Imogen felt her heart drop from her chest into her stomach, and back up again. Demi’s eyes were on her, as were Emanuel’s.
‘Girlfriend?’ Demi said, but Imogen was listening to the lyrics, how Jazz’s voice had turned sweet, a little cockney, as he listed the burdens of a barista. She recognised snippets of conversations they’d had woven into the lyrics, and as much as she wanted to catch Dec’s eye, expecting him to look up and give her a cheeky smile, he was looking at his hands, head down, the hint of a blush on his cheeks. She wasn’t sure if she didn’t find that more adorable than his usual cockiness.
‘Bit of an assumption, isn’t it? Maybe he should actually ask if you’d like to be his girlfriend?’ Demi huffed, but squeezed Imogen’s hand nonetheless. Tabby arrived, giving her opinion.
‘Writing a song for a girl, I like that,’ she nodded with approval. ‘It’s old-school. Right up there with making a mix tape.’
‘It’s a gesture,’ Harry added, looking at the stage with respect.
Imogen felt her stomach trembling, not taking her eyes off Dec. ‘He is asking. And he’s doing it in front of people so I know he means it.’
Demi grinned. ‘I like this guy. Plus, do you think he can introduce me to the lead singer? He’s a bit of a chocolate-covered biscuit himself.’
Imogen tore her eyes away from Dec, and turned seriously to her cousin. ‘You are not hooking up with Jazz. For all we know, he might be forty.’
‘Yes, but he looks twenty.’
‘He looks fifteen.’ Imogen turned back to the stage, where the song was finishing, and Dec gave her a hesitant smile, head tilted to the side in a question. She nodded, grinning so wide she felt her face would split.
He held up one finger to the band, throwing off his bass. ‘Be right back’, he said and jumped off the front of the stage, weaving through the crowd to get to her. Dec was suddenly standing before her, hot and smiling widely as he questioned her again.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that was very dramatic,’ Imogen laughed, looking back at the stage. ‘Aren’t you in the middle of a set?’
‘They can wait one minute for me to kiss my girlfriend,’ he laughed, reaching for her, arms around her back, holding her close, his lips soft and smiling against her own. The crowd whooped and clapped around them, and Imogen pulled back, a thumb stroking his cheek.
‘Dec,’ she whispered, ‘a lot of people are looking at us. And I think you should probably finish your set. We can do this later.’
‘Lots,’ he nodded, ‘lots and lots.’
He kissed her once more and disappeared back into the crowd, jumping back on stage amid cheers. Declan grinned, pumping his fist in the air. The music started up again.
‘Damn, that boy’s got style,’ Harry laughed putting his arm around Tabby.
‘Pure chaos,’ Imogen laughed, looking at him, ‘but somehow exactly what I needed.’
She looked around the full pub, Keith laughing behind the bar, saluting her with his pint. She watched the smiling faces of the punters, drinking and moving to the music. And she realised that maybe, finally, she had made this city her home.
*****
This is a big, mean, nasty city. It’s a whirlwind, with everyone on a deadline, everywhere with somewhere to be. People imposing limits on themselves every day. Non-fat, extra-hot. Not drinking. Not smoking. Got to get the 6.47 train. Got to be early, got to be prepared. How many of you order something out of habit, instead of truly enjoying the thing you want? Do not be defined by your drink. You’re a person, whole and true, and interesting. Your stories cannot be shared through the medium of an extra-hot-caramel-macchiato. But I do know you need it extra-hot, because you’ve got an hour tube journey across to your job in East London that you hate. I don’t know Mr Iced-Black-Americano, but I know you really miss your kids when you work away on business. The girl with the chai latte with whipped cream and cinnamon, you’re doing a really good job being a nanny, and I hope you’re not isolated.
You think I’m just here to bitch and whine about the horrible people I meet, but the truth is, I’m here to collect stories. The bad ones stand out, because they’re shocking. And sometimes, the nice ones don’t make good stories. The woman who piled up all the little plates that her kids had collected. The man who helped me clear up a ripped packet of coffee. You guys don’t necessarily make good stories, but you do make my day.
That’s what Twisted Barista has been about, finding the stories. Sometimes it’s about finding out a hard-arsed supervisor can actually be a little softie. Sometimes it’s being surprised by your own reactions when people treat you unkindly. Mainly, it’s been here to remind you that those people who make your coffee, serve your food, clean your car, watch your kids … we are still people. Please stop and see us.
I’m going to be discovering stories about people all over London soon, not just baristas, but every job I can try. You never know, the next time you go out, I may be serving your lunch, or making your drink. So there’s one thing to remember: Be Nice.
Epilogue
A few months later
Imogen marched into the Hope and Anchor in the early afternoon, looking for Keith. She was wrapped up against the cold of a London autumn, still just teetering on the brink of sunshine as the light came through the stained-glass windows. It was busy enough for a Wednesday afternoon. Students sat with their laptops with pints and sandwiches. Businessmen drank gin and tonics with their artisan bread and olive oil. Keith was still unsure about the ‘arty bollocks’ of dipping bread into sauce, but as Imogen had pointed out, when it got to last orders and all the drunkards desperately wanted to soak up the alcohol, he sold all the bread he had left for the day. It was win-win.
She didn’t find Keith, though.
‘Hello gorgeous,’ Declan said from behind the bar, wiping down the surfaces.
‘Hope you don’t greet all your punters like that,’ she grinned, jumping up onto a bar stool to kiss him hello.
‘Nope, just you.’ He smiled at her, the crinkles appearing around his eyes as he stroked her cheek. ‘Business or pleasure?’
‘I wanted to chat with Keith about that Battle of the Bands I was setting up for November. Is he about?’
Declan called for him, and Keith appeared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Okay, what’s my event specialist got for me today?’
‘I honestly love how posh that title sounds.’ She grinned at him as they went to sit at her usual table. It was minimum-wage and freelance, but with all her other jobs, and how well the Hope was doing, she didn’t need it to be much more.
‘The minute you want to come and take over as assistant manager from that cocky bugger, you’ve got it. Just say the word,’ Keith nodded.
‘Oi! I heard that!’ Dec laughed from behind the bar, and Keith threw his hands up in the air like it was beyond his control. ‘She’s got to work in a yuppie bar so she can keep being an international writing superstar … I just need to pay my rent!’
‘It’s not … yeah, no, it is absolutely full of wankers,’ Imogen admitted. She’d got a job in a bar in Shoreditch, making strange cocktails and serving beers in weird glasses, to people sitting in seats made of upcycled bathtubs. One of their drinks was an alcoholic smoothie made from hemp. But it kept her writing. Tabby and Harry had backed the Twisted … series, so at the moment it was Twisted by the Bar. They were talking about getting her internships in various workplaces, sending her undercover like a real reporter, to write snarky commentary on how awful customer-service jobs were, and to find the stories of the people who worked them. It was a post-recession sensation, a beacon of hope for every twenty-something stuck in a dead-end job with a pointless degree. Tabby and Harry had lots of ideas. They were quite keen on Twisted by the Pound Shop. She was not. But it was real writing.
As Imogen started telling Keith all about the latest Battle of the Bands ideas, watching as his face went from stern, to worried, to excited, she thought about the first moment she’d stepped
into the pub. How she’d been lost, not even really known who she was yet. And here she was: Imogen Cypriani – writer, barmaid, events manager, girlfriend. Tabby was meeting her for drinks here later, and Harry would join them for dinner. Declan would walk her home, make her laugh, make her smile, make her fall even harder for him.
Demi was moving soon. She’d found a design job in London, and they were looking for places. Imogen had made her sign an ‘I will not run away when things get tough’ agreement before they even thought about getting a place. They agreed it had to have more than one room, and a fairy garden. Imogen looked around her, at the pub, a symbol of the strange city that had become home, after years of working and waiting for something exciting to happen. Now her life was pure chaos, and she didn’t want to waste a second.
Still sipping on your extra-hot latte? Why not keep reading for a sneak-peek of M So-Called (Love) Life, another smart, funny romance for the 21st century girl from A.L. Michael…
Chapter One
I am really tired of being miserable, Tigerlily James thought as she marched out of Kings Cross Station. It was the last Thursday of the month, which meant the Misery Dinner at Entangled. She scanned the room for Dana and Ame, knowing that the likelihood they were on time was minimal, and headed over to her usual table.
‘Tigerlily!’ Ruby half ran over to her as she entered, pulling her in for a bear hug, all patchouli and cigarettes. Ruby was the owner of Entangled, but Tig had privately taken her on as a role model and personal saviour. Ruby had her shit together. Today her greying hair was tied back with a rockabilly red scarf, dangling ruby earrings getting caught on Tig’s hair as she pulled back. ‘Early for the Young and Bitter Club today, darling?’
‘It’s a Misery Dinner, not a club,’ Tig corrected, walking over to her usual table.
She knew there was no point arguing; the Misery Dinner was nothing if not a meeting of the Young and Bitter brigade. It was her fault. She’d decided after Darren left that if her love life sucked, her career had gone down the toilet and she was back to living with her uni housemate, well, there should at least be an excuse for monthly margaritas. The idea was to compartmentalise. Once a month they got together to talk about how shit their lives were, to wallow and enjoy moaning about it all. And then they got on with their lives. It made sense at the time, Clint had cheated on Ame, and she was going through divorce proceedings, fighting for the house and thanking whatever deity was responsible for her very modern decision to sign a pre-nup. Tig had yet to remind her that it was she, not God, who’d advised her to be careful about it all.
Which meant, a year down the line, that Ame had a beautiful house in Hampstead, but was still working for her ex-husband. And Dana had thrown herself into work ever since Elodie, refusing to move forward and look for love again, instead settling for working her way up and owning the PR company she worked for by thirty. She was twenty-eight, and almost killing herself to get to the top. It seemed better than the alternative, which involved the realisation that there might not just be one perfect person for everyone, that loves could be multiple and varied. Dana didn’t buy that.
‘You know, you girls will be old before your time if you don’t stop focusing on the negative,’ Ruby said, raising her eyebrows in what was probably meant to be a severe sort of expression. Which was pretty impossible, as Ruby radiated goodness. She was like Audrey Hepburn would have been if she’d run off with a biker and opened a cafe/bar in London at sixty. Ruby was pretty much what Tig wanted to be when she grew up.
‘We’re having dinner, Ruby. We’re not sticking pins into voodoo dolls, or cackling over cauldrons.’
‘You’re wallowing. Two months is pushing it. Seven is taking the piss. You could have almost grown a person in this time!’ Ruby raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, the whole “not growing a person” thing is definitely something to be thankful for. Can I have a margarita now?’
Ruby shook her head, clearly disappointed. ‘Madam, if you were my daughter I’d give you a boot up the bum. But as it is, I’ll settle for sending you death glares across the room until you give in and get over that idiot.’
‘I am over him,’ Tig challenged. ‘I’m just still … in shock.’
‘Shock’s immediate,’ Ruby said severely, looking over the rim of her glasses. ‘Comas can last a lifetime.’
‘You know what this coma patient could use to wake her up? A tequila-based cocktail,’ Tig said pointedly.
‘Lucky for you, the new guy needs the practice,’ Ruby shrugged. ‘I’ll bring it over.’
‘New guy?’
Tig hated when the staff at Entangled changed. She liked it to be her haven, knowing that she could walk in and it would always be the same, only the art on the walls and the cakes on display changing.
‘Short term, four months. Really enthusiastic about bar work,’ Ruby winced as a crash sounded from behind the bar, ‘despite not having worked in a bar for about two years, and being excellent at breaking things.’
‘First days are tough …’ Tig shrugged, trying for hopeful. Ruby looked past her to the door, seeing Ame and Dana come rushing in.
‘I’ll make that three margaritas for the moody madam brigade!’ Ruby chortled. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you left some bits and bobs here last week – a notebook, some letters …’
‘Oh, crap.’ So that’s where her planner was, not under a pile of clothes at home.
‘Artistic people are often awful at life stuff,’ Ruby patted her shoulder.
‘Well, thanks, I feel much better!’
‘I just meant you’re clearly a creative genius!’ Ruby laughed. ‘Hi girls, drinks are on their way!’
Ame threw down her bag, and started unwinding her Hermes scarf, honeyed brown hair falling perfectly at her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I had the worst day, and you’ll never believe what Clint did today –’
‘Hi Tig, how are you? Well, I’m fine, Ame, thanks for asking before you launch into a diatribe about your ex-husband. I really appreciate that I’m more than just an aural punching bag,’ Tig sing-songed, honestly quite tired of hearing all the ways in which Clint was an arsehole. Especially considering she’d spent the year they were engaged and the six months they were married hearing about all the ways in which Clint was the most fantastic of human beings. She kind of just hated him for existing at this point.
‘Jeez, Tig, harsh.’ Ame frowned briefly, and then Tig saw her physically smooth down her brow to avoid getting wrinkles. Sometimes she wondered how they were friends at all. If she’d never started working at the student bar, she and Ame would never have been friends. At least then her friend was fun, silly and joyous. Now she seemed to walk around with a perpetual pinched look, eyes raised to the sky like she was waiting for a piano to fall on her head. Which would have been fine if it was just the Misery Dinners, but Ame’s misery was bleeding into every other part of her life, which, as her housemate, or lodger, was pretty damn difficult.
‘Well, Ame, you maybe should greet people before hitting them over the head with your emotional issues,’ Dana shrugged, then sighed as her phone flashed up. ‘Sorry, it’s a client, I have to take this.’ She shuffled over to an empty corner, coat still half on, long dark hair tied back in a bun. Dana was an Amazon of a woman, tall and powerful, her pinstriped suit perfectly pressed even after a long day. But she looked weary.
‘Well, Dana, maybe if you weren’t so emotionally repressed you’d hear where I was coming from!’ Ame hissed at her back.
‘This is getting off to a great start,’ Tig sighed.
‘Even when she leaves work she can’t leave work.’ Ame tried for a half smile and a shrug, looking at Tig hopefully. ‘I’m sorry, hun. I’m working on not being such a bitch all the time. How are you?’
Like an ant stuck in amber, Tig thought to herself, trying to smile back because Ame was making an effort.
‘I’m okay,’ she replied.
‘Do any work today?’ Ame prodded.
‘I wor
ked with Petunia and Theo,’ she said in a huff, knowing that wasn’t what Ame meant at all.
‘Are you planning on getting back to photography any time soon? I know that teaching art to privileged four-year-olds in Hampstead mansions is good money, but it’s not really a career choice, is it?’
Ame had this way of throwing out hurtful comments like they were facts. Sadly, most of the time they were facts, so you didn’t feel justified in getting upset. It was just one of the many irritating traits Tig had noticed about her friend, living with her post-university. Back then they’d never had a problem. But Ame had been more fun then. They both had. Maybe it wasn’t just Tig, maybe they were all getting more bitter by the moment.
‘Ame. Shut up. She’s doing fine.’ Dana strode back over, phone tucked away, pulling her hair out of the tight bun and massaging her scalp delicately, wincing slightly. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
Tig nodded.
‘Then leave her the hell alone,’ Dana demanded, picking up her menu to signify the conversation was over. Dana was learning to become more demanding. She’d been reading a lot of personal development books, doing anything she could to get to the top. Tig suspected it was more a way of filling her time and avoiding getting on with her life than it was a result of particularly loving her job, but Dana was just quietly getting on, so you couldn’t really call her on it.
‘I’m just trying to be supportive!’ Ame was good at the outrage these days, too. ‘She’s a brilliant photographer and there are other gigs out there. You don’t have to be a wedding photographer anymore …’
‘Ames,’ Tig held up her hand, ‘I really appreciate what you’re saying. And I’ll get there. I’m making enough money for rent and a gym membership and monthly margaritas, so unless you’re about to kick me out, I should be fine. Tell us about your day.’
Ame rarely needed an excuse to launch into the tales of woe in her office, centred around her arsehole ex-husband.
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 21