‘Um … thank you?’ Declan said, confused.
‘But you be nice to my Imogen,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m not above showing you my collection of butcher’s knives. They’re pretty impressive.’ He grinned at Declan.
‘Oh Cos, stop being silly,’ Babs hushed him. ‘And could you please at least leave some of those chips on your plate? Think of the saturated fat!’
‘Barbara, my flower, my darling … we were born to live. Every other day of the week, I eat that yoghurt and steamed chicken and whatever else you tell me. Let me have one meal, yes?’
Imogen shook her head, wondering (and not for the first time) just how Babs had convinced her father to fix up his habits. She guessed it was consistent nagging. But whatever it was, it worked.
‘Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed torturing your boyfriend, kori, I think it’s time for us to go,’ Costa said, after he’d insisted on paying for the meal for everyone, which Declan seemed to be embarrassed by, because he’d gone red and quiet.
She didn’t bother correcting him on the ‘boyfriend’ label; it seemed rather pointless. Instead she hugged and kissed them both goodbye, with Babs whispering to her, ‘I’m really trying my best to look after him.’
‘I know you are,’ Imogen whispered back. ‘And you’re doing a great job.’
Costa shook Declan’s hand. ‘It was good to meet you, son. Make sure you appreciate just how wonderful my daughter is.’
‘I’m shocked by it every day, sir,’ Declan answered seamlessly, ‘and thank you again for dinner.’
‘Please, it’s an insult to let a guest pay for a meal. If you’d offered one more time I may have had to hit you. Thank you for joining us.’
Imogen and Declan watched as they walked off to the tube station, Chico’s head poking out of Babs’s handbag just long enough to shoot her an evil look and growl at her.
‘I hate that dog.’
‘That was a dog?’ Declan replied, then took her hand. ‘Well, that was unexpected …’
‘If you hadn’t been so spontaneous I could have warned you, but … it wasn’t too bad, was it?’
They automatically started walking in the direction of her flat, joined hands swinging between them.
‘No, it was fine. Nice, even. I just …’
‘Didn’t sign up for the Boyfriend Lecture?’ Imogen laughed. ‘I completely get it.’
‘No, I just feel guilty,’ Dec said, brow furrowed. ‘He’s right. You’re amazing, and you deserve someone who totally sees that. Doesn’t confuse you or make you feel like everything’s chaos and craziness.’
Imogen smirked. ‘Is this the whole “I’m so fucked up” thing again? Because I told you, that doesn’t work on me.’
‘No, I mean … yes. But …’ Declan looked around, frowning as he tried to find the words. ‘I just have the feeling you’d prefer everything to be simple, you know? You meet a guy, and you go out on a few dates, he asks you to be his girlfriend … all that normal sort of stuff.’
‘Instead of you throwing around the word “casual” like a shield when anything gets a little too real?’ Imogen offered, squeezing his hand.
‘Something like that …’
They reached her front door and she paused to look at him. His soft brown hair looked darker, and he looked more tanned, like he’d just stepped off a plane from somewhere wonderful. He had a few beaded bracelets on his wrist, his beard was more closely shaved, only a few days’ stubble, and he looked at her like she was wonderful. She reached out and stroked his cheek, somehow feeling bold – such an intimate gesture without a kiss to hide behind.
‘Sometimes I’d like to feel safer with you,’ she admitted, ‘but mostly all I want is to know the real you, the whole of you. I feel like I only know the happy-go-lucky scamp who makes everything a joke. And that’s not because I want to fix you; it’s just that you’ve been there for me. I’d quite like to be that person for you, too.’
He smiled at her, tracing circles on her back but saying nothing. She took a deep breath. ‘But most of all what I’d quite like is to go upstairs and drink some of that posh lemonade I’ve got in the fridge and eat ice cream while watching some sort of silly movie. You in?’
‘I’m in.’ Declan kissed her cheek. ‘Lead the way.’
*****
Sometime in the middle of the night, Imogen realised Dec was awake. The windows were open because of the muggy heat, and even her wind chimes didn’t move. No air. The light from the street lamp illuminated his face, staring up at the ceiling intently.
‘You okay?’ she yawned, placing a hand on his bare chest, tracing the small clover he had tattooed on his collarbone.
He nodded, but said nothing. Imogen sighed and went to roll away.
‘Do you want to know why I don’t drink?’ Declan asked softly.
Imogen rolled back to face him, resting her cheek on her hand. ‘Okay …’
He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense. ‘You wanted something real, from me, right? But you have to promise, no sympathy, no crying, no “poor poor Declan”.’
Imogen looked at him in the darkness, sighing, ‘Why now?’
He traced the outline of her, one finger down her shoulder, and she felt him shrug against her, staring at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know … because you haven’t pushed me? Because you want to know me? Because it just … feels like time.’
‘Huh.’
He twitched his shoulders. ‘Still want to know?’
‘Tell me.’
He snuggled down and put his arm out for her to roll into. When she was curled up against him, head on his chest, listening to his voice rather than looking at his face, he began, in a sing-song voice.
‘So once upon a time, in a land not so far away, but across the sea, there was a boy named Declan. Declan had a girlfriend, Kat. He loved Kat a lot. They’d been friends since they were kids; their mothers were best friends, and everyone knew that they’d grow up and get married.’
Please don’t let her be dead, Imogen thought desperately. Please don’t let that be this story. Declan paused, and she imagined Kat as the Irish cliche, perfect pale skin with freckles, dark hair and light eyes, standing on a rolling field somewhere, windswept and perfect.
‘Kat was a tough cookie – she knew what she wanted. She wanted a ring and a nice house and a big family. And Declan wanted that, too, because he loved her and wanted to give her everything.
‘So, when they realised Kat was going to have a baby, they thought they’d better get married sharpish, before their parents realised.’
Imogen waited for the moment where he said ‘But I called it off’ or ‘She left me at the altar’, but somehow she had the feeling this was not that sort of story. Declan’s fingertips drew circles restlessly on her skin, until her arm started to itch, and she shrugged him off. His hands stilled, and he continued.
‘So they got married,’ he said, his words spilling over each other now, faster and mumbled, ‘and about five months later, Kat lost the baby …’ Declan shook his head. ‘That’s such a stupid phrase, like she put it down somewhere, like when you lose your keys, or your phone. You don’t …’
He took a deep breath, his hands again beginning the circles on her shoulder, and this time she let him, her own hands resting on his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat echo through her own ears.
‘Declan was very sad,’ he continued, trying to make it sound like a kid’s story, ‘and he didn’t know what to do, because Kat was heartbroken, and every time she looked at him, it was like it was his fault. So Kat started drinking …’
Ah, Imogen thought, there it is. She nuzzled closer, holding him just that little bit tighter, even though it was too warm in the tiny room, and a bead of sweat slipped down her spine.
‘And the more she drank, the more angry she became. She wanted to hurt people as much as she was hurting. And Dec thought’ – he coughed a little to hide how his voice quivered – ‘Dec thought as long as she was just hurting him, and
no one else, it would be fine. Because he deserved it. He’d got her pregnant, and made her miserable. As long as she didn’t hurt herself, he could deal with it …’
Imogen admitted to herself with disgust that her first thought was ‘But how could she hurt you? You’re a big strong man.’ She shook her head at herself, irritated. Of course he could be hurt, especially if he was letting her. Especially if he loved her. She winced a little as she heard him chuckle dryly.
‘I know, right? I’m a big bloke. How could she hurt a big bloke like me?’ Declan exhaled, almost laughing. ‘When people start using big words like “domestic abuse” they certainly don’t think of me as a victim. They look at the size of me and …’
He trailed off, shook whatever thought he had away. ‘But she was my wife, and she was gone. Either she was crying and in pain, or drunk and spiteful. She said I’d ruined her life.’
Imogen sighed, not sure if she was allowed to say anything. ‘You didn’t. You couldn’t have known.’
‘I was responsible for her. We were only kids ourselves, for Christ’s sake. I just thought she’d get it out of her system, work her way through it. Thought she’d become the silly, wonderful girl I’d loved again.’ Declan paused once more, this time for so long that Imogen wasn’t sure if that was the end of the sharing portion for the evening. Tune in next time …
‘So … what did happen?’
Declan started a little beneath her, absently stroking her hair as he said matter-of-factly, ‘One morning I woke up in hospital because she’d smashed a bottle over my head, and I hadn’t woken up. My ma bought me a plane ticket and here I am.’
Imogen blinked, silent for a few moments. ‘Can I ask questions?’
‘Depends on the question.’ He looked down at her in the darkness, and she could only see a faint outline of his face, but felt his tears run down her own neck as he moved.
‘You’re still married?’
‘Yup.’
‘And you haven’t been back, or seen her?’
‘I left her a note. And I still put money into our joint account every month, just to make sure she’s okay. Mum hears things about town, says she’s doing better, that she’s having counselling now.’
‘Do you … do you think you’ll go back to her?’ Imogen breathed, knowing she had no right to ask that question. But in her head, it all made sense. Everything was casual with Declan because he was still waiting for Kat, because he knew they were meant to be together. Except … that would mean going back to an abuser, back to someone who could still hurt you, who you loved in spite of that. Imogen, not for the first time, wondered how shallow she was. She couldn’t imagine loving like that. Most days she wasn’t sure love was on the cards for her at all. Love hurts. Looking at her parents, she saw how losing someone led to devastation, and now hearing Declan’s story, she knew there were different ways to lose someone. It was better to stay safe.
‘No, love. Never look back.’ He bundled her up close to him, so her lips were at his throat, her forehead resting against him. His grip was firm around her back, but his hands seemed to be shaking a little. ‘I’m not the same person I was back then. I’ve lived a different life.’
Imogen closed her eyes, just breathing with him in the darkness.
‘So, no tears, no sympathy, no dramatic wailing?’ Declan said cautiously some time later. It could have been minutes or hours that they’d just lain there in silence, surrounded by his past.
Imogen looked up at him, pulling her hair back from her face so he could see her clearly. ‘Look, no sympathy face, no head tilt. Just a better understanding of who you are. Thank you.’
Declan shrugged and she lay back against him.
‘Does anyone else know?’ Imogen asked.
‘Ella,’ Dec said. ‘When I first moved here, I got a bit drunk and the whole sorry story spilled out … It’s why she tries to look after me so much.’
Something inside Imogen twitched, but perhaps he was right. Perhaps everything with Ella had just been the good old-fashioned protectiveness of a friend. She doubted it. Somehow even a private moment between them was afflicted with Ella’s presence, as if she was there mocking Imogen with her knowledge of the ‘real’ Dec, the one Imogen was only just beginning to see.
‘Mmhmm …’ Imogen offered, shaking away her selfish feelings. He was with her, he’d shared this with her. He trusted her. He wanted her to know him. That was enough. ‘Do you think you can sleep now?’
He pulled her close against him, sticky skin and sweat as he kissed her forehead, their legs intertwining. ‘As long as you’re here,’ he said into her hair as she drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
*****
Summer Sessions
(Or ‘Help, people keep telling me how like they it blended’)
Something has happened. Summer has arrived.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love summer, it’s my favourite season. Nothing makes me happier than getting out of bed to see the sun shining, to see it’s light out when I have to walk to work at six a.m.
Except one thing. When the sun comes out, that means … frapshake season has returned. For those of you who don’t know, frapshakes are drinks blended with ice; they’re like really cold milkshakes or smoothies. Except possibly with three hundred times the calories, and they taste like caffeine.
They’re exactly what you’re after on a warm day, something tasty and cold with a lot of whipped cream on the top. Except that, once again, the ‘Me me me, I’m special, my drink choice defines my personality’ bastards have decided to make it painfully specific.
So we have the ‘I want a medium coffee frapshake with a shot of espresso in it, but I want it separated into two small cups, with cream on each.’
Firstly, I’m aware that’s you, tricking me into giving you two drinks, by filling up the rest of the cup with twice as much whip. Fine, whatever. Secondly, you’re doing this so you can give it to/share it with your children. Why, in the name of all that is holy and sane in this world, would you give your kid something with a shot of espresso? I suspect the women who come in and order this are not actually mothers, but ‘cool aunties’ who are now returning their charges to the actual parents. So when they go apeshit off caffeine and sugar, and decide running into walls and bouncing into the flatscreen is a good idea, the cool aunties don’t have to deal with it. At least that’s what I hope. Otherwise they’re just stupid.
There’s also the ‘How many calories are in that?’ ‘Can you make it skinny?’ ‘Can I have the low-fat version with extra whipped cream on top?’ and the ‘I want extra drizzle on top. No, more than that. More. As much as you can. No, don’t bother with a lid. Can’t you make the drizzle in the shape of a smiley face? I want more drizzle.’
Are any of these requests particularly difficult or irritating? No, not really. But they’re not the problem. They’re gateway questions. They lead you in, and then you want more and more specifics until you’re proud you can reel them off one after the other, and the barista stares at you in horror. Like this guy:
‘I want a medium mocha light frapshake in a large cup, only two pumps of mocha, an extra shot of decaf espresso and one pump of vanilla. And I want it double blended six times.’
‘Double blended’ is the ‘semi-dry’ of the warmer seasons. By that I mean, it drives me freaking crazy. It means you want it blended twice in the blender, because most people think that makes it thicker. It doesn’t. The pre-decided ratio of ice to liquid decides on whether it’s thicker. That’s physics and you’re a jackass.
So there’s a ‘1’ and ‘2’ button on the blender. I automatically press ‘2’, so that when someone decides after their drink is presented to them that they want it double blended, I can tell them it has been. It’s just easier. But this guy, this utterly specifics-dependent ‘I want what I want, aren’t I so freaking unique’ arsehole, has not allowed me to press the ‘2’ button. So instead of pressing ‘2’ six times, I have to press ‘1’ twelve times. He w
ants it blended twelve times.
And then complains when he hasn’t got the puff to actually suck the damn thing up the straw. Which is strange, considering he’s so full of hot air.
So yeah, that’s double blended. Or decaf-double blended? I don’t even know. All I know is that if it’s a beautiful day, you should be outside, enjoying the sunshine. Not inside, torturing someone over something that doesn’t matter. It’s a drink; it’s not your personal epitaph. No one’s going to think back when you’re dead and go ‘Ah, remember how he used to like his frapshakes double blended six times?’
The only person who may do that is me, and I’ll be thinking, ‘Thank God that arsehole’s dead.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Are you done yet?’ Tabby whined, looking at her watch.
‘I’m being thorough!’ Imogen grinned, eyes flicking up from the screen and then immediately back. ‘It’s what you pay … well, no, sorry, it’s what you don’t pay me for.’
‘Hey, that was all you, with the wanting to be my protegee, because I am so darn excellent and all.’ Tabby stuck out her tongue.
Harry walked through the office, taking in the scene. Imogen sat seriously at Tabby’s desk, frowning at a screen, while Tabby twirled on an office chair in irritation.
‘What’s up with you?’ he asked his girlfriend as she sighed, stopping the twirling chair.
‘She won’t HURRY UP!’ Tabby pointed childishly.
‘I’m reading her work and checking for edits LIKE SHE ASKED,’ Imogen replied in a similar tone, but grinning all the same.
Harry frowned, looking between the two of them. ‘Are you actually annoyed at each other. I can’t tell. You’ve ceased to be two entities now. You are just Tabb-Ogen …’
‘Of course we’re not arguing.’ Tabby looked affronted. ‘But today is the day Imogen said I could take her shopping and do a whole makeover thing, and I want to get down to it!’
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 17