If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  ‘I think it’s lame for you to be excited by that.’ Tabby twitched her nose. ‘Besides, I am terrible at advice in these matters. I mean, I’d say write him a love letter published in his work periodical, but I think I’m a little biased.’

  ‘Also, not really applicable in this case,’ Imogen said, ‘but thank you.’

  ‘You haven’t explored one idea, though,’ Tabby said thoughtfully, zeroing in on Imogen’s dark eyes. ‘Maybe you’re the one to break this casual curse. Maybe you’re enough to make him break the pattern.’

  Imogen didn’t even dignify that with a response, just a raised eyebrow. Tabby waited, then sighed deeply. ‘Yeah, I told you, not great with advice. Think too much like a writer. There has to be a bigger point or a purpose, and sometimes there just isn’t, you know?’

  Imogen laughed. ‘Yeah, I know that feeling.’ She paused, pressing her lips together. ‘Actually, I do have something you could help with, though.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘His band are playing a gig in a couple of weeks. A gig that I have set up. At the risk of it sounding like you’re my mum – would you take me shopping?’

  Tabby’s eyes widened in glee and she clapped her hands together. ‘Is this the part of the teen movie where there’s a makeover? Because I love that bit! Stick with me, kid. We’re going to tear it up!’

  *****

  Ah, children. The purity of youth. The beginning of a downward spiral that sends you scuttling into teenagerdom, and emerging as an emotionally scarred adult. What wonderful little critters children are. And, quite rightly, I’ve moaned about them here before, in passing. When they make mess, when they put their sticky little mitts on my beautifully polished pastry case. When they decide to individually count every coffee bean on display, or create a fort out of straws. Usually, when they steal the chocolate powder. But, in general, you can’t really blame kids for being kids.

  But, I’m going to try. Because sometimes, you can just look at a child and see who they’re going to become. Usually, their mothers.

  Miss ‘Uh, yeah?’

  So, a very sweet and polite girl comes to order a drink. I’d say she was about twelve. She gets halfway through saying that she’d like to takeaway when her stormtrooper friend marches up and interrupts.

  ‘Uh NO excuse me I WANT THIS ONE.’

  Um, why are you shouting? Are you accustomed to the butler being in the west wing when you call for him? I’m standing right here. I know you are underdeveloped and therefore I seem quite high up, but shouting is unnecessary.

  ‘WE WANT TWO CARAMEL FRAPSHAKES. CREAM BASED. WITH CREAM. DO … YOU … UNDERSTAND … THAT?’

  Oh. Sweet. Jesus. That flash of red behind my eyes was either blinding rage or a seizure. Keep calm.

  ‘Yes, MADAM. I completely comprehend your order. That will be five pounds.’

  Grit teeth, smile wide. She’ll be entering adolescence soon. There will be pimples and puppyfat and gossipy girls and boys who reject her because she’s scary. She’s got a hard time ahead. Believe in karma. It will be all right. I am a grown up. I win by default.

  ‘Uh, excuse me, I’m not done yet. Shouldn’t you ask if I want anything else?’

  I’m afraid we don’t offer personality transplants here.

  ‘What else would you like?’

  ‘A half-shot decaf caramel coffee light DOUBLE BLENDED – you always forget to double blend it – with extra drizzle. Do you think you can handle that?’

  Well, it rates right up there with brain surgery, but I’ll certainly do my best.

  Then she pays with a fifty-pound note. I hadn’t even SEEN a fifty-pound note when I was twelve, let alone been responsible for one.

  So, it’s a Saturday afternoon, and there’s a drinks rush, so while I desperately swirl around slamming blenders, measuring milk, squirting scream, and generally doing what we call the ‘Frapshake Dance of Death’ she decides to get involved.

  I hand over the first two drinks. The polite one smiles and nods.

  ‘You DO KNOW we’re waiting for another one?’ She’s flicking her hair, while I’m trying to let her know that pissing me off when there are fourteen beverages waiting to be made, twenty more people in the queue, and I’m holding a container of strawberry sauce is not a good idea. She clearly doesn’t get the hint.

  ‘Where’s MY drink?

  ‘DID YOU ORDER IT?’ I bark.

  ‘Uh, duh, yes, you served me.’

  ‘THEN IT’LL BE WITH YOU MOMENTARILY, WON’T IT?’

  I give her three times the amount of whipped cream and wish her an acne attack. My colleague pauses and grins. ‘This is going in your blog, isn’t it?’

  And here it is. Young people. Pfff. Yes, come in and order things. You appreciate our expensive froofy drinks. And we appreciate your pocket money. But you know what? When you come in wearing head-to-toe Hollister, talking on your iPhone and talking to me like I’m some sort of undead waitress programmed to attend to your every need, I need you to think about something. You are going to end up like your mother. And I serve your mother every day. She is also an arsehole. You’re probably going to marry a man like your father (espresso-drinking timid man who never replies when you ask how his day is) and be as rich and entitled as you are now. And then you are going to get old and die.

  There’s a free dose of perspective with every cold drink today, so come along quick! You too may benefit from an extra helping of reality with a side of whipped cream!

  Have a nice day from Cafe Disaster – keep your younglings away from me.

  *****

  Imogen was desperately trying to explain to a customer that it was impossible to put ice into a hot drink without it ceasing to be ice when she saw an apparition walk into BeanTown. An apparition that looked an awful lot like a nervous, uncertain version of her father. Behind him, Babs was a lot easier to recognise, with her blonde straw hair curled up into a huge bouffant, and enough sky-blue eyeliner to encourage the eighties to call and let her know it was time to move on.

  ‘Baba!’ Imogen said in shock, the customer next to her just huffing and walking off, with half-meant comments about informing a supervisor.

  ‘Imogen!’ Her father ambled over, swarthy and unshaven. His hair was greyer than she remembered, but he looked well. He’d lost weight and his teeth were almost startlingly white. Babs grinned at her, and her teeth matched. Aha.

  Just as they were crossing the room, Agnes stopped in front of them.

  ‘Madam, I’m afraid pets are not allowed in this store.’

  Babs played dumb. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, love.’

  Imogen was sure she was going to enjoy this – no one fucked with Agnes.

  ‘Madam, there is a tiny dog in your very large handbag. While it is only a small dog, in fact rather akin to a rodent, it is still not allowed in this establishment.’

  Babs rolled her eyes. ‘Oh well now, don’t be silly, he’s only a small dog. Can’t you make an exception?’

  ‘Does having the tiny dog in your bag somehow facilitate your ability to see?’ Agnes asked bluntly.

  ‘Well no …’

  ‘Then I’m afraid it will have to wait outside.’

  ‘Well … I …’ Babs stuttered. ‘I guess I’ll just wait outside then?’

  ‘Excellent idea, madam,’ Agnes nodded, then turned to Imogen. ‘Ten minutes for a family catch-up. Go.’

  Imogen smiled. ‘Thanks, Agnes.’

  She turned to her father, who wasn’t really sure what to make of the supervisor. ‘That woman is terrifying,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to be working here?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but it’s fine for the time being,’ Imogen laughed, leading her dad over to a couple of comfy chairs in the corner. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  He sighed, running a hand through his greying hair. ‘Kori, I just came … well … Demi told me how well you’re doing here. I never doubted it. I knew you’d make all your dreams come true.’

>   ‘I still could have used a parent. To listen to me, encourage me. Keep me going when things were shitty,’ Imogen said frankly, watching as he winced a little.

  ‘I know. All the things you did for me, when I couldn’t do anything …’ Her father shook his head, and took her hand gingerly. ‘I have not treated you as well as you deserve. I was so selfish in my own loss, I never even thought your loss must be just as great.’

  ‘Worse, in some ways,’ Imogen sighed. ‘I lost both my parents.’

  He winced again, more visible this time. ‘You’ve never said anything to me about that.’

  ‘I was scared if I brought it up, it would come back,’ Imogen shrugged. ‘I’m really glad you found Babs and this new life. It let me leave to start my own.’

  ‘Many years after you should have gone. I should have made you leave, made you go to university full-time, not let you work away at all those jobs, doing everything for me. I see that now.’

  ‘Because now Babs does it?’ Imogen rolled her eyes and her father laughed.

  ‘You’re kidding. Babs doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, doesn’t do anything that can be done by someone else. I’m becoming quite a good cook now, actually!’ He seemed proud of himself, she realised, happy with this new version of himself. Leaner, and stronger, with someone energetic by his side.

  ‘I know you think she’s a silly woman …’ he started.

  ‘I think she’s fine, Dad,’ Imogen huffed. ‘What I had a problem with was you letting my memories be overwritten. I haven’t even been gone a year yet. That home is the only one I’ve known, and my memories of Mum are there. I just wanted a little more time, a little consideration before you went trampling over our past.’

  Her father was silent, head down, shoulders shaking just a bit. He took a deep breath, and she saw tear tracks down his face.

  ‘I felt guilty, living with another woman in that house. To see all your mother’s things, to compare the love I had for your mother with what I have now … I wanted a fresh start. Something simple, something without pain. I should have thought of you.’

  ‘Baba, thank you.’ She put her hand on his, realising this was the most emotional and honest conversation she’d ever had with her father, and it was in a BeanTown store.

  ‘I saved this, when the fairy wood was taken down. I thought you might like it.’

  Her father handed her a little silver lantern, a number of plastic beaded bracelets and bangles inside it. Imogen remembered it, how her mother had used glass paints on each window to create coloured flowers, so the light shone through when the candle inside was lit. The bracelets used to hang from the bottom on hooks, jangling against each other in the breeze. She knew exactly where she’d hang it in the window in her room.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy.’ She clutched his hand.

  They sat quietly for a moment, until her dad seemed to wake up and tapped her knee softly. ‘I’d better go, but we’ll come back when you finish work. Have dinner?’

  ‘I’ll text you. Go enjoy the city for a bit. And thank Babs for waiting outside.’

  ‘I don’t think even she would dare go up against that blonde woman!’ Her dad laughed, kissing both her cheeks.

  *****

  Later, when Imogen closed the doors to the store, Agnes marched off with nothing more than a ‘Don’t be late tomorrow!’, which she took to be a sign of a softening in their relationship.

  ‘Hello, lovely,’ Dec said, leaning against the bike railings.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ She went to join him, swinging her feet back and forth as she balanced.

  ‘Just finished a few minutes before you,’ he shrugged, catching her in mid-swing to kiss her. She paused, leaning into him, then pulled back, looking around for her dinner dates who would be on their way.

  ‘Spontaneous has worked so well for us the last few times,’ Dec grinned at her, all soft seduction and that smooth lilt in his voice. She felt herself softening, torn between being eager to be kissed, properly kissed, and hearing about his day, hearing him laugh. His eyes looked darker, and the summer air was stale with rubbish and the scent of almost-gone-off whipped cream, which could only be her or Dec. But she stood up, nestling into him as he stayed seated on the railing, his head tilted upwards to kiss her. She pulled her arms around him, and he encircled her waist.

  ‘I like this.’ He tugged at the bottom of her white and blue dress. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in something so girly.’

  ‘My dad stopped by; he’s taking me for dinner,’ Imogen explained. ‘I popped home on my lunch break to grab something to wear. In fact, he’ll probably be here any minute, so …’

  Dec looked halfway between offended and amused. ‘You don’t want me to meet your dad?’

  ‘You can meet him, but I didn’t think that’s what casual people did,’ she shrugged. ‘Plus … he’s a Greek dad.’

  ‘Which means …’

  ‘Which means,’ a voice boomed from behind them, ‘I am allowed to make any man who wants to be with my daughter very, very scared.’

  Imogen rolled her eyes, turning away from Dec. ‘Hi, Daddy.’

  Declan stood up, taking in the sheer size of her father who, even after losing weight, was still a fairly imposing figure when he wanted to be. He quickly let go of Imogen and stood up, coughing as he held out his hand. ‘Great to meet you, Mr Cypriani. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Like what, exactly?’

  ‘… that you’re a wise man who wouldn’t necessarily kill someone your daughter is pretty fond of?’

  ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ Costa looked at Imogen in surprise, but she was too busy looking at Declan.

  ‘And who the hell says I’m fond of you?’ she laughed at him, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Be nice, Dad. This is Declan.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the musician. Tell me, why isn’t my Imogen good enough to be your girlfriend?’ he said seriously.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Declan’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head.

  ‘Demi told me about this whole casual thing. You meet a good woman, you don’t waste time. There aren’t many. And Imogen is the best of them,’ Costa said seriously, nodding his head, but there was a smile playing about his mouth.

  ‘Dad, that’s not being nice.’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘And when the hell did you start listening to Demi about anything? She ran off twice last week.’

  ‘To Manchester. To go shopping,’ Costa defended. ‘Anyway, Declan, you’re coming to dinner with us, yes?’

  ‘Um … I mean …’

  ‘Yes,’ Costa said imperiously. ‘You mean “yes”.’

  ‘Apparently I mean “yes”.’ Declan widened his eyes in panic, and Imogen laughed, taking his hand.

  ‘He’s just doing his Big Bad Wolf routine; it’ll calm down.’ She didn’t make any attempt to lower her voice.

  ‘Eh, kori, don’t tell him that. I don’t often get to be the Big Bad Wolf. Let me enjoy it,’ Costa grinned, offering his arm to Babs, who simpered and kissed his cheek. They walked down the parade of shops and restaurants to a steakhouse Costa had seen earlier in the day.

  ‘Cos, honey, are you sure? Places round here look right expensive, and –’ Babs started, eyes widening as she looked at the prices on the menu displayed outside. She wasn’t wrong.

  ‘My darling, we have come to London for one day to see my daughter. Lets celebrate.’ He shuffled her in and turned round to Dec and Imogen. ‘Plus she hasn’t been letting me eat red meat! I’m dying for a steak!’

  Declan frowned. ‘Aren’t you a butcher?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  Once seated in the rather posh restaurant, Imogen tried to ignore the panic that Chico the chihuahua was going to escape Babs’s handbag and steal someone’s food. Instead all she saw was the occasional movement in the oversized black bag, and Babs discreetly dropping bits of chicken into it. Imogen tried her best to make conversation with her dad’s partner, asking about the garden and the remodel
ling and Babs’s nail salon.

  It was easier to be friendly now she didn’t have to listen to that alarmingly loud cackle every night while they were downstairs watching reality TV shows.

  Besides, her dad seemed to be making an effort with Declan. Which wasn’t really surprising as Costa loved to talk, but there was a dull feeling of pointlessness in Imogen’s stomach. She didn’t know why she kept getting caught up in that ‘casual’ word. She had everything she wanted: someone to kiss her and make her laugh and take her places and have adventures with her. Someone who knew things about her, knew how to shake her out of a funk. Someone who seemed to know exactly what she needed, and exactly when she needed it. But all of that seemed not to matter in the face of that word. ‘Casual.’ It told her that no matter how lovely all that stuff was, he wasn’t looking for it to go any further. He knew her, but she didn’t know him. He didn’t trust her enough for that.

  Maybe Demi had just got into her head. For the most part, she was happy.

  ‘So you came here and started from scratch?’ Costa asked him. ‘Like my Imogen?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Declan nodded, clasping his glass of water. ‘Almost four years ago. Tried a bunch of different jobs, found a nice place to live, paid to do a few courses. Started getting a bit of design work around the coffee shop. Things are good.’

  ‘And this band …’

  Declan nodded. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you waiting to become a rockstar?’ Costa said. ‘Because it’s not really a steady career.’

  ‘I know,’ Declan shrugged, ‘but it’s what I love to do. We love to play, and we’ll do it until we can’t any more. I don’t think any of us thinks it’s going to make us rich and famous –’

  ‘– except Jazz,’ Imogen interjected.

  ‘Except Jazz,’ Declan grinned at her. ‘But it’s what we love to do. When you find something you love, you don’t let it go.’

  Costa looked at him with a new appreciation. ‘You’re not as stupid as I thought you’d be.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Imogen blinked.

  ‘Eh, you came to London. You’ve never really dated anyone. Demi says you’re on/off with a musician who makes coffee. I think … well, she’s hasn’t got much experience in the ways of the heart, the kid’s probably a fool …’ Costa shrugged, swirling the red wine around his glass and soaking up the last of his steak sauce with his chips. ‘But this kid has … soul.’