If You Don't Know Me by Now

by A. L. Michael

  Me: Are they all takeaway?

  Her: Also-a-granola-bar-on-a-plate-and-a-marshmallow-twizzle-in-a-bag-and-how-much-is-that-altogether?

  Me: You want what with a cappuccino?

  Fuck off, I’m a coffee monkey, not a trained-by-scientists-to-do-amazing-things monkey. Talk slow, and wait for confirmation of what’s been said – that’s generally how conversation works. You know, like when you’re talking about your life, you expect your friends to ‘hmm’ or ‘right’ at the correct intervals. If they haven’t, you know you’re talking too much. Get a clue.

  Mrs Bar-red

  This woman is a pain in the arse anyway. Just the way she talks to you, like you’re a moron. I think she may be a head teacher. Plus, she’s posh and rich and says ‘yah’ so I have to hate her. She came in, sighed loudly when I confirmed her order, said ‘Yes, I just told you that’, rolled her eyes at her daughter, and sat down to make a massive mess.

  She then returns, two hours later, to inform me that she left her granola bar on the table and wants it back … seriously, wouldn’t you just be a bit embarrassed and go home? I know I would. Or maybe I’d go buy a new one. I wouldn’t stroll to the head of a massive queue to let some poor bedraggled barista know I forgot to take my granola bar from the table, and as such I want a new one. If you can’t remember your property thirty minutes after you left the store, you don’t deserve it back. I don’t care if it’s a granola bar, an umbrella, or a baby. Just, no.

  (Actually, you can take the baby. We really don’t need those.)

  Randomly Irritating

  Stupid Woman: You know, when you opened your mouth, I really didn’t think you’d speak English! People don’t speak English in coffee shops, you know?

  Erm, have you been hanging out in coffee shops in other countries? Because that might explain that. Also, I have to let you know, I think you might be a racist. And I’m assuming you want your coffee white, right?

  Most Indecisive Woman in World:

  Lady: What do I want? What do I want? Hmm, what? What could I have today? I could have a panini, or a coffee, or a donut, or a hot chocolate. Hmm. Hmm, we could share a hot chocolate … hmm, do we want to do that?

  I don’t know, but I’m very clear about what I want. I want you to choose something before I bash my brains out with a cafetiere. That is what I want. But I can’t have what I want. So I’ll settle for second best – have the internal monologue INTERNALLY. That’s just good manners. Even Hamlet did that. And he was plotting to kill his uncle. You’re plotting to have a sandwich. And you’re not even that committed to the plot.

  And now I’ve lost the plot.

  And the man that irritated me the most? Even though he was basically very nice?

  Man: I want a double espresso. Extra-hot.

  Me: Uh … gah..uh? I can’t … espresso comes out of the machine … I can’t. Extra-hot? Ah … not possible (also relates to people who ask for their tea extra-hot. How can I get hotter than boiling water?)

  Man: (very gently, like talking to a spooked gazelle, or mentally challenged rabbit) Well, you can warm the cup, can’t you? Yes, you can … all you do is fill it with some hot water, okay? Okay.

  Me: GAH. INDIGNANT. I MAKE THE COFFEE! MY RULES … *scuttles away to fill cup with hot water*

  Man: There’s a good girl.

  Chapter Twenty

  In between helping Keith at the Hope, working double shifts as Ella had gone on holiday and Agnes had gone back home, and writing her articles, Imogen didn’t have much time to miss Dec. She also didn’t have much time to worry about Ella’s threat. She’d got what she wanted, and Imogen was toying with the idea of getting transferred to a different BeanTown. She was sure there had to be other areas of London where bankers, hipsters and tourists all congregated to make baristas’ lives hell – she could live in any of them.

  The thought of leaving tugged at her. Perhaps she could keep her little flat, with her fairy garden, and just commute … perhaps, perhaps.

  She was cleaning up under the bar, rearranging the straws, when a distinctive cough grabbed her attention. She should place a little bell on the bar so she was allowed to wander away for more than three seconds, Imogen thought to herself as she got to her feet.

  Declan blinked at her.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ she replied. ‘What’s in the box?’

  He was holding a huge cardboard box, but didn’t seem to be struggling with it. It was easier to focus on the box than on him, how he good he looked. A little tired, maybe, a little paler. The gig was in a couple of days and she could notice the string lines across his fingertips and lips that had been bitten.

  ‘Stock. My manager insisted we give back a bunch of stuff, as it was throwing off our stock take and ordering system,’ he shrugged, gesturing with the box. ‘Shall I stick it out the back?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Emanuel watched with narrowed eyes from the coffee machine. ‘Very symbolic,’ he muttered quietly. ‘Didn’t he have anything of yours?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘We were casual, remember?’

  Declan reappeared, pausing briefly. ‘How’s the writing going?’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘I’m just … carrying on. Trying my best.’

  He smiled a little. ‘That’s what you should be doing. No one’s going to stop you from doing that, Imogen. You just keep going. It’ll be great, promise.’

  He looked at her intensely for a moment, trying to convey something, but as she looked at him, her stomach twitched and she just nodded, clearing her throat. She wanted to say that he couldn’t promise her anything any more, but she stopped herself.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Yeah …’ he shrugged. ‘See you at the gig, then?’

  ‘Yeah … maybe,’ she said, knowing full well she would be there, and so would Demi and Tabby and Harry and everyone else she’d told about it.

  ‘Good, good.’

  He disappeared, and as the door closed, Imogen allowed herself to breathe, the tension disappearing with him.

  ‘That was …’ Emanuel started.

  ‘… Awkward? Tense? Horrible?’ Imogen offered.

  ‘… Interesting,’ he replied. ‘I was going to say interesting.’

  *****

  The next morning her column was printed, a particularly scathing look at the way people dealt with receipts, when she noticed the image above it.

  ‘This week, on Twisted Barista, we decided to offer up a little caricature to go with our ranting. What do you think of our angry customers? Anyone recognise themselves?’

  Imogen frowned. They hadn’t told her they were adding artwork to her blog. She clicked the link, and a whole gallery appeared. There was a sad old vicar, hoping someone would love him, a bitchy girl in a bobble hat demanding her drink ‘so hot it would scald the face of the sun’. Imogen remembered that one. She recognised the style immediately, from the first time she’d looked at Dec’s sketchbook, before any of this began. It was like running full circle. But why had he submitted his work now? Had he wanted to all along and was just waiting until they were finished, to be polite? That didn’t seem right, but Imogen couldn’t think of a reason at all.

  Imogen was about to risk the supervisor’s wrath and overrun her break in order to call Tabby, but one of her regular customers walked up.

  ‘Did you hear? They found out who the West London Coffee Bitch was!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Apparently the whole time it’s been that Irish bloke down the road! Someone on Twitter matched up his portfolio online with the cartoons this morning!’

  Imogen felt her jaw drop. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Dunno,’ the woman shrugged. ‘Heard he’s been fired, though. It’s all online!’

  Imogen checked her phone, and sure enough, someone had written a blog post connecting the articles on The Type to Declan’s online portfolio and website.

  One customer was live-tweeting from the Notting Hill store. She scrolled do
wn.

  ‘Customers have noted that he’s given them little drawings before #dumbmove’

  ‘The WLCB is a boy! Who knew men could be so bitchy?! #cafedisaster’

  ‘Someone didn’t have enough caffeine this morning! He’s leaving at the moment – dirty looks! #cafedisaster’

  Imogen thought she was going to be sick. Who cared if she was late – she rang Tabby.

  ‘Hey, what did you think of the article? Looks good, right?’ Tabby answered.

  ‘Have you seen what’s going on with Twitter?’ she asked. ‘And why did you okay those images? You didn’t say anything to me!’

  Tabby paused. ‘Declan said he’d been a dick, and wanted to give them to you, to go with your work. He said you’d inspired him. I thought the whole “reaching out to you via your blog” thing might be good.’

  Imogen took a deep breath. ‘He’s just been fired. They think the whole blog was him. They recognised the pictures. I thought you promised to be the last line of defence!’

  ‘For you!’ Tabby replied. ‘I don’t know about images! He said he wanted to do this; he signed an agreement! He was determined.’

  ‘I’ve lost him his job. He’s now an unemployed music-slash-graphic designer living in a London house with a bunch of men with beards! I’ve turned him into a cliche!’

  ‘I think a lot of that he did himself,’ Tabby breathed, and took on a soothing tone. ‘Look, Imogen, sweets … I think you have to consider that maybe he knew what he was doing here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean maybe he knew he was going to get fired if he submitted those images. He’s not an idiot. He’s the one who set up all your anonymity settings before you came to The Type, right?’

  Imogen was silent, and Tabby continued. ‘But the question is, why would he do that?’

  Imogen thought of Ella, head held high as she announced she was going on an unplanned holiday, didn’t know when she’d be back. Her look of derision as she walked past Imogen.

  ‘He did it to make sure no one could find out it was me,’ she said quietly, more to herself than Tabby, ‘so that even if I was accused, I wouldn’t lose my job.’

  Tabby inhaled sharply. ‘That’s a gesture and a half. For someone who’s supposedly casual.’

  Imogen said nothing.

  ‘They can’t sue him if the images only connect with the latest post. It looks like he was a sympathiser, but they can’t prove he wrote them. So he’s fired but he won’t get sued,’ Tabby pointed out. ‘Do you think he knew that?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Imogen paused, letting her mind tick over. ‘Tabs – do you think Twisted Barista has the possibility to expand?’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The night of the gig had arrived. Imogen had tried to get in contact with Dec, worried about what he’d do for money, whether it would put him off his game playing in the band. No response. Which could only lead her to think that maybe the whole thing was an accident. Maybe he hadn’t thought he’d get fired and was off dealing with that. All Imogen knew was that she missed him.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed as Demi did her make-up for her, carefully outlining her smoky eyes with dark, thick liner.

  ‘I like this, by the way’ – her cousin flicked the fringe – ‘very seventies. Suits you.’

  ‘Needs a trim,’ Imogen shrugged, thoughts elsewhere.

  ‘Then get it trimmed. It’s unusual to see you so … put together.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a compliment …’

  ‘I don’t think it was, I suppose,’ Demi laughed, ‘although I like your outfit. different to the jeans and Metallica combo of many years.’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘I don’t know how to do this stuff. I never did.’ She looked down at her dark-green skater dress with printed pineapples all over it, and admired her feet in her yellow wedges. She’d add her leather jacket and the little black bowler hat that Demi had dropped on her head when she walked in, and that was it – she was transformed. Such a silly thing, to be worried about visuals. She always thought she was above that, that her brain was what mattered. Her brain and her heart. But the bright colours cheered her on, and as she angled herself to try and see even a snippet of her outfit in the tiny bathroom mirror, she realised it was okay to be a little shallow. Especially when it made her feel good.

  ‘So, what’s the plan with Johnny Irish?’ Demi said, checking her bag.

  ‘Whatcha mean?’

  ‘I mean are you going to go in there and offer yourself up on a platter? Are you going to say thank you? Are you going to say anything?’

  Imogen shrugged.

  ‘Imogen, I hate to break it to you, but this is your big moment. The movie moment, where everything slows down as he takes you in his arms. That kinda moment. You have to know how you feel?’

  ‘It depends on him, I guess.’

  ‘No, it depends on you. You know, whether you see him or not tonight, how you feel. So how do you feel?’ Demi tapped her fingers, hands on hips, expectant look on her face.

  ‘I want to be with him. I want to say thank you for making that gesture … I want Ella out of the picture, at least for a bit. I don’t want to do casual any more.’

  Demi snorted. ‘A list of demands – excellent.’

  Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Well, what do you suggest?’

  ‘What the hell do I know? Just … be yourself.’ Demi shook her head. ‘Ready to go?’

  Imogen nodded, and marched out of the door.

  While she was keeping her word to Keith that she wasn’t going to work that evening, she had popped by earlier, just to make sure everything was set up nicely. The work she’d been putting into making the place spectacular in the previous weeks had all come together. She’d painted one column in blackboard paint so there were clear drinks lists. She’d varnished some old barrels so they could be used as drinks tables. She’d set up a little stage in front of the stained-glass windows, where the street lamp shone through and gave everything a funky, strange effect.

  When she and Demi entered, the place was already buzzing. Keith was behind the bar, looking busy but pleased, serving quickly but chatting all the same. His two young staff members (who Imogen had a sneaky suspicion were his nephews) were holding it together, but you could see from their faces they’d never dealt with such an onslaught of orders in one go.

  Imogen and Demi fought their way through to the bar and Keith grinned at her. ‘Here she is, my darling angel!’ He poured two pints and pushed away her money. ‘Please! After everything you’ve done to make this place perfect? We’ve already made more than we have in about a month! And they haven’t even started playing yet!’

  His gleeful giggle made her laugh, and relief lifted her. This could work, this place could work. Maybe she could bring in other bands, start a monthly set of events here. They had the space. Sure, she loved writing, but it was nice to find there was something else she was good at. She looked at her watch, sure the band were meant to start soon, and sure enough, there was Jazz, testing his mic and grinning out into the crowd, gesturing for them all to come closer. ‘No need to be shy folks!’ he beckoned, and Imogen felt everyone get drawn in, shuffling up.

  ‘Thanks for coming everyone! We won’t waste any time. We’re Chocolate Biscuit, and here’s some Jimi Hendrix.’

  They launched into Along the Watchtower and the crowd cheered in recognition. Imogen saw Harry and Tabby walk in, holding hands and laughing. Tabby grinned and waved, then pointed to the bar. Harry looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him, still in a shirt, but he’d succumbed to jeans. He gestured at her, offering a drink. She held up her pint in response.

  ‘Damn, they’re good!’ Demi said in surprise, nudging her cousin and nodding at the band. Emanuel appeared next to them, looking particularly dapper, with dark jeans, a blue t-shirt and a light scarf thrown around his neck. He was also wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that she wasn’t sure he needed.r />
  ‘Hello, darling.’ He kissed her cheek, then took in the sight of Demi standing there, with her blue-tipped hair and rosy cheeks. She may as well have been wearing a sign saying ‘Chai tea latte’ around her neck. ‘He-llo …’

  ‘No, no, no … this is my cousin. Go find a proper hipster,’ Imogen nudged him.

  Demi laughed. ‘I actually have more punk influences.’

  ‘Ah, a woman of passion,’ Emanuel grinned, but she could tell he was just trying to wind her up. ‘So you think Dec is really the Twisted Barista?’

  ‘I don’t buy it,’ she shrugged. ‘I think he probably sent those drawings in because it would be good publicity, and because he shares experiences of those stories.’

  Emanuel looked at her. ‘Or maybe he was protecting someone from a certain vindictive Italian bitch.’

  Imogen felt her eyes widen, her lips clamp together, and she slowly shrugged, ‘… that is definitely a possibility.’

  ‘I’ll miss you when you go,’ he said, putting an arm around her.

  ‘Go?’ Demi turned to her cousin. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere. I just might not want to serve coffee any more. Time for a bit of a change.’ She looked over at Harry and Tabby by the bar. ‘If everything works out as it should.’

  Her eyes were focused on the stage, where Dec was wearing a look of intense concentration. His stubble verged on beard-like, and he’d had a haircut. He was wearing a fifties-style bowling t-shirt that had the name ‘Frank’ embroidered on the pocket, and she watched as the muscles in his arms danced along with the movement up and down the bass.

  The band finished to great applause, and Dec shuffled forward, natural charm apparently on the fritz as he stumbled over a wire and almost went flying off the stage.

  ‘Um … hi. I’m Dec. I’ve been Twitter famous this week because people think I’m the West London Coffee Bitch.’

  A few people tittered in the crowd.

  ‘Sadly, I’m not, but I was inspired to write a song about coffee. It’s based on one of the first chats I had with my girlfriend, Imogen. It’s called Semi-dry cappuccino and I hope you like it.’