her waist, suddenly in her space, looking expectant.

  Imogen stepped back, her hands on his chest. ‘Hey, mister, I haven’t seen you in over a week. Let’s not go from nought to sixty, eh?’

  He was irritating her, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he didn’t seem to have been bothered about not seeing her. Maybe because she didn’t like the realisation that she’d missed him. Either way, she was pissed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Declan shook his head. ‘Sorry, guess I just missed you. You’ve been working a lot.’

  ‘And you’ve been looking after Ella,’ Imogen said dryly.

  ‘Yeah … and the band’s been kind of mental. We lost our Friday night venue last week. We’d been building a fan base and now it looks like it’s going to be gone.’ Declan shrugged. ‘Jazz has been freaking out. He keeps ending up drunk and ranting on my doorstep at one a.m.’

  ‘Thought you looked tired,’ Imogen allowed. I thought it was from all the headbanging sex with Ella, but hey …

  ‘Yeah, but I’m here, and I want to do something special with you. So what do you say? You free?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah, now,’ Dec snorted. ‘I made a reservation. So put on your gladrags, and let’s go have fun!’

  Imogen sighed to herself, a sucker for those eyes, that smile, and that golden retriever excitement.

  ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  Imogen put on her only summer dress, dark blue with little black sparrows on it, teamed with her sparkly red dolly shoes. Demi called them her ‘Dorothy’ shoes. She ruffled her hair, slicked on some eyeliner, and when she presented herself twenty minutes later, Dec looked suitably impressed.

  ‘You scrub up well, kid,’ he said, his eyes wide, ‘and quickly, goddamn. The number one best trait in a woman. An ability to get ready quickly.’

  ‘Glad that’s more highly rated than kindness or good humour …’

  ‘Oh shut up and take a compliment, woman. You look gorgeous,’ he grinned. ‘Now, supplies for this evening.’

  She looked as he hoisted a backpack from the floor by his feet that she hadn’t even noticed before. ‘Fucking hell, are we going on an expedition?’

  ‘Of sorts …’ he said mysteriously. ‘Make sure you have a warm coat, and a hoodie, something to snuggle up with when it gets cold later … besides me, of course.’ He winked.

  ‘Remind me to tell you later on about how much you’ll get on with my deputy editor at the paper.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘He also thinks he’s God’s gift.’

  Declan simply saluted. ‘So warm things for later, check?’

  ‘Check,’ she nodded, stuffing her warm things into an oversized handbag, which she heaved onto her shoulder. ‘Ready.’

  The sun was shining, and she didn’t have to work for a few days, and Dec had planned adventures. He held her hand as they walked down to the bus, chatting about pointless things. About music and memories and stupid summer arguments about the best flavour ice cream and what qualified as picnic food.

  ‘First stop, on Dec’s Fun London Evening,’ he declared as they exited Embankment and crossed the bridge. He stopped them in the middle, the afternoon sun softening as they looked out on the oddly blue waters of the Thames, boats whizzing down, tourists waving up at them.

  ‘Shouldn’t we ke
ep walking?’

  ‘Yes, but first you need to stop here and just appreciate the city. The city that is now your home.’ Dec wiggled his eyebrows and looked like he was trying to make a much more philosophical point.

  ‘Yeah … for now.’

  ‘No, I mean, you made it in the big bad city! You’ve done it! Writer in London! Be proud of yourself!’ He grinned at her expectantly.

  ‘Correction: half golden retriever, half cheerleader,’ she laughed, patting his arm, ‘but thank you for the enthusiasm.’

  He shrugged, dragging her along again. ‘Come on then, cheerful, lots to see!’

  They sat eating takeaway noodles from cartons under the lights of the London Eye, sitting on the grass, a can of cider for her, and a bottle of non-alcoholic beer for him. She sat back, staring up at it.

  ‘You’re right, this is surreal. This is my home now. And I barely know anything about it,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t recommend good food places, or bars, or clubs. I can’t tell you anything except where there’s a place to do laundry and some shitty places to get coffee.’

  Dec grinned at her, slurping his noodles. ‘It comes with time, love. I’ve been here nearly four years now. And I’m still taking you to the most basic tourist attractions, because I haven’t found where all the underground cool stuff happens.’

  ‘That’s blatantly a lie.’

  ‘I find something I like, and I go back. That’s how we got the gig at the Coach and Horses, but their live music licence got revoked, or they never had one, or something. So now we’ve got to find a new local. Which is difficult when you don’t drink and you don’t have a lot of money.’

  Imogen looked over at him, staring out at the wheel from behind his sunglasses.

  ‘I had a thought about that actually. What about the Hope?’ she paused. ‘I mentioned it to Keith the other day and he loved the idea … but I didn’t hear from you so I thought I’d wait …’

  ‘In case I never showed up again and you wasted a perfectly good favour on a scoundrel?’ Declan laughed and she stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Business is clearly struggling, so I was suggesting a few different things he could do. I said I’d run a quiz night for him, or help out behind the bar if needed. But it’s so slow he doesn’t even need staff.’

  Declan laughed. ‘You’re really selling this as a top-notch venue that’ll skyrocket us into stardom.’ He put a hand on her thigh. ‘Thank you, love, I really appreciate it. I’ll text Jazz later and let him know. It’s still local so some of our “fans” may actually just walk down the road to still see us.’

  ‘I should hope so, if they’re fans!’

  Dec raised an eyebrow and pulled down his sunglasses. ‘When I say fans, I mean, most of our flatmates who we’ve bribed with booze.’

  Imogen shrugged, pleased that he left his hand on her thigh. ‘Everybody starts somewhere.’

  They sat quietly, watching as the boats chugged past, the tourists with huge cameras taking in everything, couples wandering along holding hands. Imogen suddenly remembered what Emanuel had said.

  ‘Have you ever had an affair with a married woman?’ Imogen asked suddenly, and Dec turned to look at her, brow furrowed.

  ‘Not that I know of, why?’

  ‘Emanuel,’ Imogen huffed. ‘He shacked up with a married woman for a week, and I got irritated, and he said that marriage was just a bit of paper.’

  ‘And that upset you?’ Declan’s voice was dull, but she couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.

  ‘No … I mean, yes. I don’t know. But he said I of all people should know about that. Because of you.’ Imogen shrugged, trying to sound curious instead of accusatory. ‘And because I’m a writer, apparently.’

  Dec said nothing, just looked out at the river. But he moved his hand from her thigh, instead fiddling with rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Can you think why he’d say that?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes.’

  His voice was stony, and brokered no discussion. But Imogen wasn’t in the habit of being given a lead only to be denied some knowledge.

  ‘So?’

  He rounded on her. ‘So I don’t have to tell you everything, do I? We’re meant to be having fun, not exposing our fucking dirty laundry in front of a fucking tourist attraction.’

  He stood up and marched off towards the station. Imogen sat rigid in shock, watching his retreating back, waiting for him to turn around and laugh it off, make some excuse, apologise. But no, he just kept going, until he walked down the steps to the street and disappeared.

  Imogen wasn’t sure whether to be worried about him, that she’d clearly hit a nerve, or to sit and list all the ways in which he was a horrible bastard. And he’d left his collection of huge bags with her. Well, like fuck was she carting all that back on the tube when he’d just abandoned her in central London. All because of a simple question. What a baby.

  This was why she didn’t get involved with people, Imogen told herself, sipping on the remainder of her drink as she tried to decide what to do. She could feel herself getting more and more mad. More mad than when Demi disappeared for a week and didn’t call her, until she needed money and an escape from a guy who turned out to be a dealer. More mad than when her lecturer gave her a shitty grade because he didn’t like the feminist overtones of her essay. Almost as mad as when her dad, after all those years of letting Imogen cook and clean, talking about how her mother was the best of all women and he would never love again, brought Babs into their house and took away her home. But, hey, he was just a boy. A boy she was being casual with. She’d put it in a blog post about never dating a colleague, how baristas could be bitches in the bedroom, something snarky and dark, and then …

  Declan thumped down on the ground beside her, brandishing a 99 ice cream cone with two flakes.

  ‘Sorry I was a dick,’ he shrugged, gesturing with the ice cream. Imogen took it warily, as if it was a trap. Declan nodded and continued eating his own ice cream.

  ‘That’s it?’ She pursed her lips, waiting.

  ‘ … Um … yeah. Sorry I yelled and swore. There’s some stuff about my life I don’t want to share. But I didn’t need to be an aggressive shit about it. So … yeah. Sorry.’

  Imogen was still confused, but she supposed he didn’t have to share everything. And he’d apologised …

  ‘You still want to come on this adventure with me?’ He took off his sunglasses and looked at her, reaching for her hand. ‘I promise, no more shouting.’

  Imogen bit her lip and shrugged slightly, still holding on to that image of his angry, stiff back as he walked away from her. ‘Guess so.’

  ‘I’ve ruined things, haven’t I?’ he said quietly, scowling at the floor. ‘I really am sorry. I … just … there’s a reason I stay casual. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t like to bring up or think about. I’d rather have fun, laugh with someone. Feel good. And you make me feel good.’ He was a charmer, no doubt about his skills there. His fingers brushed hers tentatively. ‘And I want to make you feel good. I want to make up for all that. So please come with me, and let’s have a nice evening together?’

  Imogen nodded mutely, drawn in by those eyes and that sincerity in his voice. But she wasn’t going to forget that moment. She was filing it away in a secret place in her head, that was simply titled The Mysteries of Declan. They returned to chatting about innocuous things, like the audacity of continuing to call an ice cream cone a 99, and eventually it became normal again.

  The afternoon whiled away into evening, and they stopped into a pub nearby before Declan looked at his watch decisively and said, ‘It’s time,’ before dragging her out across the river again.

  They walked up to a grand building, all old stone and large courtyard, where people were queuing with pillows and sleeping bags. ‘Are we going on a sleepover?’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so later, love, but not right now,’ he grinned, pulling her close into him as they walked along. He produced two tickets, and they entere
d the main courtyard, already starting to be filled with people setting down blankets on the cobblestones. Dec led them to an empty space in front of the massive screen and started unpacking his bag. A picnic blanket, a thicker blanket, two pillows, a bottle of cava and bags of gummy sweets.

  ‘What … are we doing?’ Imogen asked, as Declan sat down and set about opening the bottle of wine.

  ‘We are going to sit here, and watch your favourite movie on a massive outdoor screen in the middle of an iconic London landmark. Sound good?’ Declan grinned, clearly impressed with himself.

  ‘My favourite movie?’ Imogen arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. ‘What’s my favourite movie?’

  ‘Die Hard,’ Dec shrugged, handing her a plastic cup of lukewarm cava, tapping it against the one he held. ‘Cheers!’

  Imogen was incredulous. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘When?’ she asked, wracking her brain for any time she would have mentioned it.

  ‘I was covering at the store, and you were having a particularly bad day because that banker screamed in your face about taking that note that had been shredded? And you said you wanted to go all “Yippee Cayeeh” on their arses, like John McClane, and I made some stupid comment, and you told me I could shut the hell up because it was your favourite movie.’ Dec tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘And normally I would have said something smart-alecky, but you had your hair in pigtails that day, and mocha sauce on your cheek, and you were wearing those black jeans that make your bum look amazing …’

  Imogen blinked at him. ‘You remember all that?’

  Declan looked at her affectionately, stroking her cheek. ‘I remember everything when it comes to you.’

  Imogen felt herself being swallowed up again, those blue eyes watching her like he was memorising every angle of her face. ‘You make it really hard to be angry at you, you know.’

  ‘I know, darling, it’s a hardship. But do you think, seeing as I’ve been terribly charming and clever with this whole plan, I can have a bloody kiss now?’ Declan laughed, waiting for her to make the first move, which she did, rolling her eyes, leaning in, thumb tracing the groove of his chin. She kissed him, one hand holding her drink aloft, the other pulling him closer by the neck of his t-shirt.