If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

Imogen looked down at her bitten nails, her holey jeans and battered Vans. Nope, she really needed to stop making Londoners into her fairy godmothers.

  ‘Yep, all good. Everything looks about right,’ Imogen nodded. ‘I need to stop panicking about getting sued.’

  ‘Yup,’ Tabby nodded. ‘You’re protected. It’s your opinion, your life! You’re allowed to say these things. I’m sure there’s a lot of people out there really relating to what you’re saying.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop it being scary,’ Imogen shrugged.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Tabby nodded, standing up, ‘but it’s Friday in London, and the sun is shining. So I think a drink in a pub garden is necessary.’

  ‘But what about work?’ Imogen frowned, gesturing at her empty desk.

  ‘You mean you can’t look over my latest article for Miss Twisted Thinks while sipping a cold beer in sunny surroundings?’ Tabby shook her head sadly. ‘Tut tut, Miss Imogen. I have not been teaching you the ways of the writer at all. Come on then. Lesson one: your environment is your mindset.’

  She hustled Imogen up and grabbed her bag, walking her to the lift.

  ‘And my mindset needs a super-cold glass of rose on a sunny afternoon. Let’s get inspired.’ Tabby winked, and Imogen shook her head. No, definitely her fairy godmother.

  *****

  ‘Have you seen the response you’re getting online?’ Demi didn’t bother saying hello when Imogen answered the phone as she walked to work.

  ‘No. Tabby said it’s best not to read the reviews. She forwards me the good ones, though.’

  Demi affected her voice. ‘Oh, Tabby says! Well, maybe Tabby should tell you that the Metro ran an article this morning on “The West London Coffee Bitch”.’

  Imogen choked a little, then laughed. ‘Man, I wish I’d thought of that as a moniker. So much more chilling!’

  ‘To be fair, it wasn’t all mean, but it started this #miserablebarista hashtag where people are tweeting in their pictures of irritated baristas, wondering if any of them are you.’ Demi snorted. ‘Have I mentioned how jealous I am of your life?’

  ‘Being called a bitch in print? Yeah, lucky me,’ Imogen laughed, rolling her eyes, but eager to get Demi off the phone so she could look at the pictures people sent in.

  ‘London … working with a real journalist … shagging some hot guy …’ Demi sighed. ‘You’re living the dream.’

  ‘Yeah … almost. Except I still have to do my sucky job,’ Imogen shrugged as she neared BeanTown, watching across the road as Ella stood smoking a cigarette, looking more Italian chic than Imogen even thought possible. ‘And … other things.’

  ‘You sound like you don’t want to talk about it,’ Demi said.

  ‘Not really. The “shagging the hot guy” comes with complications.’

  ‘Doesn’t it always?’

  Imogen watched as Ella greeted one of their customers passing by, chatted with the delivery man and winked at a little child. All she needed was to be dressed by tiny animals and the girl had walked out of a fairy story. Which meant Imogen was the evil witch getting in the way, obviously. Evil witches don’t get the prince. At least not in the end. They probably got to have great sex, though.

  ‘This complication is a six-foot Italian goddess who is a sort-of-not-quite ex,’ Imogen sighed, ‘and jealousy and insecurity do not become me.’

  ‘Imogen! You’re the West London Coffee Bitch! That beats Italian goddess every time. Honestly,’ said Demi seriously, ‘I have the Top Trump cards to prove it.’

  ‘Sometimes you don’t get the happy ending just because you deserve it.’ Imogen shook her head, irritated at herself.

  ‘Who’s saying anything about endings? Shag him for as long as he’s exciting and then let him go back to the Italian. Casual, remember?’ Demi laughed. ‘Although the idea of you doing casual is hilarious.’

  ‘Why? I’ve done it before.’

  ‘With Neil? Neil who rarely left his dorm room except to find weed and family-sized bags of Monster Munch?’ Demi snorted. ‘You were hardly overwhelmed with passion.’

  ‘He was all right,’ Imogen said half-heartedly, knowing that Demi was right. The situations weren’t even comparable.

  ‘He was unwashed and uninteresting. But you, dear cousin, are a fairy-tale junkie. You’re also an addictive personality.’

  ‘Everyone gets through the entire series of Orange Is the New Black in two days! That’s what Netflix is for!’ Imogen argued. She could hear her cousin rolling her eyes.

  ‘No, dummy. When you want something, you binge on it. Find a book on a subject you’re interested in – you buy five and read them all. Start a new hobby, you become consumed by it until you’re bored or a pro. You’re all or nothing. It’s like there’s a switch in your head that says “super obsessed” or “not bothered at all”.’

  Demi made sense. And loath as she was to admit it, Dec was falling into the ‘super obsessed’ category. His body, his eyes, the way his laugh was so loud she could hear it the minute she walked into his coffee shop. The roughness of his fingertips and the way he smoked his cigarettes, like he was having a conversation in his head about how he really had to quit soon.

  It wasn’t love, though. It was just … appreciation.

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ Demi commanded.

  ‘Nope, you’re completely spot on,’ Imogen sighed. ‘But casual is what I’ve got, so I’m going to enjoy it for as long as I can.’

  She crossed the road and Ella looked up, waving. I need to stop thinking this girl is the enemy, Imogen thought to herself. She’s lovely. It’s not her fault she met him first. And that’s she’s lovely.

  ‘Yeah, well, enjoy it as long as it serves you. Don’t let yourself get dragged into bullshit,’ Demi said seriously. ‘I may visit soon. It’s getting all nutty up here again.’

  ‘Sure thing. Would be good to see you. Anyway, I’ve got to get into work, so I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘Laters Gator,’ Demi said, the same goodbye she’d chanted since they were kids, and hung up.

  ‘Imogen!’ Ella smiled at her, those perfect dark eyes twinkling. ‘Hope you didn’t mind me stealing Declan away the other evening.’

  Imogen listened for a hint of sarcasm, but all she heard was friendliness.

  She shrugged, smiling back. ‘No, I had my own stuff to do. We’re pretty relaxed anyway.’

  Ella nodded solidly. ‘Yes, that’s the way he always is with women. Has a little fling, then comes back again.’ She flicked her cigarette into the gutter. ‘Anyway, see you in there!’

  Imogen stood outside, taking a deep breath. That was something, that was definitely something. The woman was so hard to read, though. Was it the accent that threw meaning where it wasn’t warranted? Her perfectly relaxed face never showed any sign of spite or sarcasm. Maybe she just wasn’t worried. Maybe when Declan was done with her he’d run back to Ella like every other time. If she were Ella, she wouldn’t be intimidated by an Imogen. She’d laugh at the idea that an Imogen could steal away a beautiful man.

  But who cared, right? A little fun, and then her writing career would be interstellar and there’d be no time for Declan anyway.

  Agnes knocked on the window by her face and yelled, ‘You standing outside all day or you actually here to work?’

  Imogen sighed deeply and opened the door. Maybe it was time for the West London Coffee Bitch to have a crack at dictator supervisors with whipped cream addictions.

  *****

  Before I started this blog, some customers were so horribly rude that I couldn’t do anything but walk around in a dumb sort of shock for the rest of the day, spluttering in disbelief. I would carry around this weight in my chest, half rage, half sympathy, like a kicked puppy.

  But now, whenever a real arsehole appears, I feel automatically vindicated. Because he (or she) will feel the might of my pen (keyboard) and will get what’s coming to them.

  So here goes …

  Mr Wanker Banker

&
nbsp; (Or The Rudest Human I’ve Ever Had the Misfortune of Meeting)

  So I join the situation to find a man screaming at my colleague. (I’d taken his order a few moments before, before going to restock. He ordered a decaf extra-dry soya cappuccino. I should have known there would be trouble).

  He’s yelling because we won’t accept his £20 note. Why won’t we accept it? Because it looks like a dog had a real fun time eating most of it. It’s not even that it’s ripped and taped back up – that would be fair enough. There is more of the note MISSING than there is of it in existence.

  He’s insisting that it’s valid, which is, I’m assuming, why he keeps screaming the phrase ‘LEGAL TENDER’ over and over.

  He may be right. The metal strip of the note is intact – it’s the only thing that is. However, I and my fellow baristas are not risking our necks because he refuses to pay on a card.

  He then comes out with this charming retort:

  ‘It’d be accepted in YOUR country.’

  My supervisor very calmly turns around and replies, ‘Which country is that, sir?’

  He seems to realise that blatant racism isn’t actually a good thing, and backtracks. ‘NO, I mean THIS country, YOURS and MINE! THIS is your country, too!’

  Well, thanks for that, Hitler. Good to know.

  And if he wasn’t talking about Britain, it wouldn’t make sense, because, duh, the pound would not be legal tender in Poland.

  He then continues to rant on and on, louder and louder as I begin to fear for my blood pressure. Am slightly concerned that if I look into a mirror I will begin to turn into The Hulk.

  Then:

  ‘And I would KNOW about all this. I work for the Bank of England!’

  Aaah, THAT’S why you’re a massive wanker! Got it! Okay, I know what I’m dealing with now. Except that’s clearly a massive lie.

  ‘Well, in that case, sir, I’m sure they’d be very happy to exchange that note for you.’

  That’s why B of E came tumbling down. They’re accepting non-existent banknotes. Illuminating! Also, don’t brag about being a banker to a minimum-wage coffee monkey. Yes, we know you’re a rich twat, but we’d really rather not know you’re a rich twat who may or may not be responsible for the economic state of our country. OUR country.

  He’s still rabbiting on, while the girl on the till’s eyes are wide in terror, like she’s standing in front of a hurricane. He is shouting in her face so loudly I think I can see her hair being pushed back from the force of it.

  I drown him out with my own homicidal thoughts until he ends on this lovely jewel:

  ‘It IS legal tender, it’s ALWAYS been legal tender, and I know all about it and if you don’t know that then you’re clearly as stupid as you look, and you’re uneducated and need to get an education’

  Exit, stage right … where he continues as the poor supervisor slogs away at his drinks. I hope she gave him regular instead of decaf. Not that he needs any more energy; he has righteous indignation to fuel him.

  An education? An education. Right, it’s not like, oh, EVERYONE working here has a degree, or qualifications, or is working on a degree, or a Master’s or a PhD, working so they can intern, or retrain. It’s not like any of us have any sense of competency, in ANY area, because of course, we’re foreign coffee monkeys who can just about understand the words ‘decaf soya cappuccino’ if you enunciate … really … slowly …

  All I can say is they obviously don’t EDUCATE bankers that treating other human beings like they are capable of independent thought is a good thing, and that throwing a hissy fit in a public place, over two coffees that cumulatively add up to less than five pounds, is not.

  Oh, right, it’s the economy, stupid … shall we perhaps reconsider that? It’s the state of the rich and entitled who think we are morons because we are not rich and entitled … stupid.

  Here’s hoping that was his last note, and when he goes to the cashpoint, he finds that he’s bankrupt … well, that’s the cost of a decent education.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘This flat is ridiculously empty.’ Declan looked around at her blank walls, grey as the morning light filtered through the broken blinds. She watched as he stretched across her bed diagonally, making it seem tiny. He was tanned, the sort of tanned that comes from working outside and never really seems to fade. He had one hand under his head, and the other holding a cigarette that he seemed to be playing with, rather than actually wanting to smoke. Imogen tried to blink away the thoughts of how she’d get the smell of cigarette smoke out of her sheets and whether she’d lose her deposit. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear and sat up as she handed him a mug of tea (strong, two sugars) and pulled the white duvet up around her, cradling her own tea (no sugar, dash of milk).

  ‘I can’t fit much more in here.’ She looked around at the built-in wardrobe, the books piled up along the window sill and the TV at the end of the bed.

  ‘I don’t mean stuff. I mean, like, stuff.’

  ‘Well, thanks for clearing that up.’

  ‘No.’ Declan shook his head, gesturing around the room. ‘Where is Imogen in here?’

  ‘Um, here?’ She pointed at herself.

  He rolled his head back and let out a little squawk of annoyance. ‘There is none of your personality in this room. It’s like all the fun, colourful, sexy parts of you have just been painted over.’ He clicked his fingers and nodded at her. ‘This is the room of someone who didn’t think they’d be staying long enough to bother decorating.’

  Imogen closed her eyes, hating the way he could accidentally fall onto some pseudo-psychological bullshit … and be absolutely right.

  ‘I was taking a big chance,’ she shrugged. ‘No one really thought I’d survive here and, to be honest, neither did I. Figured I’d try it out, probably fail, and end up somewhere a little bit more northerner-friendly, a little bit closer to home.’

  ‘And now?’ He tilted his head, as if he cared about the answer, green eyes locked onto hers.

  ‘Now I have the job, the friends, I’m making ends meet,’ she sighed, ‘and my family don’t really seem so desperate for me to come home, so …’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’ He slurped his tea, eyes still on her. There was something about that gaze that made her stomach itch. Like she was interesting. Like she had something to say.

  ‘My dad demanded I “let him have his life” after his new girlfriend moved in and destroyed any traces of my mother.’ Imogen felt her lip wobble a little, but she took a deep breath and imagined her spine made of steel. ‘So, I guess, after years of looking after him, he doesn’t need me. Apparently love only lasts until something better comes along. My mum and me included. So I may as well make my own life. I can do it without worrying now.’

  ‘Bit harsh, though, letting your mum’s memory just be trampled like that.’

  His fingers traced her wrist to her elbow, soft and barely-there.

  ‘Yeah, just a bit. She’d made this beautiful fairy wood in the back garden when I was a kid, all wildflowers and wind chimes and sparkle.’ Imogen looked out of the skewed blinds at the grey-blue sky. ‘I miss having a garden. Having living things around in the middle of the hustle.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Declan grinned. ‘That’s what we’re going to do today!’

  He jumped up on the bed, spilling most of his tea and nudging Imogen until he bounced onto the floor with a thud. ‘We’re going to decorate your flat – we’re going to make it your very own fairy wood!’

  Imogen looked at him, all ruffled brown hair falling into his eyes, standing there in his boxers, grinning at her like she was in for an adventure.

  ‘Golden retriever,’ she said simply.

  ‘Woof,’ he replied and smacked her bum. ‘Get a move on. We’ve got a world to create!’

  *****

  ‘I think I may enjoy arguing with you more than with my own family, and that’s saying something.’ Imogen stood back and admired their handiwork. The bland flat had been tran
sformed, with plants, fake flowers, removable wall stickers and mirrors. A mirrored wind chime hung in the window, catching the light and reflecting it around the room like a discoball.

  ‘Well, I was right about the wall stickers, so I think I’m owed an apology, actually,’ he said, nudging her hip, ‘but I’ll settle for dinner.’

  His phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his back pocket. ‘If that’s Jazz reminding me about fucking band practice again …’

  He smiled at the screen and started texting, a smirk emerging.

  ‘Was it Jazz?’ Imogen asked, adjusting the plant hanging down from the top of her wardrobe.

  ‘Huh? Oh no, just Ella. Wondering what I’m up to,’ Declan shrugged, putting his phone away.

  ‘Uhuh.’ Imogen didn’t say anything. ‘Okay, well, do you want to go for dinner? My treat, as a thank you for today.’

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I was only joking about being bought dinner, but yeah, let’s get some grub.’

  His phone beeped again. Imogen rolled her eyes. It had been happening all day. Ella has some recommendations for places we could get stuff. Ella really likes this colour. Ella thinks …

  If ever Imogen did not want to hear what Ella thought, it was about what she was doing with her bedroom. She was an idiot to think she was anything more than a way to pass the time, wasn’t she?

  As she washed her hands in the bathroom, admiring her new matching towels and bath mat in a bright jungle green, she noticed something behind the door. A little gnome with his hands over his eyes, his green hat at a jaunty angle.

  Imogen walked back into the bedroom to see Declan still texting away.

  ‘Um, Dec. There’s a gnome in my bathroom.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, looking up. ‘I know he’s not Frederick, and he’s probably not going to give you presents if he has to live in the toilet, but every fairy wood has to have a gnome, right?’

  Imogen blinked. Well, damn.

  ‘Sorry about the texting; she’s going through a hard time …’ Declan put his phone away. ‘This guy’s messing her around, and she’s kind of upset about it.’

  The warm feelings about the gnome were dissipating rapidly with every mention of Ella. ‘Do you need to go to her?’ Imogen said simply.