If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  ‘And the responsible little intern here, who is quite a few years your junior, I might add –’

  ‘– Hey!’

  ‘– thought perhaps we should finish our working day before shopping is involved.’

  Harry looked between the two of them, a sad little pout on his face. ‘And you didn’t think to invite me?’

  Imogen blinked and looked over at Tabby. ‘Is he joking?’

  ‘Of course I’m not joking! I’m excellent at shopping! I have great style! Look at the cut of this suit. Not everyone would know how to pick a suit like this!’ Harry argued, doing an uncanny impression of a petulant child. He even crossed his arms.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t need to wear a suit …’ Imogen said slowly, eyes wide.

  ‘Worked for Diane Keaton, don’t knock it,’ he said simply, shrugging.

  Tabby laughed and stroked the hair at the back of his neck, and told Imogen, ‘To be fair, Harry is very good at shopping. And is ridiculously good with what suits women’s body shapes. A skill I don’t really want to focus too much on.’

  Harry knocked her with his hip and kissed her cheek. ‘I have not looked at another bum since yours came waddling into my life, my darling.’

  ‘Waddling!’ Tabby squawked and Harry grinned, turning back to Imogen.

  ‘No, seriously though. Some shift dresses, some whites and greens to bring out your eyes. Something with a little bit of embroidery, to soften your look a little bit?’

  ‘What’s my look at the moment?’ Imogen asked warily as Harry scanned her Black Sabbath t-shirt, three-quarter-length jeans and Vans.

  ‘Umm … my baby-daddy abandoned me at a truckstop and this is all I could find?’

  Tabby hit his arm, eyes furious. ‘Shut up, snob!’ She turned back to Imogen. ‘Eon’t listen to him. It’s grunge-chic.’

  ‘Are you not overly warm? It’s August in London,’ Harry pointed out. ‘I’m just saying the city gives you a free pass – you can become whoever you want to here. So have fun with it.’

  Harry waved and disappeared into his office, head down and determined.

  ‘Um … I don’t ever really get Harry, but …’

  Tabby grinned. ‘He’s our resident Gok Wan, didn’t you know?’ she laughed, perching on the desk. ‘I’m pretty sure that, growing up, Harry lived in matching tracksuits and second-hand jeans. He’s really into the whole “London can transform you” thing.’

  ‘Shall we go see if he’s right?’ Imogen said hopefully, saving the document.

  ‘You liked the article?’ Tabby asked, grabbing her bag.

  Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘I’m hardly an impartial reader. I love your work. But yes, I liked it. I especially liked the part where you compared the beginning of wedding season to the uprising of the slaves in Game of Thrones. Inspired.’

  Tabby made a face. ‘Too much?’

  ‘Nope, just enough vitriol, tempered with a general wishing for marital bliss for your friends, and a –

  frankly worrying – love of wedding cake.’

  ‘It’s just tastier somehow!’ Tabby grinned. ‘Now can we please go have a transformation montage and meet the London version of you?’

  ‘Let’s see what miracles this city can work,’ Imogen sighed.

  *****

  Five hours later, exhausted, irritable and much, much poorer, Imogen was sitting with Tabby in a pub just behind Oxford Street, sharing a plate of nachos and a bottle of rose under a canopy of flowers.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re still in the city,’ Imogen said, looking around them in awe.

  ‘There’s always a hidden pocket somewhere. Whenever you think it’s too busy and stressful and your head’s gonna explode … there’s always a place like this.’ Tabby sipped at her wine, closing her eyes briefly. ‘Perfect. So … you like the new look?’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t really looked at myself properly. I just feel … strange.’

  ‘Well, that’s the wonderful thing – nothing’s permanent. Maybe the moral of this story is you were happy with who you are. Which is awesome and inspiring.’

  ‘I think the moral of this story is someone should have told me years ago how to pluck my eyebrows properly. Us mediterranean girls need info like that.’

  Tabby rolled her eyes. ‘Thank my mother for that. One hair out of place, and you knew my mum would be zeroing in on you within a second.’

  ‘That sounds … stressful.’

  Tabby shrugged. ‘I went off to uni and after that she couldn’t really do much.’

  ‘At least you had someone who could show you how to do all this … crap,’ Imogen gestured at herself: the new emerald summer dress, and the silver hoop earrings, the newly cut hair with a thick fringe that ruffled in the breeze, and her smoky eye make-up that seemed to cake her eyelids, weighing her eyelashes down. She’d looked at herself in the mirror: new clothes, new hair, new her. She looked … pretty. She looked like the her she’d always thought she might be, if she just knew how. And yet, it was a mirage. It was effort, and there was a sick feeling in her stomach that someone might walk up to her and say, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, love? Who the hell do you think you are?’ Being invisible always seemed much easier.

  ‘Yeah, she showed me how to be a “proper little lady”.’ Tabby rolled her eyes, gesturing at her own dark blue maxi dress, black fedora and chunky daisy-wedge sandals. ‘Do you think that stuck?’

  Imogen looked at her friend, grinning at the realisation that that’s what they were now – proper friends. Her razor-cut bob that swung along her jawline as she laughed, the confidence behind her eyes …

  ‘Yeah.’ Imogen raised her forefinger and thumb. ‘Just a smidge.’

  ‘That’s attitude. And apparently it’s very unbecoming of a lady …’ Tabby snorted. ‘To which I say … bollocks!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Imogen raised her wine glass and clinked it against Tabby’s.

  ‘Image is just that,’ Tabby shrugged. ‘You’re already who you are, for the most part. The rest of it is just frills and sparkle.’

  Imogen looked down at the bags at their feet. ‘I spent way too much money.’

  ‘Eh, if you’re gonna spend too much money on rent, and travel and booze, you may as well spend too much on pretties every now and then.’

  ‘You’re a terrible influence,’ Imogen frowned.

  ‘Much obliged,’ Tabby grinned. ‘So, tell me, are things better since your little freak-out?’

  ‘My dad came to visit, which was good … great. The crazy ‘miserable barista’ bastards are easing up …’

  ‘And the boy …?’ Tabby raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We’re …’ Imogen searched for the word. ‘It’s good. I feel like I’m seeing the real him …’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It sounds stupid, talking about the “real” him. I’m not even sure I know the real “me” most of the time.’

  Tabby shook her head. ‘Everyone has history. It makes them who they are … but how they act is up to them. A dickhead with a sad story is still a dickhead.’

  Imogen’s lips twitched. ‘You are so full of wisdom.’

  *****

  Mrs ‘I’m down with the kids’

  We get a lot of people who complain about ‘this coffee language’. And it’s true – it makes a drink a mouthful, in more ways than one. Dry, wet, regular, half-caf, decaf, semi-wet, double-shot, extra-pump. Pretty damn difficult.

  The only easy part is saying whether you want it ‘for here’ or ‘takeaway’, surely. Although the Americanism ‘to go’ has come into fashion. ‘Takeaway’ has the English heritage of a dodgy curry or a questionable kebab at three in the morning. ‘To go’ is verbage, pure, simple. It says ‘I have places to go, and so does my coffee’. Or something. Perhaps I’m watching too much Mad Men.

  There’s also the wondrous moment that happens about fifty per cent of the time, when I say ‘For here or takeaway’, and they reply ‘For here, b
ut in a takeaway cup’.

  Why do you think I am asking? What possible need could I have to know if you are drinking in, or taking away EXCEPT to accommodate you with the correct beverage holder?

  Luckily, no one ever says, ‘To take away, but I’ll have it in a mug.’

  Although I’ve recently had more than a few incidents where I’ve asked ‘For here or takeaway?’, and they’ve replied, ‘I’ll have it in a cup.’

  Well, what the fuck does that mean? Might as well say, ‘I’ll have it in a container, an empty vessel, a holder.’

  Some also reply with ‘I’m sitting outside’.

  I’ll repeat, what the fuck does that mean? Tell me what you want, so I can get on with my life, please.

  The best one, though? The true winner of all mumbled ‘here or to go’ mix-ups, was today. And I thought I’d share it.

  An older lady, not old, but perhaps well preserved, came in, in a terrible hurry. I got the feeling she wasn’t comfortable ordering in our kind of establishment.

  So I ask her the dreaded question, ‘For here or takeaway?’

  Her reply? The best reply that has ever existed in response to that particular question?

  ‘I want the cappuccino to go away.’

  The fact that she sounded scared really helped.

  And all I could think was, so do I, madam, so do I.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Keith, I was thinking, have you got any booze that’s just sitting around? Something we could put on a deal for the gig?’

  The landlord frowned in contemplation, his brows shielding his eyes. He clicked his fingers and shrugged. ‘A few crates of tequila-flavoured beer and some tabasco-flavoured vodka?’

  Imogen winced. ‘The beer will be easy. But tabasco?’

  ‘Tried to hired an assistant manager once. Didn’t work out. He wanted this place to be one of those Notting Hill yuppie bars.’

  ‘Well …’ Imogen looked around the Hope and Anchor, beautiful as ever with its stained-glass windows, long wooden tables and solid dark floors. The summer light fogged through the windows, like a holy church light. It was quiet, almost spiritual in its emptiness. Which, while enjoyable, was not really what you wanted from a pub.

  ‘Not you, too,’ Keith sighed, looking down at the lists they were making in dismay.

  ‘Keith, in all honesty, is business good?’ Imogen asked bluntly. ‘You’re in a posh part of London – you should be busy all the time!’

  ‘It’s the death of the pub. I read about it in the Metro. That bloody Whole Foods opened, and they want their fruit smoothies, and their herbal infusions, and their organic plum wine. People don’t want a local any more.’

  ‘So appeal to a different audience!’ Imogen could feel herself getting frustrated. ‘I love this place; I’d never suggest anything to change it … but we’re the same, you and me. We like the same drink and the same snack and we like things to stay the same. Safe and steady.’

  Keith nodded, suspicious.

  ‘You don’t want to be like BeanTown, where you let the punters customise and personalise so much that they become their order, become defined by it. They become so overwhelmed by choice that it all turns into a big mess. No craft, no rules. Nothing.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘But how about a little spruce?’ she suggested gently. ‘Ordering in a fruity cider for summer, a new local ale? Maybe two really simple cocktails you could sell in pitchers and make money on? People want what they want.’

  Imogen sighed, laying her hands out in front of her. ‘Look, trust me to change a couple of things, try a few new things on the order, just for the gig. If it works, great. If not, nothing lost.’ She knew she was pleading. ‘Think of it as a spring clean.’

  Keith’s face wavered between pitying and exhausted. His forehead crinkled and he pulled at a thread on his pale green, short-sleeved shirt.

  ‘Darling, I can’t pay you …’

  ‘It’s fine!’ she waved him off. ‘I don’t need to be paid. I’m doing this –’

  ‘– for your gentleman caller, I know. All in the name of love, eh?’ Keith grinned, and she saw the gold fillings flash.

  ‘No,’ Imogen shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m doing it for the Hope. This place was home before I made my crappy flat into something resembling a home. It felt safe, and welcoming. Other people should see that. I owe you that much.’

  Keith’s face seemed to crumple into a pile of wrinkles, and he scratched at his greying hair before patting her hand and coughing, gruffly saying, ‘Well, you’re not working the night of the gig. You can do what you like until then, but you’re having fun and enjoying the night. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ She shook his hand, and he pulled it up to kiss briefly, before winking at her.

  ‘I’m trusting you, Imogen – keep the spirit of the place. None of that poncey bollocks.’

  Imogen held up her hand, putting it over her heart. ‘I promise. No drinks out of jam jars, no food served on chopping boards. No weird gimmicks. Just a good place, good drinks, good people. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Keith. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’

  *****

  Between her work at the paper, her work at the pub and her actual job, Imogen didn’t have a lot of spare time. Declan was either practising with the band, promoting the gig or working extra shifts so he could take the week off to focus on the music. As such, the most Imogen saw of him was the occasional shared lunch break, or sometimes crawling into her bed at midnight, only to disappear for an early shift the next morning. He was like a ghost.

  He ran into BeanTown that morning, grinning ear-to-ear.

  ‘Straws or cup holders?’ Imogen asked, hand on hip.

  ‘Neither!’ He launched himself at the empty bar and reached for her, pulling her close for a chaste, quick kiss. ‘Finished my shift. Off to band practice. Had to get my fix! Bye!’

  And he was gone again. Chaos. She watched, stunned smile on her face as the door swung closed behind him. ‘You two seem happy,’ Emanuel said as he cleaned the coffee machine. ‘I feel partly responsible!’

  ‘Why are you responsible?’ Ella waltzed out, tying her apron.

  Emanuel grinned. ‘Because without me, Declan would still be bankrupting the store by demanding stock he didn’t need, and Miss Imogen here would still be oblivious to his flirtation.’ He held up his hands. ‘No need to thank me, but if the Goddess of Love wants to repay me with my own loving relationship, that would be fine.’

  ‘You think a random girl is going to run in and kiss you?’ Ella snorted, setting up her till as Imogen worked on restocking the bar.

  ‘Weirder things have happened where he’s concerned,’ Imogen laughed.

  Ella zeroed in on her. ‘So this loving relationship … it’s all perfect with Declan?’ She tilted her head, a bland smile on her face.

  Emanuel frowned at her. ‘Did you not just see the boy plant that kiss on her?’

  ‘Looked like a friendly little kiss from where I was standing,’ Ella shrugged, hand on hip.

  Emanuel looked between the two women and rolled his eyes, before looking at Ella. ‘Yes, very friendly of him to run for ten minutes in the opposite direction of where he needs to be just to get a peck on the lips from his lady.’ Emanuel turned to Imogen directly. ‘You guys are good together. You’re definitely good for him.’

  Ella whirled around. ‘You don’t even know him that well!’

  Emanuel tilted his head. ‘I know that before Imogen he was flitting from stupid woman to stupid woman, none of them with substance or anything in common with him. I know he was always confused, because people used to want him when they couldn’t have him, and then throw him away when something better came along.’ Emanuel looked at Ella pointedly, his mouth a thin line. ‘Imogen is the best thing that’s happened to Declan. He’s been screwed around by silly women long enough.’

  Ella seemed to be made up of barely bridled fury, little jerking movements as if sh
e wanted to attack, lips pressed together to keep the words inside. Apparently more people knew about Ella than Imogen thought, and she watched as the two just stared at each other. Emanuel had never had a moral opinion on relationships. He cheated, flirted and chased women based on beverages. So was he trying to show support?

  Ella smiled suddenly, her perfect red lips curving upwards, and Imogen suddenly dreaded whatever she was going to say. Especially when she turned to Imogen, innocent look on her face.

  ‘I’m not sure if Imogen’s the best thing to ever happen to him. Definitely the most … twisted.’ She waited a moment for the word to dissolve, and Imogen felt it sink into her skin, watching as Ella smirked in victory.

  Emanuel looked between the two of them. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Well, Imogen’s such a good writer, isn’t she? And Declan is always telling me just how funny her writing is, how good she is at sharing her stories. He said she’s read by thousands of people!’ Ella trilled, still grinning. ‘And how wonderful, for someone to be so successful at what they do, when they’re only a barista.’

  Imogen could feel the betrayal making its way around her bloodstream like adrenalin, her heart beating and breath becoming painful as she realised Dec had shared her most important secret with the one person who would use it against her. Her stomach throbbed.

  ‘But, I wonder how successful she’d be if she wasn’t a barista any more?’ Ella said thoughtfully, twirling a piece of dark hair around her fingertip.

  ‘Why wouldn’t she be a barista any more?’ Emanuel’s voice took on an edge as he sensed the threat, edging around to Imogen’s side. She stood there, motionless, unable to say anything. Waiting until Ella had made her point.

  ‘Well …’ Ella shrugged, ‘balancing a relationship with your new writing stardom must be quite difficult. Knowing where your priorities are,’ she enunciated, eyes narrowed, ‘perhaps you’re better off picking one over the other. The best writers are usually single, aren’t they? Much more … inspiration available that way.’