‘See, you did miss me, too!’ Dec kissed her cheek and winked, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. She had missed him. Missed the warmth of him when he was close to her, the smell of aftershave and coffee. The humming noise he made in his sleep and the tiny eyelashes that always seemed to rest on his cheeks in the morning.
‘I’m admitting nothing!’ she insisted, but kissed his cheek. It was nice to be like that, to ignore that dreaded casual word, and instead just be together. No thoughts, no doubts, no future. That word, casual, seemed to be something that set them at a dead-end, that said ‘We have no future, and there is no point’. It seemed to stop her enjoying what there was, even if she didn’t want a future. Suddenly it became pointless. And clearly, there were secrets. There was a dark history that would stop him ever getting closer.
Imogen shook the thoughts away, and instead settled for creating a list of the best action movies with Declan, and getting into a heated discussion with the group of people sitting next to them. As the movie came on, and people settled down onto their blankets and pillows, Imogen snuggled down on Declan’s chest to watch her favourite movie, the stars above almost visible through the London smog.
*****
Mrs ‘Your Irresponsibility Astounds Me!’
Or
Why Routine Is an Evil Obsession
Now, I get that some people love their routines. That whether or not they have their cereal before putting on their work clothes is very important to them. And that’s fine. I would never stand in the way of another human being’s happiness.
Except when it effectively destroys mine (for further philosophical debate on this, see J. S. Mill’s On Liberty).
So, terror of terrors, we’ve run out of cup holders. You know, those serrated cardboard fuckers that are fine if the customer has them on a drink, but tend to splinter you senseless if you have to restock them every few hours. Those bastards.
We ran out. It happens. Yes, maybe it shouldn’t have, but what can you do? What with the weather constantly changing, more people having hot drinks than we’d anticipated, they went. Gone. Finito. End of. Right?
No.
The most asked questions of the hour?
‘Where are those, ya know, thingies?’
‘What happened to the foldy things?’
‘Those (insert weird hand motion) where are they?’
And my favourite:
‘Can I have a cardboard cut-out, please?’
Erm, of yourself or someone else, sir?
So after explaining a hundred times, I very nearly make a sign that says:
They are called CUP HOLDERS and we don’t have them.
And then this woman comes in. I explain as I have been doing all day that we don’t have any cup holders, but we’re ‘double-cupping’ (which I think sounds dirty, and makes me giggle when I have to say it). By which, I mean, we’re putting the cup full of hot drink inside another cup so it’s not too hot to hold.
‘You DON’T have any holders?’
‘I’m afraid not, madam, but I can give you another cup?’
‘Why would I want another cup?’
‘To put it inside, so it’s easier to hold?’
She rolls her eyes.
‘But I just asked for it extra-hot!’
Yes, I know that. You’ve asked me to remake it twice until I burnt the milk while an internal monologue of ‘scald the bitch’ went round in my head on repeat. I’m thinking that’ll be my next song. You want burnt milk, tell me. I’m not going to burn milk. It smells bad.
‘Yes, I know, I’ve made it extra-hot.’
‘But I won’t know that when I feel the cup.’
No, but you’ll know when you burn your rapidly moving mouth on the beverage; you know, when you DRINK it, which was the whole reason you bought it. Unless you’re planning on throwing it on someone more annoying than you are. Which is hard to imagine.
‘I don’t have to double-cup, madam. I was just thinking of your comfort.’
‘What would COMFORT me, is for you to be able to provide BASIC things. I ALWAYS have a cardboard thing, I ALWAYS do. And you’ve RUINED it for me. HOW am I supposed to enjoy my drink now?’
You mean you actually feel the human emotion known as enjoyment? Shocking.
I think we can safely categorise this human as obsessive compulsive. At least, I hope so for her sake; otherwise, she has a very small life, with a lot of time on her hands. I wonder if she makes pyramids of cup holders at her home. I visualise photographs of her and the cardboard pieces, smiling for the camera.
She wanders out whispering ‘Ow, ow, ouch’ as the coffee cup burns her fingers.
And for once, I don’t feel vindicated, or like I’ve won. I just feel bloody confused.
Chapter Sixteen
‘How goes the professional bitching?’ Demi asked, sounding irritable at the other end of the phone. Imogen supposed, with the crazy working, and then spending most of her week off either with Dec or discussing plans for possible gig nights at the Hope and Anchor with Keith, she hadn’t really been there for her younger cousin.
‘Pretty good. Remind me to get that printed on my business cards,’ Imogen smirked.
‘And how is Mr Casual, the gentleman caller?’
‘Completely ungentlemanly and just how I like ‘em,’ Imogen laughed. ‘Actually he’s got a gig in a few weeks that I’m helping set up, and I wondered if you wanted to come down for it?’
‘Sure.’ She could hear Demi shrugging. ‘What else have I got to do except sit around waiting to die?’
‘Cheerful. What did they do now?’
‘Mum found my jewellery-making supplies for my Etsy store. She was getting on at me for staying up in my room all the time ‘doing God knows what’. I made the terrible mistake of telling her it was a business.’
Imogen paused, waiting for Demi’s inevitable ‘my mother the evil witch’ impression, complete with thick accent and the perfect balance of disappointment and rage.
‘Business? What business! You go to work, you come home like good girl. You don’t go see friends, you have no time for family! You a selfish, selfish girl buying all these things!’ Demi impersonated, then cleared her throat.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I said, “Mama, I’ll pay you some rent if you’re so worried about it.”’
‘Holy shit,’ Imogen winced. ‘What did she say to that?’
‘She made the sign of the cross three times, asked God for strength and hasn’t spoken to me in four days.’
‘You knew that would wind her up, though. Anything else but family and hospitality. You could have said her moussaka tasted like dogshit and she’d be less upset.’
‘I’m regressing!’ Demi whined. ‘The longer I’m here the more I want to do things just to irritate them! I’m in my old room with the single bed, with Hello Kitty on my duvet cover, and all they’re bothered about is that I’m in the house, but not in their way!’
‘Are you looking for design work?’
‘What’s the point? I’ve got no savings, and while they don’t really want me here, they don’t want me gone!’
‘Can’t win,’ Imogen shrugged, ‘so come to London.’
‘You’re encouraging me to run away again?’
‘No, I’m encouraging you to think about getting a high-paid job in the capital so you can share a half-decent flat with your writer cousin,’ Imogen laughed. ‘But actually, I was talking about visiting.’
‘To see your boyfriend’s band.’
‘To see Dec’s band,’ Imogen corrected.
‘You still don’t know what the fuck’s going on?’ Demi sighed. ‘I thought he was all sweet and thoughtful and being a regular Prince Charming?’
‘Yeah, he has been. We’re fine. Having fun, keeping it casual. Why does everything need a label?’
Demi exhaled, clearly frustrated. ‘Because you’re you! You’re the brainiac who spent four years studying happy ever afte
r! You think you’re going to get that with someone who doesn’t know if he’s your prince or not?’
Imogen huffed. ‘I may already have my fairy-tale ending – being empowered, living alone, writing with my idol and being happy. Who says I need a prince?’
‘Uh, duh – the stories.’
‘The prince is a metaphor for the thing that fixes your life. Dec isn’t my prince, London is.’
‘Urgh!’ Demi let out a little yelp. ‘Look, if I thought you were really cool with no commitment and this Ella chick hanging around in the wings waiting for you to choke on an espresso, then fine. But you’re not cool with it. Because you’re you.’
‘I want to be cool with it. And Ella’s apparently been going through a hard time. They’re friends. She’s my colleague. Not everything’s sex and secrecy.’
‘I know you think you’re all London bohemian now, but that doesn’t mean you have to befriend your boyfriend’s bit on the side.’
‘She’s not his bit on the side.’
‘She was,’ Demi said simply.
‘Yeah.’ Imogen was suddenly really tired of everything.
‘You’re the writer – do feelings ever go away? Or do they lie there waiting to reappear and cause trouble for everyone?’
Imogen was silent. Demi counted fifteen seconds. It was childhood again, and Imogen, the older, sensible cousin would inevitably cave. But she was frosty about it.
‘You coming to the gig or not?’ was all she said.
‘Yeah, text me the date,’ Demi replied coldly and hung up. They’d apologise in an hour or so, Imogen knew, but the problem was that once Demi said something, so insistent and demanding, it infiltrated Imogen’s thoughts. Perhaps she was right; maybe she wasn’t cool and collected. She always had been, though – the situation with Neil at uni, always relaxed, no drama. No passion either. Unless, maybe in the most horrifying way, Dec was enough to make her want to commit, and she wasn’t enough to make him? There comes a point where you have to stop time-wasting. It had been months. Months of mostly fun, mostly lovely, happy times. But it was the moments of being pushed away, the idea that if anything serious ever happened, she wasn’t able to be the person to deal with it, that were starting to get old. It was time to stop coasting. Imogen selfishly wished she could put it off as long as possible. As long as she could stay cool. The moment she felt herself visualising throwing a frapshake at Ella, that was when she had to end it.
The truth was, she just wasn’t the sort of girl to make a man look at his life and say, ‘I will do anything to keep you.’ She was the sort of girl who was fun to be around, was occasionally motherly or a shoulder to cry on, and then they were gone. She used to watch them at uni, those girls watching the broken boys, the bad boys, so sure they could change them, make them shiny and new. They’d make them ‘boyfriend material’, that was the mantra. They would fail, time and time again, and then, somehow, along came a girl who wasn’t trying, and she changed the guy’s whole life. Some people were just like that, the important ones. The Game Changers. Imogen was not a game changer. She was just someone passing through.
She turned back to her laptop, scouring through her notes to access some sort of bitterness, something she could use to be funny. But she didn’t feel angry or funny or outraged. She just felt sad. And nobody wanted to read about that.
*****
Staring, Stalking and other Shite
Hey, here’s a question: do you ever find yourself inexplicably staring into the cold, dead eyes of a caffeine addict? No? Then you must not be a barista. I don’t know if it’s the demand for attention, or the fact that they should probably switch to decaf, but people stare.
Not even like ‘Oh, that crazy woman has mocha sauce on her neck and is begging the espresso machine to hurry up’-type staring. More like ‘If I kidnapped you and stole your clothes I could probably wring them out and get a hit by drinking that’ kinda staring.
Please stop, it’s creepy. If I am making eye contact with you, it is because I am LISTENING TO WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME. It is not because I want your babies. When this is the case, you’ll never know.
Similarly, if you have been into the store every week for the last year, and if you have been an ARSEHOLE, I am going to remember your drink. Even if you haven’t been in for three weeks. Because THAT’S MY JOB. You don’t need to blink at me and go ‘Oh. Creepy’. Also, if it’s that easy for someone who neither knows nor likes you to figure out your schedule, maybe you should shake it up with a little spontaneity. Not that ‘go to work-get coffee-go to the gym – get coffee’ isn’t massively exciting. Every day. But … well, if you were in a movie where you got mixed up with the mob, you’d be really easy to find and kill. That’s all I’m saying. Luckily, you don’t do anything interesting enough to get involved with the mob. You know how I know this? Because you’re ALWAYS HERE, looking at me like I’m nuts because I can remember you’re that rude guy who always throws his money at me and demands a double espresso.
Also, while we’re on this subject, please do not ‘congratulate’ me on being able to remember your drink/name/the topic of conversation the last time we talked. If you’re pleased you can say ‘Oh it’s so nice that you remembered!’ That’ll do fine. Do NOT call me a ‘good girl’ (I am not a dog. I do not work for treats or respond to reinforcing good behaviour. Fuck you), or tell me ‘Oh look, you have a memory!’ (Yes, I am, as we have established, a HUMAN BEING. When you’ve got a robotic barista asking how your kid is doing at uni, maybe THEN is the time to freak out).
I am providing a service. I am providing a personalised beverage and/or food while letting you know that you are a special little snowflake, just as individual as every other fucking moron that comes in here and pretends I’m a stalker. I’m NOT. I’m just fairly OKAY at my job, which requires REMEMBERING things.
But back to uncomfortable eye contact. Sometimes it happens accidentally. You’re making a latte, milk gets in your eye, you squint, and Robby McRandom thinks you’re hitting on him. You ask how someone’s day is, and they ask you what time you get off work. You ask if they want whipped cream on their hot chocolate and they look at you like you just pulled a leather whip out of your apron pocket. What the fuck is wrong with everyone?
Eye contact is a necessary part of human interaction. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem like we’re listening to you. So then you SHOUT IN MY FACE. Or, alternatively, your eye contact is so dead-and-creepy that I look away, and then you think I’m being coy. Read back over this post. Do I seem at ALL like a person who is capable of acting coy? If so, then you’re still not using your eyes the way they need to be used. Which is to SEE when you are making minimum-wage coffee monkeys uncomfortable.
If you don’t want me to remember who you are, consider this list of people we DO remember:
– The arsehole customers who are always rude
– The arsehole customers who always make you remake their drink at least twice
– The arsehole customers who have ridiculously complicated drinks orders
– The nice customers who come in every day and have a slightly unique drink
– The nice customers who have had a distinctive conversation with you about something you’re interested in (travel/ interesting job/festivals/local news/coffee)
– The nice customers with hilarious/cute children
– The nice customers who have previously bought us a gift at Christmas (I know, right?!)
– Anyone with a specific signifier (the Raspy Voice Lady, the South African Music Teacher, the GingerBread Family, That Woman Who Keeps Trying to Get Free Stuff, etc)
– Anyone who at first seemed cute, and then turned out to be an arsehole customer
– Anyone who at first looked like an arsehole customer, but then turned out to be a sweetheart
– Anyone who comes in more than once a day
The rest of you: de more interesting.
Also, perhaps consider drinking something other than a latte, and changing yo
ur name to something with more than one syllable. Or possibly cultivate an accent, or a hobby that you’re comfortable talking about in public. Trying to convince your wife to sleep with you, and asking for pointers, does NOT count as ‘acceptable waiting-for-coffee conversation’ FYI.
You remember how people interact in the Real World? They remember people who have shown interest in them. You know, like conversation? If you ask me how I am, I’m not automatically going to assume you’re chatting me up. I’m going to assume that, like a decent human being, it makes more sense to have an asinine conversation about the weather for thirty seconds than to stand there in silence. But, whatever.
And if you’ve never been caught in an awkward situation with a Starer, then it’s entirely likely that YOU are the one causing these awkward situations. Stop. Staring. And drink decaf.
*****
‘Sir, if you are taking a picture of me I have to warn you that I will be forced to call security to take your phone and delete the images,’ Agnes warned a customer who was sneakily trying to angle a photo behind the coffee bar.
‘I just wanted to do a Monday “hashtag miserable barista”,’ he whined, ‘seeing as you’re all so cheerful this morning.’
‘Sir …’ Agnes smiled her ‘corporate responsibility’ smile. ‘I understand your desire to share my staff’s exhaustion on a Monday morning, especially as you’re starting your day in here at eight-thirty a.m., when they’ve been here setting up since five a.m. I am very sorry that they are not perky enough for you. But perhaps having to remake your drink five times because the ice wasn’t ‘crunchy’ enough for you, while you try and take pictures of their sad, minimum-wage-making faces, might be part of the problem.’
Imogen grinned into the coffee machine – bazinga! Agnes, when you got her going, was a badass. Normally, her route to acknowledging the customer was blaming the staff’s incompetence, but ‘hashtag miserable barista’ had really started to get to her.
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 14