If You Don't Know Me By Now

‘If it hadn’t been now, it would have been three months from now when I woke up to Chico biting my face. Or over dinner listening to Babs giving me a life lesson on the importance of intimacy in lovemaking.’

Demi choked on her drink, and Imogen just nodded, grinning. As irritated as she was that her cousin had arrived uninvited, it was nice to have family. She hadn’t realised how lonely it had been without the bustling noise of all the cousins, and second-cousins, and third-cousins at their get-togethers.

‘Did you go to Kristina’s baby’s christening?’ she asked Demi, thinking of the hilarious invite she’d received where the child had been photoshopped into a variety of unlikely scenarios. One of them being on board the Death Star.

‘Yup, it looked like a dragon had vomited blue and gold everywhere.’

‘Oh, stop it.’

Demi raised an eyebrow and smirked around her pint. ‘The baby screamed blue murder, then shat in the font.’

Imogen pressed her lips together. ‘… Holy crap?’

Demi’s shoulders shook. ‘Cheap shot.’

‘But quick,’ Imogen grinned. ‘So, then what happened? The priest declared that the devil was inside little … ’

‘Frank.’

‘Excuse me?’ Imogen dribbled her drink down her chin. ‘What?’

‘The baby. He’s called Frank.’

‘Why?’

‘Who the fuck knows? But there was this big hoohaa about the priest refusing to christen him unless he had a Greek name –’

‘– yep, I remember those arguments.’

‘So when the baby shat in God’s magical paddling pool, it was of course because he didn’t have a strong Greek name.’ She put on a thick accent.

‘So what happened?’

‘They donated a hundred quid to the church and the baby’s middle name is Apollo.’

‘You’re shitting me?’ Imogen shook her head, grinning.

‘Nope, talk to Frank for that.’

The afternoon passed into evening, full of laughter and ridiculousness.

‘Please, come on! Big city! Lots of things to do!’ Demi cajoled. ‘There’s this band I love playing in Camden tonight. Let’s go?’

Imogen’s usual excuses – ‘I’m broke, I’m exhausted, I’m lonely’ – suddenly seemed flat and empty. She needed Demi to bring life, get her motivated, but Imogen wasn’t sure what she brought to the equation. She tried not to think about it.

‘Sure, why not?’

‘Good, I knew you were still fun really.’ Demi sipped the cocktail that she had convinced Keith to make, which was an alcoholic disaster, and winked.

Demi had always been one to make things happen, one who would turn up unannounced with train tickets to a random destination and a massive grin. More often than not, they ended up at a tiny station in the middle of a field and spent most of their time waiting for the return train. But occasionally they’d find a great pub, or a sweet lake, or hidden garden, and return feeling like something new had been discovered. She had life. The indefinable thing that Imogen had never been very good at. Demi knew about make-up and clothes. She knew how to walk into a room, how to start a conversation with a stranger. Whenever Imogen went out with Demi, she always came back with a raging hangover, five new Facebook friends and the numbers of people she didn’t remember in her phone. That didn’t happen when it was just her. You had it or you didn’t. She liked to think she had talents her younger cousin didn’t, but pulling a perfect pint or being able to excellently reference your essays suddenly didn’t seem very relevant any more. She was the sensible one, the hard worker, the serious face. The one who stopped Demi running away, and comforted her aunt, and made sure her dad ate vegetables. Yet when Demi turned up, she got to be fun. But the payoff never seemed to be worth it. It was like the universe knew she was an impostor.

When they crashed into her flat at three a.m., desperately gnawing on the kebabs they’d cradled close to their chests on every night bus home, Imogen knew that she should have seen it coming. The realisation hit her harder than that sixth shot of Jaegermeister.

‘I have to be at work in three hours,’ she yelped, then ran to the bathroom to throw up.

*****

‘All right, sunshine?’ That lilt, while soft, was still painful to hear. And she couldn’t wear her sunglasses inside the store.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked Declan, realising as soon as she said it that it sounded a bit rude. ‘I mean, you don’t normally sub full shifts.’

‘Agnes apparently has something resembling a friend, and that friend is in hospital. And we couldn’t contact Emanuel to switch,’ he shrugged, unlocking the front doors.

‘Probably off stalking some hipster girl who has no idea he exists,’ Imogen snorted, then winced.

‘And I guess you’re not going to be much use to me today, either.’ He raised an eyebrow and held open the door so she had to walk under his arm.

‘Give me a couple of large iced coffees and don’t make me talk to anyone for the first hour, and I’ll be just fine.’

‘Drink making and floor cleaning it is, sunshine,’ Declan chirruped. ‘Good night then, I assume?’

‘My cousin visited unexpectedly. She kind of brings the party, whether you want to attend or not.’

‘Kinda seems like you didn’t mind attending,’ Declan said lightly.

‘What makes you say that?’ Imogen chucked back the first shot of espresso with ice and thumped her chest. It hit her tender stomach and she paused, bracing herself for trouble. Nope, all clear.

‘Well, the combination of the lovebites on your neck and what I guess is a fella’s number on your hand.’ He smirked. ‘Shame it smudged; you could have had a real connection.’

‘Maybe we already had our connection and I disappeared into the night,’ she bit back, entirely too tired to be embarrassed and making it damn clear she was not about to be slut-shamed by some guy.

‘And leave your cousin to fend for herself? No way, not buying it.’ He shook his head and grinned.

‘You don’t know that about me.’

He shrugged. ‘Just a feeling. Intuition. Let me make you a drink to cure the hangover?’

Imogen raised her hands in defeat, and went to double-check her till before the day started. She focused on counting the money, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the pounding in her temples.

‘Here.’ A plastic cup was plonked before her on the desk, followed by a plate with a bacon roll. ‘Perfect balance of sugar, fat, salt, caffeine and hydration.’

She smiled up at him, shocked at how dangerously attractive he was when he was solving all her problems. ‘Thank you.’

‘Take five minutes and then come out and get on the bar. I’ll tell everyone you lost your voice so you can’t talk to them.’

‘Are they already banging on the windows?’

‘Yep.’ Declan grimaced. ‘One of them started yelling “Open this door, I can see you in there, you know!” I was tempted to reply, “Yeah, but you clearly can’t see the sign that says we open at seven, ya twat!”’

He growled a little, then laughed. ‘Sorry, madam doesn’t have sensitivities when it comes to bad language?’

‘What bad language?’ Imogen asked honestly, brow furrowed.

Declan grinned. ‘Good woman. Go on, sort yourself out and let’s get on with this bastarding day.’

She saluted. ‘Yes, sir, Captain Sunshine.’

*****

The thing Imogen was most annoyed about was that she had a whole day with Declan, and she was wasting it being a hungover mess. The only advantage was Demi arriving in the afternoon, dark circles under her eyes, croaking out for a large black Americano … and an orange juice, a sparkling water, a strawberry milkshake and a herbal tea.

‘I can give you a discount, but it’s still going to come to a fair bit, you know,’ Imogen warned her.

‘I would give my kidney for anything that would make me feel better right now.’

Imogen started making the drinks, Declan looking at the order and silently making things she had yet to start. It felt like synchronicity, perfect and normal and yet massively comforting.

‘You know, I feel a lot better, seeing you feeling so shit.’ Imogen stuck out her tongue at Demi, waiting for her drinks.

‘Well, fuck you very much.’

‘No, it means I’m not the older boring cousin who’s lost her ability to hold her drink. It just means we’re both bloody idiots.’

‘Ah, you must be the super-fun cousin,’ Declan boomed, handing over the milkshake.

Demi raised an eyebrow, arching perfectly.

‘No, most definitely not me,’ she winced. ‘No fun, not ever, never again.’

‘I thought you youngsters were meant to be unstoppable. These are your golden drinking years.’

‘Nope, my golden years are definitely behind me, Grandpa.’ Imogen laughed and pointed at Demi. ‘And she looks like a wild child, but it’s all an act.’

‘I’d argue, but I feel too crappy to bother. If you want to cast me as Maria from The Sound of Music, you can, as long as you do it quietly.’ Demi grumbled, clutching her Americano like a lifeline, while Imogen assembled the other drinks on a tray.

‘Sass runs in the family,’ Declan commented, Cheshire cat grin in place.

‘Along with quick wit, great hair and an inability to deal with bullshit,’ Demi said sharply.

‘The blatant hostility, however, is all her.’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Go sit down before you fall down.’

Demi shuffled off, holding her tray of drinks desperately, with both Declan and Imogen watching her in fear, until she finally reached the comfy chair across the room, gently lowered the tray and collapsed into the seat.

‘Sorry about her. She doesn’t deal with hangovers well.’

Declan shrugged. ‘You actually seem really perky.’

Imogen tilted her head. ‘As perky as I can be, working here.’

‘Aw come on, this place? It’s not that bad! There’s that guy who always parks his huge car across the bus lane, and then the bus driver gets out and loses his shit and the guy says –’

‘I pay my taxes! If I want to park in a bus lane, I can!’ Imogen finished. ‘And where else would we see St Francis Apocalypto?’

‘With the plastic bottles?’ Declan snorted.

‘Yes, collecting the plastic bottles out of the bins! I said we’d recycle and he said when the world was over, people would come to him, because he’d have all the bottles and they’d need bottles!’

‘And don’t forget Binky,’ Declan said seriously.

Imogen tilted her head. ‘Don’t know that one.’

‘Rich mum, trailed by a dead-eyed nanny? Michael Kors handbag? Drives a Range Rover?’

Imogen frowned. ‘You do realise that’s, like, eighty percent of our customers?’

‘Skinny hot chocolate extra cream.’

Imogen’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, that bitch!’

‘Haha!’ he pointed at her. ‘See, fun! And I can tell you from experience, it’s better than being that guy who stands with the cardboard signs pointing towards places. It’s better than being a roofer when you’re afraid of heights. It’s better than trying to sell PPI schemes and the only people you get answering the phone are little old ladies and you don’t want to screw them over. Plus, free coffee.’

Imogen shrugged, wiping down the tabletop, checking around for any customers. ‘Yeah, I guess. But it’s not what I came here to do. I came to write.’

‘So write,’ Declan shrugged. ‘Seems pretty simple.’

‘Yeah, it does until you have to do it. Until you’re exhausted and angry and stressed all the time, and you’ve got no time to be creative because you’re so emotionally spent.’ She shook herself in frustration. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

Declan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. ‘Oh really, Salinger? Why not?’

He wasn’t as pretty when he was looking at her like she’d managed to disappoint him. She winced. ‘I’m sorry, that was a really shitty thing to say. Precious writer girl bullshit. I just meant it’s easy to tell someone to create, but it’s difficult to actually do it.’

‘True enough,’ he shrugged, walking off, and Imogen felt a rustle of irritation at herself. She’d offended him, obviously, and things had been going so well … not that she wanted anything … but it was nice to have a friend …

Declan reappeared, clutching a small black notebook. He slid it across the counter to her. ‘You’ve heard of the saying “write what you know”?’

She opened the moleskine notebook, and saw not words, but sketches, cartoons and caricatures. The more pages she flipped through, the more people she recognised. There was the little old priest holding his bottles, but instead of joking, the words above his head said ‘Someday they’ll want me. I’ll be important.’ There was the mocha bitch who’d screamed at Imogen only three days before. Her eyes were bulging out of her head as the speech bubble yelled ‘Don’t touch my whipped cream!’ And there was Emanuel, with Cupid’s arrow stuck in his back, gazing lovingly at a coffee cup wearing a knitted hat and with ‘chai’ written across the bottom.

‘Dec, these are fantastic.’ She didn’t look up from the book, flipping through more. ‘Are you doing anything with them?’

When she looked up she saw he’d gone from rugged and confident to unsure, his shoulders curved in on himself. ‘They’re not exactly gallery material. They’re therapy, mainly. I do a couple of those, and then I’m ready to work on a bigger piece, or take some photos, or do something else.’

Imogen blinked slowly. ‘I don’t know, I just didn’t expect this from you.’

He chuckled. ‘Cheers, what did you expect? Football games and pints of lager and action movies?’

‘No …’ She considered, not exactly sure what she’d been expecting. ‘Kind of thought you’d be a drummer in a band, or you’d be into UFC fighting. Something … dominant.’

His face brightened at that, blue eyes cheerful. ‘Nice! And I’m the bassist, thank you. Still very important. Less … dominant.’ His voice dipped in a way that made her stomach throb pleasingly.

‘You just seem really cool with who you are. Few people are so easy in their own skin.’ She tried to shrug it off, like she hadn’t been watching. Like she hadn’t been a little jealous of one more person who seemed to know how to be happy, how to fit in and be okay without wanting something more.

‘Oh, love. That’s an act, all an act. We’re all fucked up in one way or another. The only important thing is to know how, so we can fight against it tooth and nail.’

Imogen took a deep breath and looked around for customers. How had they even managed to have a conversation this long? It was unheard of.

‘That’s pretty true,’ she nodded, thinking it was truer than she’d like to admit.

‘But that’s a lesson for another day,’ he said softly, leaning into her space. ‘The question is, Imogen Cypriani, are you going to write something real today?’

Chapter Five

Cafe Disaster

What the people who make your coffee really think about you.

Welcome to the first instalment of the Twisted Barista Tales. I’ll be your coffee monkey for the evening. Join us on a mystical journey, from macchiatos to hot chocolate, from frapshakes to insanity. I’ll be identifying every fucking ridiculous thing you awful people do, so if you recognise yourself in these stories, it’s my obligation to let you know … you’re a dick.

Let’s begin.

There are many things that, as a barista, I am responsible for: your drink, my attitude, your experience, the constant sense of pointlessness. But things I am not responsible for include your bladder (it’s not my fault there’s someone in the bathroom), the weather (it’s not my fault you wanted a frapshake and now it’s raining outside) and our opening times.

I have had multiple responses when I say we’re closing. They’re usually indignant, sometimes they’re incredulous. Mostly, they can’t seem to fathom that I and my fellow baristas are, in fact, human beings with lives. It’s a bit like when you’re a kid, and it’s easier to believe that teachers go into a storage cupboard and plug in for the night, rather than accept that they have families and aspirations and sex lives. We only exist when they see us there. We only exist when we’re serving coffee. We don’t have homes to go to, or lives outside the coffee shop.

Example:

Customer: What time do you close?

Me: Six-thirty.

Customer: But that’s in five minutes!

Me: Yes, that’s why we told you we’re only doing takeaway cups.

Customer: That’s outrageous, I want to speak to the manager!

Me: Why?

Customer: Because you shouldn’t close at six-thirty, I have nowhere else to go now!

Firstly, your lack of a life is another one of those things that is not my problem. Secondly, the reason you have nowhere else to go is because every other coffee shop closes at the same time. So go bug them about it.

Another:

Customer: Why do you open so late on Sundays?

Me: We open at nine a.m., sir, and usually no one even comes in until ten, anyway.

Customer: Well, we were banging on the door for you to open, and you didn’t! We have to work in the MEDIA, we NEED you to be open for us! Plus, it’s really expensive, even with the discount you give us, so you should at least be open on time.

Me: We are open ON TIME, just the time that is dictated to us by our superiors.

Customer: Well, I’m going to phone your head office about this!

Firstly, this is a lie. Unless he was banging on the door at seven in the morning before any of the staff were even there – in which case, I must reiterate: get a life. Get a sense of adventure and invest in a cafetiere. Get a dog or something that can be forced to love you, regardless of what a horrible and simply stuck-up-media-whore-type person you are.

Why should we open earlier for you, when you are one person? One little person who occasionally comes in here, moans about the price, abuses the staff and generally treats everyone like they’re below you, just because you’re working on the latest series of Big Brother or whatever? Which, by the way, is now on Channel Five. So it’s basically gone to die, as I hope you do.

Other examples of closing-time fuckwittery?

Me: Sorry, we’re closing now, I really need you guys to drink up.

Customers: Well, if we leave, you won’t have any customers.

Yes. That’s the point. Fuck off.

Me: Sorry, we close in a few minutes.

Customers: That’s bloody outrageous. Screw you. *storms off*

Okay. Sure. Thanks for that customer input.

Me: Hi guys! Just to let you know, we’re closing in five minutes.

Customer: Well, we’re meeting someone here in twenty minutes.

Me: Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet them outside.

Customer: It’s not appropriate to meet people on the street. You can just stay open.

Oh, I’m so glad that forcing a company to stay open just for you is within accepted limits of propriety.

People suck. Here endeth the rant.

*****

Imogen took a deep breath and pressed ‘publish’. It was the first time she’d written since she moved to London. It was therapy. She was going to use all those horrible little people, force them into fiction, make people laugh. She was going to join the masses and become a blogger, use it for practice, get inspired. Connect to every twenty-something working a recession job and trying to make it in the big bad city. She was going to be a writer, no matter what. She was going to write something real.

Chapter Six

Emanuel tilted his head to the side, lips pursed as he surveyed her.

‘Something is different,’ he said with suspicion.

‘I trimmed my hair with nail scissors. It was a terrible decision, I know.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and focused on steaming the milk to exactly 94 degrees, or else the customer who was due to arrive in exactly forty-five seconds would be disappointed. Or royally pissed off and demand not only a remade drink but a freebie voucher. She could not afford to cost the store any more freebies this month. There was a chart and everything.

Emanuel shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. It’s something on your face.’

Imogen looked at him in panic. ‘What is it? Get it off! I can’t stop the steamer!’

Emanuel moved closer, his dark eyes and little moustache twitching as he stared at her face. ‘It’s something in the mouth area, it’s like … the sides are moving upwards? Almost like … what do they call it? A … smile?’

Emanuel grinned and walked off.

‘You tosser!’ Imogen laughed. ‘I’m allowed to smile!’

‘Yes,’ he called back as he stacked sugar packets in the empty store, ‘but usually it’s more of a resting bitch face situation. Not a “quietly satisfied” look. Did Declan take you out?’

Imogen shook her head, wondering why she could feel her cheeks warm in a blush even though it had nothing to do with the stubbly Irishman.

‘No, this is purely creative fulfilment, I promise.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’ Emanuel pouted and punched in the order for a 94-degrees triple-shot soya white mocha with a half pump of caramel. The man in the Savile Row suit nodded in satisfaction, pausing to hold the takeaway cup for a moment, feeling the warmth in his hand. Then he nodded once more and was gone. The same, every time. Even when he complained, she wasn’t sure he spoke. He just looked scarily disappointed in her as a person and shook his head slowly until she panicked. The Suit. With the really girly drink. She should make a note of that.

‘Well, that’s the only sort of fulfilment I’m interested in. I’m actually happy, I think.’

Agnes marched out, tying on her brown apron, her face unimpressed. ‘Yes, yes, we all care deeply for your health and happiness. Go and count your till.’

Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘How much bullshit do I get if I call her a dictator?’

‘You get a pat on the head and gold star for understanding how chain of command works. Count your till,’ Agnes said, unfazed.

The rest of the day passed quickly, a flurry of coffee machine whirring, snippets of conversations and the overwhelming smell of mocha sauce, because everything was suddenly a story. Every complaint, every whinge, every ridiculous request was fodder. They were insights, hilarious and so nutty that someone else would get enjoyment out of them.

‘What is happening here?’ Emanuel said later that day, staring in dismay at the till.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ Agnes marched over to inspect, a dusting of whipped cream around her mouth.

Emanuel shrugged. ‘We’re just out of till receipt paper, it’s not a problem.’

‘Don’t worry me like that!’ Agnes filled another cup with a swirl of whipped cream, finishing with a flourish, and marched out to the back room again.

‘Imogen, any idea why we’d be out of receipt paper when I just filled the roll this morning?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow. ‘Possibly to do with how inflated the pockets of your apron seem?’

Imogen put her hands in her pockets, crumpling the small bits of paper under scrunched fists. ‘I was inspired and I didn’t have a notebook.’

‘Show me.’

She scooped out the scraps of paper. Some were single words, some sentences, some little drawings with speech bubbles. They piled up as she placed them on the side, like a Jenga tower.

‘Sorry, I’ll bring a notebook tomorrow.’

Emanuel shrugged. ‘I don’t know if it’s funnier that in a place that gives you free caffeine, you’re stealing paper, or that you think I care. Write all you like, darling. Just be nice to me in the book.’ He winked and disappeared out to collect wayward cups, and Imogen had the sneaking suspicion, not for the first time, that Emanuel was her London fairy godfather.

*****

The Tale of the Lemony Muffins

‘So … explain these muffins to me.’

It shows you how long I’ve been working as a barista now, that this doesn’t even seem like a strange question.

‘Well,’ I reply cheerily, ‘this is our muffin selection, this one has this, this and this in it. This one has nuts. My personal favourite is this.’

‘What about the lemon muffin?’ The customer points to said muffin.

‘What about it?’

‘Explain it, what’s in it?’

‘Er, lemon.’

I start to suspect this is, in fact, a customer service training exercise, and she’s an undercover market researcher. Except she’s a policewoman. That level of undercover market research may be a little too committed.

‘Yes, but how lemony is it? Is it very lemony?’

What, like you want a percentage? It is 75% lemony, with 15% sugar and 10% ZING.

‘Erm, well, yes, for a LEMON MUFFIN, it’s definitely the more lemony choice amongst our pastry options.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure if I want a lemon muffin that’s very lemony. What about the peach muffin, what does that taste like?’

There is no way to reply that the peach muffin tastes like peach without sounding sarcastic.

‘It … tastes … like … a sweet nectarine-like fruit that’s been blended in with the muffin mixture.’

Okay, that sounds even more sarcastic.

‘So there’s actually pieces of peach in the peach muffin? Does that mean there are pieces of lemon in the lemon muffin? Or is it just lemon-flavoured?’

This is where I start clawing at my own face asking for some kind deity to please make it stop.

You’re the police. Shouldn’t you be off fighting crime instead of worrying about exactly how much a muffin tastes like the thing it’s named after?

She thankfully takes the damn lemon muffin, after all, and my colleague comes up to me after.

‘Hey, I wanted to ask you a question. You know orange juice … does it taste like oranges? How orange-tasting is it on a scale of one to ten? Because I don’t think I want my orange-tasting juice turned all the way up to eleven.’

On this day, I make a vow, to never eat a lemon muffin again.