*****
Imogen took a deep breath and pressed ‘publish’. It was the first time she’d written since she moved to London. It was therapy. She was going to use all those horrible little people, force them into fiction, make people laugh. She was going to join the masses and become a blogger, use it for practice, get inspired. Connect to every twenty-something working a recession job and trying to make it in the big bad city. She was going to be a writer, no matter what. She was going to write something real.
Chapter Six
Emanuel tilted his head to the side, lips pursed as he surveyed her.
‘Something is different,’ he said with suspicion.
‘I trimmed my hair with nail scissors. It was a terrible decision, I know.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and focused on steaming the milk to exactly 94 degrees, or else the customer who was due to arrive in exactly forty-five seconds would be disappointed. Or royally pissed off and demand not only a remade drink but a freebie voucher. She could not afford to cost the store any more freebies this month. There was a chart and everything.
Emanuel shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. It’s something on your face.’
Imogen looked at him in panic. ‘What is it? Get it off! I can’t stop the steamer!’
Emanuel moved closer, his dark eyes and little moustache twitching as he stared at her face. ‘It’s something in the mouth area, it’s like … the sides are moving upwards? Almost like … what do they call it? A … smile?’
Emanuel grinned and walked off.
‘You tosser!’ Imogen laughed. ‘I’m allowed to smile!’
‘Yes,’ he called back as he stacked sugar packets in the empty store, ‘but usually it’s more of a resting bitch face situation. Not a “quietly satisfied” look. Did Declan take you out?’
Imogen shook her head, wondering why she could feel her cheeks warm in a blush even though it had nothing to do with the stubbly Irishman.
‘No, this is purely creative fulfilment, I promise.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Emanuel pouted and punched in the order for a 94-degrees triple-shot soya white mocha with a half pump of caramel. The man in the Savile Row suit nodded in satisfaction, pausing to hold the takeaway cup for a moment, feeling the warmth in his hand. Then he nodded once more and was gone. The same, every time. Even when he complained, she wasn’t sure he spoke. He just looked scarily disappointed in her as a person and shook his head slowly until she panicked. The Suit. With the really girly drink. She should make a note of that.
‘Well, that’s the only sort of fulfilment I’m interested in. I’m actually happy, I think.’
Agnes marched out, tying on her brown apron, her face unimpressed. ‘Yes, yes, we all care deeply for your health and happiness. Go and count your till.’
Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘How much bullshit do I get if I call her a dictator?’
‘You get a pat on the head and gold star for understanding how chain of command works. Count your till,’ Agnes said, unfazed.
The rest of the day passed quickly, a flurry of coffee machine whirring, snippets of conversations and the overwhelming smell of mocha sauce, because everything was suddenly a story. Every complaint, every whinge, every ridiculous request was fodder. They were insights, hilarious and so nutty that someone else would get enjoyment out of them.
‘What is happening here?’ Emanuel said later that day, staring in dismay at the till.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ Agnes marched over to inspect, a dusting of whipped cream around her mouth.
Emanuel shrugged. ‘We’re just out of till receipt paper, it’s not a problem.’
‘Don’t worry me like that!’ Agnes filled another cup with a swirl of whipped cream, finishing with a flourish, and marched out to the back room again.
‘Imogen, any idea why we’d be out of receipt paper when I just filled the roll this morning?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow. ‘Possibly to do with how inflated the pockets of your apron seem?’
Imogen put her hands in her pockets, crumpling the small bits of paper under scrunched fists. ‘I was inspired and I didn’t have a notebook.’
‘Show me.’
She scooped out the scraps of paper. Some were single words, some sentences, some little drawings with speech bubbles. They piled up as she placed them on the side, like a Jenga tower.
‘Sorry, I’ll bring a notebook tomorrow.’
Emanuel shrugged. ‘I don’t know if it’s funnier that in a place that gives you free caffeine, you’re stealing paper, or that you think I care. Write all you like, darling. Just be nice to me in the book.’ He winked and disappeared out to collect wayward cups, and Imogen had the sneaking suspicion, not for the first time, that Emanuel was her London fairy godfather.
*****
The Tale of the Lemony Muffins
‘So … explain these muffins to me.’
It shows you how long I’ve been working as a barista now, that this doesn’t even seem like a strange question.
‘Well,’ I reply cheerily, ‘this is our muffin selection, this one has this, this and this in it. This one has nuts. My personal favourite is this.’
‘What about the lemon muffin?’ The customer points to said muffin.
‘What about it?’
‘Explain it, what’s in it?’
‘Er, lemon.’
I start to suspect this is, in fact, a customer service training exercise, and she’s an undercover market researcher. Except she’s a policewoman. That level of undercover market research may be a little too committed.
‘Yes, but how lemony is it? Is it very lemony?’
What, like you want a percentage? It is 75% lemony, with 15% sugar and 10% ZING.
‘Erm, well, yes, for a LEMON MUFFIN, it’s definitely the more lemony choice amongst our pastry options.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure if I want a lemon muffin that’s very lemony. What about the peach muffin, what does that taste like?’
There is no way to reply that the peach muffin tastes like peach without sounding sarcastic.
‘It … tastes … like … a sweet nectarine-like fruit that’s been blended in with the muffin mixture.’
Okay, that sounds even more sarcastic.
‘So there’s actually pieces of peach in the peach muffin? Does that mean there are pieces of lemon in the lemon muffin? Or is it just lemon-flavoured?’
This is where I start clawing at my own face asking for some kind deity to please make it stop.
You’re the police. Shouldn’t you be off fighting crime instead of worrying about exactly how much a muffin tastes like the thing it’s named after?
She thankfully takes the damn lemon muffin, after all, and my colleague comes up to me after.
‘Hey, I wanted to ask you a question. You know orange juice … does it taste like oranges? How orange-tasting is it on a scale of one to ten? Because I don’t think I want my orange-tasting juice turned all the way up to eleven.’
On this day, I make a vow, to never eat a lemon muffin again.
Chapter Seven
Declan came in again the next week, and after messaging him online about her little blogging adventure, Imogen was eager to see what he thought. She hoped he knew she’d been inspired by him. She hoped he didn’t think she’d copied him. Which really, she sort of had. Crap.
‘Which feeble excuse are we using this time? Cup holders or straws?’ Emanuel rolled his eyes as Declan burst in. Declan’s mouth became a thin line.
‘Neither,’ Declan shook his head. ‘I’m here to see my dear friends who are always so pleased to see me. Obviously.’ He winked at Imogen. ‘How you doing, Trouble?’
Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but Emanuel got there first.
‘There’s something terribly wrong. It’s like she’s happy or something. I don’t know what to do about it.’ Emanuel grinned and swanned off to talk to the little old lady in the corner about the variety of cups they sold. Imogen knew this, because the little old lady came by every Fr
iday morning at 10.45 a.m. and had done ever since she’d started working there. Still hadn’t bought a damn cup, though.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Declan grinned at her, and she felt a fluttering in her stomach as his eyes met hers. ‘I think she’s a little twisted, our Imogen.’
Imogen bit her lip, trying not to blush, but looked around to see a mostly empty store. She leaned forward on the bar and whispered, ‘What did you think?’
‘Does it matter what I think?’ He leaned back, hands in pockets, a wide smile on his face.
‘Well, sorta, seeing as you’re the one who inspired this whole thing. I didn’t mean to steal your idea, or anything, I just –’
Declan stepped forward, placing a hand on hers on the counter. ‘Hey, love, you’ve done better things with that concept than I ever could. Plus, I turned them into pitiable sad characters in society. You’ve got some rage on you. Funny girl.’
Imogen made a face. ‘Too ragey?’
‘No, but I’ll be sure not to piss you off from now on.’ That Cheshire cat grin again. ‘I’m obviously not the only one who thinks you’ve got talent, either.’
She noticed his fingers stroking hers on the table, and tried not to look down, her heart thumping.
‘What? Who? No one else knows it’s me, right? It needs to stay anonymous. I could get in some serious shit if anyone else knew.’ She pulled her hand away to hold it to her stomach, slightly panicked. ‘I thought I put lots of safety things in place. Did someone mention something?’
Declan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, a small, surprised smile on his face. ‘Imogen, have you even read the comments on the blog?’
‘No … I just hit “publish” and then ignored it, like releasing a balloon full of crap. Except that it floated … I’m shitty at metaphors. What about the comments?’ Imogen asked. ‘Lots of people telling me that if I hate my job so much I should just go get another one?’
Declan shrugged. ‘A couple, but no, it’s mainly people really connecting with you. A couple of other baristas, bar people, waitresses. You should read them. It looks like you’ve hit on something that people really recognise. I think you’ve got something special on your hands here. How many hits have you got?’
‘Hits?’
Declan held in a little sigh. ‘Don’t you want to know how many people are reading what you’ve written? I thought you wanted to get onto a newspaper or something? Being able to take forward how many readers you have is going to help with that!’
Imogen tilted her head and just looked at him. This strong bear of a man with the kind face and arms that looked like they were carved out of marble. Strong and steady.
‘You’re making yourself a little too impossibly necessary in my life, you know.’
‘Impossibly necessary.’ He nodded. ‘I would have taken charming, interesting, sexy … ’
‘No comment,’ Imogen mumbled, averting her eyes.
‘Would you like me to help you with some of this? The tech side, I mean.’ He shuffled forward again. ‘Setting up SEO and comment filters and social widgets?’
Imogen’s eyes widened. ‘Are we speaking the same language?’
‘Helping people to find your blog.’
‘But not to find me?’ she double-checked.
‘Exactly. I’d say bring your laptop to a coffee shop, but I think we’ve had more than enough of that. You could come round to mine, but it’s currently full of my housemate rugby teammates. Bit loud.’
Imogen recognised this was probably the part where she should say ‘You can come round to mine!’, but she just couldn’t. The idea of him being in that space, that tiny, sad little space that didn’t in any way show who she was, was mortifying. It would be depressing. Plus he’d take up every bit of air in that room, and it would be uncomfortable, and they’d be in each other’s personal space, and the only place to sit was on the bed …
‘I have the perfect place – this sweet little pub near mine. I go and do work in there quite often. I’m mates with the owner now.’
‘Cool, so – tomorrow? You’re off, right? And I’m on an early so I finish about two p.m.’
‘Sure, I’ll send you the name of the pub,’ Imogen nodded, feeling a little shaky as he typed his number into her phone, wary that Emanuel was slyly looking over from the corner of the room and mouthing ‘I told you so’.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work before Agnes has a fit, but I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, suddenly shy and unable to make eye contact.
‘It’s a date,’ he said distinctively, and grinned at her when her head flew up in shock to look at him. ‘See you tomorrow!’ And he was gone, off before she could reply.
‘A date?’ Emanuel sidled up.
‘It’s a friend helping me out with a creative project.’
‘If it’s making an art installation out of your underwear, then sure. Very Tracy Emin. I like.’ Emanuel sauntered off and Imogen stamped her foot a little that he always managed to get the last word. She was going to make him suffer over whichever chai-drinking hipster chick he fell in love with today. That was certain.
But when no one was looking she clapped her hands with glee and allowed herself a little dancing bum wiggle of joy. Laptop or not, he’d said it was a date. This whole London thing was looking up.
*****
‘Young, Rich Couple seek Barista as Personal Chew Toy’
It’s busy, a Saturday afternoon. Don’t ask me why your average coffee shop should be overpopulated on a Saturday afternoon. I would desperately hope that people had better things to do. But, they don’t. So there’s a big queue, and I’m running back and forth, getting orders. This has worked sufficiently for the last five minutes. And then they arrive.
Mid-twenties, beautiful, and entitled. You may recognise the word ‘entitled’ in these blogs. It’s a trait I find equivalent to being homicidal. Possibly worse, depending on whether they sound like a toff (when killing you, or ordering you around, it’s all the same really).
‘Hi, can I get your drinks started?’ I squeak in my excited, ‘grateful to serve you’ voice.
‘Oh, oh, darling, I think she’s talking to us!’ The woman puts her hand to her chest in surprise, like the corgi just declared she needed to go for a tiddle.
‘Are you talking to us?’ the man says in confusion.
‘Yes … yes, I am. Can I take your drinks order … sir?’
The woman then steps forward, while the man throws his hands up, like the concept of ordering is just far beyond him. Women’s business.
‘I’ll have a skinny latte, a chai tea latte –’
‘Are they both medium?’ I jump in, suddenly aware she’s going to regale me with a torrent of orders.
‘They’re all medium,’ she says pointedly.
You’ve only told me two. Two is both. I have an English literature degree, so don’t mess with me, bitch.
‘Okay, both medium,’ I say to myself as I mark the cups with the appropriate hieroglyphs. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact …’ She then lists a few more pretentious drinks, and I can tell exactly which one is for her (sugar-free vanilla soya cappuccino extra-hot) and which one’s for him (medium skinny latte) and can imagine who their friends are, depending on the variety. The kooky girl with the good stories has the chai tea latte. The two guys who don’t really drink coffee, but didn’t feel like they could ask for a coke have got regular lattes. The filter coffee with pouring cream is for the driver on what is no doubt a jaunt to a country estate for the weekend, in what I would presume is either a Mercedes SLK or a BMW. It’s fifty-fifty odds that one of them is named Binky.
‘Oh, oh, actually, I think I’ll have a brownie. I’ll be so terribly bad!’ The man, before this comment, could have been considered attractive.
Weird, a brownie, my money would have been on –
‘Oh, and a granola bar, yum!’
There it is. The grand order of the world has been restored. You
are not a unique snowflake, with the wings of a butterfly. You are a subject created of class, income and whatever magazines you read.
Mr Previously-Attractive then continues to repeat, loudly, to his girlfriend about the brownie, for the next three minutes, while I am making their drinks.
‘Where is it, why hasn’t she got it? Was he meant to get it? Did I pay for it?’
Well, if you looked at the price you were paying instead of throwing down a fifty-pound note, maybe you’d know.
I hand over the five drinks, the granola bar and the brownie, and Previously-Attractive looks at me in surprise, a crooked grin appearing.
‘Well, aren’t you a good girl!’
And I’m back to being the corgi.
‘Come on, darling,’ the girlfriend replies. ‘Binky’s got the Merc running. We need to be in Windsor by five.’
Chapter Eight
They met in the Hope and Anchor the next day. Imogen tried to pretend she hadn’t made an extra bit of effort. A subtle flick of eyeliner, a top that wasn’t four sizes too big. A pair of jeans that maybe hugged a little bit more than usual. She still had her huge ugly cardigan on, though, the one that looked like a wool factory had exploded. Just so she still felt like herself. Her stomach was in her throat, and she hadn’t managed to eat since they made plans yesterday. Part of her hoped this didn’t carry on into multiple dates – she’d end up waif-like. She thumbed the edge of her fluffy sleeve, looking at her laptop, her pint of cider sitting untouched beside her.
Every time she heard a floorboard squeak, she looked up. Keith walked past, ruffling his grey hair as he went to rewrite the specials on the board. ‘You’re making me nervous. What you waiting for, the firing squad?’
‘Worse,’ she grumbled to herself, demanding that she get a grip. It was a date. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been on a date before. Except that, well, yeah, she sort of hadn’t. She hadn’t dated anyone back home. Partly because she lived at home, and she was too busy with uni and work, and it just seemed very time-consuming, dating someone. Mostly, it was because she didn’t find anyone who interested her. She’d spent years studying stories, and learning about fairy tales. Sure, she knew that life wasn’t a fairy tale, that men weren’t knights in shining armour, and she was quite capable of saving herself, thank you very much. But reading all those epic stories, dying for love, holding love up on this high pedestal – it made modern-day love seem a little … boring. Seemed like all the love stories back home had started with being felt up round the back of the wheelie bins, getting drunk, getting pregnant, and getting stuck with each other. Or just going to the cinema a lot, and creating drama when things got boring. Imogen was happier with the stories in her head.
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 5