If You Don't Know Me By Now - A. L. Michael

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fairy tale would she write herself into now? The princess out in the wilderness, looking for a key to the castle? Except princesses were boring. She wanted to be an Amazon, or even better a goddess. She’d loved all those Greek myths that her dad had told her as a child, fudging the storylines and melding them together in the wrong places, but told with such joy and pride. ‘This is your birth right, my darling – you keep these stories for you.’

      Demi had it, an identity ready-made with her name, after Demeter, goddess of the harvest, of the seasons. And it fit. Her little cousin was the barefoot hippie child, always chilled, always with a smart answer and a perfectly arched eyebrow. She’d walk into this pub and find someone to talk to. Hell, she’d stand out on the street until she found someone to drag into the pub with her. But Imogen wasn’t like that.

      Friends. That’s what she was missing. Sure, she loved working with Emanuel, and they had a laugh, but he wasn’t someone to go for a drink with. At least not yet. A couple of her London-based uni friends had said they’d meet up, but it’d been radio silence since she’d moved down. Saskia had been quite frosty with her when Imogen had asked what happened with the internship. She’d frankly said, ‘You just don’t get how it works here.’ She was right.

      The only other person she’d quite enjoy having a pint and a chat with was Declan, the chatty Irish barista. In the five minutes that she’d spent talking to him, she’d started to feel pretty. To feel interesting and witty, like she had something more to offer than an empty shell covered in coffee grounds and operating on caffeinated auto-pilot. But princesses (or goddesses) never needed a man to make them feel interesting or pretty. Which was why Imogen packed up her laptop, downed her pint, shouted her goodbyes to Keith and jumped on a bus to Oxford Street. A free makeover at the beauty counter of Selfridges was just London-y enough to make her feel excited, and wasn’t an extravagance. She was off to have adventures. And her mother had always said a woman with the right shade of red lipstick could do damn near anything.

      *****

      Declan came by again over the weekend. A brief appearance on Saturday morning with a hurried plea for long straws. ‘Fucking caffeinated milkshake bastards. Drink some freaking orange juice,’ he said lightly, grinning as he took the bag from her.

      ‘Nice lips,’ he winked, and was gone without a backward glance, leaving Imogen smiling to herself, sure that the eye-watering twenty quid on a lipstick called ‘Artemis Red’ had been a good choice. She felt powerful, invincible even.

      ‘This is NOT a flat white,’ a voice whined from the left of her, and she went to explain for the fourth time to the same woman who came in every week, ordered the same drink, and always complained about it, that what she really wanted was a bloody cappuccino.

      ‘But I like the name of a flat white,’ the woman said staunchly.

      ‘Okay, so from now on you order a flat white, but we’ll both know that what you really want is a cappuccino with extra foam, right?’ Imogen compromised, wondering for the tenth time that day whether she was going mad.

      ‘But I want it in the same cup that a flat white comes in, so it looks like a flat white.’

      So it looks like a cappuccino with extra foam in a flat white cup … lady, just kill me now. Imogen smiled and made the woman the drink she wanted, in the cup she wanted, and made herself a green tea. She’d learnt if she limited the coffee she was less agitated. Less agitated meant she didn’t take things nearly as personally. She was cultivating a zen style of working, Imogen decided, sipping her tea.

      ‘Do you think you could help me?’ an older man asked, approaching the bar. ‘I’m after a drink, but I don’t know what it’s called. It’s a little sweet, a little bitter, kind of warm with a –’ he paused to make a chewing sound ‘– nom nom nom sort of taste?’

      Imogen took a deep breath. Fuck zen. She punched the button for an espresso, and went to list all the drinks on the board that could possibly be described as ‘nom nom nom’.

       Chapter Four

      ‘You know, Immy, we really think things are working out with you. I hope you’re feeling like part of the Bean Team?’ Darrel grinned, ballpoint pen clicking against his cheek. There were four blue dots on his face, and a fairly big gash of ink in the corner of his mouth, but Imogen was so offended by the shortening of her name that she didn’t say anything.

      ‘I’m really … learning a lot about myself. And rising to a challenge.’ Imogen had started to say she was enjoying it, but lying seemed to be a bad option. She’d said she wouldn’t complain. And it was true; she was enjoying rising to the challenge. She still couldn’t really write, and she was exhausted, and smelled like stale whipped cream and despair at the end of every day, but it was becoming less ghastly.

      Most of that was to do with the team. Darrel was hardly ever there, except to do paperwork in the back office, encourage more understanding of the ‘company ethos’ and remind them that the auditors were due. Emanuel was becoming a friend – until he fell in love with a customer just because she’d been in twice in three days, and he suddenly had to expound on why her hair fell across her face like an angel’s.

      ‘Look at her, there’s something miraculous there,’ he sighed, eyes trained on the girl who sipped delicately at her mocha-sippy-something.

      ‘Yes, a deep conditioning treatment and absolutely no desire to date the staff,’ Imogen replied, throwing a cloth at him. ‘Save your attentions for someone worthy.’

      ‘What’s the point in saving the love when there is beauty everywhere to share it with?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow.

      ‘You do realise you don’t have to be a cliche just because you’re French, right?’

      ‘And you realise I’m not French?’ Emanuel shook his head. ‘I’m from Guadeloupe!’

      ‘Yes, and yet you tell all these silly girls that you’re from France in the hope they’ll suddenly think of Audrey Hepburn and La Vie en Rose, and romance and art … except you’re picking people who are more about Marc Jacobs and Made in Chelsea.’ Imogen sighed. ‘Be more discerning.’

      Emanuel shook his head. ‘I never tell them I’m French. They assume. And how do you suggest I look for The One, then? Because as far as I can see, you’ve never even blinked at a customer.’

      Imogen twitched her lips thoughtfully, twisting her side-braid around to the other side of her neck, and then washing her hands when she realised what she’d done.

      ‘Well, there was the guy last week who said he and his wife were looking for a threesome partner, and asked if I knew anyone who’d be interested. I blinked at that.’

      ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know that very well.’ Emanuel rolled his eyes, setting up a coffee tasting, heating the cafetiere.

      ‘We’re doing training?’ Imogen asked, smiling. She was quite enjoying the ‘specialism’ of it all, knowing what blends went well with what flavours, what textures, what time of day. Personality type, star sign, bank balance, etc.

      ‘Yes, don’t change the subject. There’s been no one of interest?’

      ‘I … I just don’t have the time or energy. By the time I’m done here each day I just want to sit in a quiet room where no one’s asking anything of me. And small talk. I hate small talk.’

      ‘But the British weather is such an invigorating conversation topic!’ a voice lilted from behind them. Declan. She felt her cheeks warm, and tilted her eyes up to him, flashing a smile.

      ‘Come to steal more supplies?’ She twitched her mouth. Be clever, Imogen told herself; be relaxed and unimpressed and … nope. Imogen leaned back against the bar, her hand touching the jug of steamed milk. She jumped and yelped, knocking the jug with the milk all over the work area.

      Well,

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