If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  ‘Well, looks like we found the West London Coffee Bitch.’ The man grinned at Agnes, as Imogen handed over his drink.

  ‘No, sir, but whoever he or she is, I definitely agree with them. Have a lovely day.’ Agnes dismissed him, turning with a wide grin to the next customer.

  By the time the morning rush had finished, and everything was clean, ready for the lunch rush, with frapshakes galore for the tourists and business people suffering through a heatwave, Agnes’s retort had almost been forgotten.

  Except by Imogen.

  ‘Thanks for standing up for all of us,’ Imogen ventured, and Agnes raised an eyebrow, sipping on an iced black coffee.

  ‘With the photos thing,’ she elaborated.

  Agnes looked at her tiredly. ‘I have done this job for years. People have been rude in more ways than I could imagine. They’ve been racist, sexist, judged my language skills, my nationality, my abilities. They’ve called me stupid and ignorant and seen me as less than a person. More of a robot, or a well-trained dog. But up until this miserable barista thing, they never seemed to …’ – she searched for the word – ‘… revel in our sadness or exhaustion. It used to be they would be rude to make themselves feel better. Now they’re doing it to take a photo and share it with the world. It makes me sick.’

  Imogen felt partly responsible for this. If she hadn’t started Twisted Barista, the opposing paper wouldn’t have started the hashtag. She was going to write an ‘in defence of miserable baristas everywhere’ post tonight.

  ‘No whipped cream today?’ Imogen nodded at the iced coffee. In fact, she hadn’t seen Agnes with a whipped cream pot in a week or so.

  Agnes rolled her eyes, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. ‘No, no more whipped cream for me. I was going through a break-up, and comfort eating. Panicking about paying bills when he left, trying to survive. But … not a good choice.’ Suddenly, she looked at Imogen like she’d shared too much. ‘Anyway, take your break now, before the lunch rush. Be back at twelve sharp,’ she said brusquely and marched off, before Imogen could even say she was sorry.

  Still, she was becoming a human, so that seemed like a good step in the right direction.

  On the lunch break she texted Dec.

  ‘Do something tonight?’

  The reply was instant. ‘Got band practice till seven – come watch for a bit, if you like? Then get dinner?’

  Imogen briefly thought that sounded a bit like a girlfriendly duty, but agreed anyway. She could always do some writing to a background track of sixties-style rock ‘n’ roll.

  *****

  ‘Hey, you must be Imogen.’ A bearded man in plaid opened Dec’s front door. ‘I’m Earl. Come on in.’

  She followed him down the narrow corridor, to the sound of chattering and drum beats. The living room was cramped full of kit and what looked like a group of unwashed boys. Dec looked up from tuning his bass and grinned at her. ‘Hey! You’re here!’ He sidled over to kiss her cheek. ‘Guys, this is Imogen!’

  They nodded and hello’d, Dec making her a cup of tea and Earl offering her a plate of biscuits arranged neatly.

  ‘Wow, I guess I thought band practice would be all beer and noise,’ she laughed, taking a chocolate digestive. Earl smiled kindly at her. ‘Sometimes it is, but we’re making a good impression.’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘Don’t dial down the rock ‘n’ roll on my account.’

  ‘Listen to the lady, fellas, she wants rock ‘n’ roll!’ Jazz was the frontman, a weedy little guy with a shaved head and a thin, dark moustache. He seemed to have an intense energy about him, always bobbing about, head moving to an invisible beat, rarely making eye contact or talking in full sentences.

  But when they started to play, Imogen could see why. All that nervous energy seemed to lift the music, a deep, sweet voice emerging from him. Imogen watched Dec’s face as he played, grinning at his hands, eyes closed as he seemed to feel the music.

  They were good, Imogen admitted. They had passion and rhythm and charm. Imogen had two cups of tea, almost an entire plate of biscuits, and was happy enough listening, making notes in her notebook about nothing and everything. She was surprised by how much she was enjoying herself. As they finished with what seemed to be a thirty-second drumroll and a clashing of guitars, Dec threw off his bass and whooped. ‘All right, lads, I’m off to have dinner with a beautiful lady. See you next week!’

  ‘Mate, this is your house …’ Jazz shook his head at him.

  ‘Then don’t forget to close the front door when you leave.’ Dec winked at Imogen. ‘Ready to go, Trouble?’

  She stood up and nodded at them all. ‘Nice to meet you guys. I think the show is gonna be great. Keith’s really excited to have you guys play.’

  ‘Ah yes, fair Imogen set up our newest gig locale!’ Earl nodded. ‘Cheers for that.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah …’ Jazz nodded away, his cockney accent strong. ‘You can come again, babe. He’s much better at playing when he’s showing off for his missus.’

  ‘Oi,’ Dec laughed. ‘Let’s go before they get any meaner.’

  They stepped out onto the street and Imogen breathed deep, the warm summer air fresh on her skin. Dec’s hand rested at the base of her spine, pulling her towards him. ‘Hey, not so fast there, lady.’ He pulled her towards him, kissing her. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck, curling the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers. He pulled back, eyes close to hers. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.’

  Imogen smiled, leaning her forehead against his. ‘Well, then I’m glad you did.’

  She straightened, taking his hand. ‘So, where we going for dinner?’

  Declan grinned. ‘Only the best and most extravagant date yet.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on swings in an empty park, with a extra-large pizza box at their feet. ‘Night-time picnic,’ Imogen laughed. ‘Definitely new. We’re not going to get stabbed by youths, are we?’

  Declan rolled his eyes. ‘If they tried, I’m pretty sure you could take ‘em.’

  ‘I will do what’s necessary to protect this pizza,’ she said seriously, swinging her legs out in front of her. ‘You come here often?’

  ‘Only when I want to eat pizza with a pretty girl in the middle of the night,’ he laughed. ‘So here’s a question. You heard from your dad at all?’

  Imogen huffed. ‘Nope. A Greek man’s pride. Or maybe he’s just busy with his new life.’

  ‘That kind of sucks.’

  Imogen sighed. ‘He found something else to make his life full … it’s just shocking … I mean, if you’d seen what he was like before.’

  Imogen scuffed her feet, twisting the chains of the swing.

  ‘My dad lived for my mum. He adored her. I’d never seen anything like that kind of love before.’ She smiled to herself, lost in thought. ‘It was icky when you were a kid, seeing your parents so in love. They were the dancing-in-the-kitchen kind of parents. Snuggled up watching movies. She loved him, really loved him, but the way he looked at her … it was like he was the luckiest person on earth.’

  Dec smiled at the ground softly, like he knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘When she was ill, he was like a zombie. Desperate to keep her there, looking for any ridiculous response to the cancer. He spent more time on the internet looking at chakra healing forums, colour therapy, macrobiotic diets, meditation … she didn’t want to do any of it. She wanted to be comfortable, be with us. But … he couldn’t deal with the idea of letting her go.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘When she died, he just disappeared.’

  ‘People change when they’re in pain,’ Dec said, his hand resting on the edge of her swing. ‘Grief’ll do that to you.’

  ‘You know,’ she shook her head, ‘it wasn’t even that he disappeared … it was that I disappeared. I looked after everything. Cooked, cleaned, figured out bills, arranged the funeral, forced him to go to work … he looked through me most days, didn’t see anything but the gaping hole she
left behind.’

  Dec squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips and planting a kiss there.

  ‘It’s dangerous, that love business. All sorts of complications,’ he said simply.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She looked at him closely, almost willing him to share something. Come on, one tiny part of what makes you who you are, how you’ve been hurt. Tell me something real.

  She left their hands intertwined, hanging between the swings. Declan smiled at her, and she shook away her thoughts. Closed book.

  ‘Have you got an early shift tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘No, why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Want to go eat the rest of this pizza in my bed, and listen to the band get quietly drunk downstairs?’

  ‘Quietly?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well … loudly, until I shout at them to get the hell out so we can make our own noise.’ He pulled her up, kissing her neck as he cradled her.

  ‘I can never work out if you think you’re actually being charming when you say shit like that,’ she laughed, crouching to grab the pizza box.

  ‘That’s because you know I’m being charming,’ he said as they started walking back.

  ‘Hey, Dec, I forgot to ask a really basic question.’ Imogen put her arm around his waist as they walked. ‘What’s the name of the band?’

  ‘Chocolate Biscuit,’ he said seriously, looking at her. ‘What?’

  *****

  Sunday, Bloody Sunday

  There’s just something about Sundays that sucks arse. Big time. The clearest and simplest reason is that you’re serving people who are spending time (not quality time, but time nonetheless) with their families and friends. Which just reminds you that you are not.

  Or it could be that people are just massive wankers on Sundays.

  Example One:

  The Hungover Arsehole

  ‘Give me a fiveshot black Americano.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Are you being SNIPPY with me? I have a HANGOVER!’

  Oh, I’m sorry, did I miss the part where having an overabundance of alcohol in your system means social norms don’t apply to you? And maybe if you’re so fucking hungover you shouldn’t have DRIVEN to the coffee shop. Or maybe you should have had a shower. That would have made you feel better. And the rest of us would really appreciate it.

  These aren’t really too bad. Usually, you look a bit affronted, then they get all bashful and go ‘sorry, raging hangover’, and together you laugh at why a thirty-five-year-old man still can’t figure out how to hold his drink. It’s a delightful bonding exercise.

  Except, there’s The Drunk Arsehole.

  ‘OI LOVE! OI! YOU! YEAH! YOU! DARLIN’! WANNA GO ON A DATE?’

  ‘I want to get you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘THAT’S LIKE A DATE INNIT?’

  ‘Do you normally pay your dates?’

  ‘ … I’ll have a black coffee. Two sugars.’

  The worst of these was the bigoted, homophobic, racist moron dancing around with a broom and a traffic cone on his head, shouting insults. The best was the confused tipsy man who walked in after a work party and asked if he was anywhere near Manchester Central Station. That was the last place he remembered from the night before.

  Now, none of these compares with the families. Or, more especially:

  The One-Day-a-Week-Dads.

  The worst thing about this particular specimen of customer is that they’re not always divorced dads who don’t really know how to bond with their kid in the limited time they have. That, maybe, I could understand. They buy the kids everything they could possibly eat or drink in the hope that providing will make them the world’s best father. That’s fine, good luck to you.

  It’s the ones who aren’t separated that drive me nuts. You’re looking after your children for AN HOUR. And you don’t know the dimensions of the buggy so you keep bashing into people, and you wait in a queue, telling the kid to be quiet so you can phone Mummy and ask if dear little Tarquin is allergic to nuts or dairy.

  THIS IS YOUR KID. Stop treating it like a one-day training exercise. Yes, we do babychinos. Yes, it’s just froth. Yes, chocolate has dairy in it. No, your wife doesn’t normally give your kid chocolate cake at eight in the morning. Yes, I can get you a high chair. No, it’s not adjustable. Yes, a chocolate cream has chocolate in it. No, we don’t do sugar-free caramel.

  No, I’d rather little Timmy didn’t hold up a queue of fifteen people because you want him to put the card in the machine because your wife said it’s good for his motor functions. Now we have to reset the cash register. Thanks. At times like this, I miss your wife. And that’s saying something, because she’s a vindictive spoilt cow who talks to me like I’m a moron. But at least she knows what she wants to fucking drink.

  And don’t spend fifteen minutes lecturing me on why you don’t want to pay for extra shots of coffee, just to insist on a takeaway bag for your cake, and EAT IT OFF THE TABLE. What, you’re sitting there with an iPad, but you refuse to spend twenty pence so you can have a plate? No, go ahead, please hold up an entire slew of people to ensure your child gets ‘the best possible babychino, in a bigger cup’ (who knew dick-swinging could apply to childcare?), but then sit and ignore the kid by having loud, obnoxious phone conversations with Larry at the office. And then sit waiting desperately for your wife to appear, only to hold up your darling demon child, and show her he’s still breathing and everything.

  So you both toddle out, happy that you have proven your interest in your mini-me, and I am left with the destruction you have caused. The bits of tissue dear little Joel has shredded, the crumbs of carrot cake he decided to press into the sofas. The stickers on the floor, the chocolate milk sprayed across the windows, and, in general, enough mess to warrant three cleaners and a forensics team.

  Now I’m not saying all our dads are like this. We have a few stay-at-homes who come in every day, collect their coffee, allow their very polite children to ask for some water, and then quietly entertain them for an hour or so. These people are lovely. But they do not come in on Sundays. Because they, in their infinite wisdom, know that arseholes are about.

  Oh, and a special shout out to the Sunday Dad who came in ten minutes before closing, ordered a drink, dithered about making me change said drink, and then said I looked tired. When I pointed out I’d just worked a ten-hour shift, he said, ‘Oh yes, that would make you tired. I’ve spent all day watching TV.’

  Did I go off about how I have two degrees, and am now going off to my second of three jobs after I finish that shift? Nope. Instead, I decided to pity someone who wastes a Sunday in such a manner.

  So go forth readers, enjoy good coffee, make good children. And for fuck’s sake, don’t waste a Sunday!

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘You all right, lovely?’ Tabby launched herself at Imogen’s desk, concern on her face.

  ‘Huh?’ Imogen looked up, dazed. ‘Sorry, yeah. Fine. Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been calling your name for about five minutes?’ Tabby raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, spill.’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

  Tabby tapped her foot on the floor, arms folded, unimpressed.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Imogen pouted. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Lay it on me.’

  Imogen took a deep breath. ‘I have to stay at my shitty job to have this job, which means being angry and bitter all the time and always seeing the worst in things. My blog sparked the miserable barista hashtag, which means people I’m working with are getting judged. Weird little hipsters keep appearing in the coffee shop looking for the West London Coffee Bitch. My dad hasn’t spoken to me in weeks, my cousin’s gone AWOL again, and I’m sort of dating a guy who may or may not be sort of dating my colleague. And I’m too weak to end it because about eighty per cent of the time, he makes me crazily happy.’

  Imogen took another deep breath and exhaled, looking up at Tabby. ‘Actually, I feel a lot better, thanks.’
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br />   ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Tabby chuckled, today in a flowing maxi dress with weird geometric prints, wrists jangling with bracelets that she kept catching on the edge of the desk as she wrote. ‘I was just present during that … volcanic eruption.’

  ‘I just … I wanna write nice stuff. Couldn’t you make me an agony aunt? I’m a good agony aunt! I’m good at other people’s lives!’ Imogen grinned, only half joking. ‘I want to do yoga and drink green tea and be zen. I don’t want to go to sleep chanting coffee orders and seeing the codes on the cups.’

  Tabby looked at her with sympathy. ‘Hun, you brought us something that sells. You’ve either got to keep doing it as long as it keeps selling, or you’ve got to bring us something better. And somehow I don’t think ‘Twisted Tales of a Downward Dog Girl’ will sell as well as your particular brand of anger. Unless you move to San Francisco,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Imogen leaned back in her chair.

  ‘And as for the fella – he’s shagging someone else?’

  ‘No, he has history with her, and she keeps taunting me with how he’s just having one of his usual little flings and then he’ll go back to her. Yesterday she made a comment about how good he is in bed, and that must be why I was smiling …’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘How she manages to still keep that sweet little smile when she walks away, I have no idea. Unless she doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘She knows.’ Tabby rolled her eyes. ‘I know you don’t like anyone but bankers with triple-shot Americanos to be the bad guys, but they can be. Besides, who says he’s going to go back to her?’

  ‘History?’ Imogen offered. ‘Patterns that can’t be broken? The fact that he disappears off with her, I don’t hear from him, and we’re only casual.’

  ‘I have never understood what that means.’ Tabby rolled her eyes. ‘Is that not Man Code for “please don’t get all committed, I don’t wanna get married”?’

  Imogen shrugged, pulling a face. Then she grinned to herself. ‘Who would’ve thought it – sitting here discussing my relationship woes with Tabitha Riley! Sometimes my life is so cool.’