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She rolled her eyes.

      ‘It is. Especially when it’s 6 a.m. and you worked sixty hours this week, and some guy comes in asking for a macchiato, but what he really wants is a latte, but instead of realising that, he calls you incompetent and stupid and a pathetic waste of a human existence. Sometimes it’s not the spilled milk that gets you.’ Declan nudged her gently with his arm, and she looked up to find those blue eyes, soft brown lashes framing them.

      ‘So, how’s your week been?’

      ‘Broke three cups. Spilled bin juice on me and a customer’s child, because the little shit was playing kiss-chase with his imaginary alpaca or something. Served a senile priest, evil grandma and that guy off X Factor, who was actually really nice.’

      ‘Soy sugar-free vanilla latte?’ Declan asked, smiling.

      ‘Yeah!’

      ‘Have you started seeing people in their drink orders yet? It’s a bit like The Matrix. When you’ve been working here long enough, you don’t see red-head, or brunette, or blonde. You see soya, chai, double espressos. Objects become symbolic.’

      Imogen turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

      ‘What, I’m meant to be stupid because I work here? I thought you’d know better than that.’ He folded his arms, and though he was smiling, he looked a little disappointed. He stood up, wiping his hands.

      ‘No, it was just a very deep response to a very normal thing,’ Imogen shrugged, secretly wondering if she had assumed he wasn’t smart. Or maybe it had just been so long since she’d had a decent conversation that wasn’t about Emanuel’s love interests or Agnes’s failed attempts at dieting. And even those weren’t decent, but they were preferable to trying to explain why the prices were what they were, and how that wasn’t her personal decision. She, personally, wasn’t ‘capitalist scum trying to con the everyman’, which was pretty rich coming from someone who was … well, pretty rich.

      ‘Well, that’s me, deep as a shallow pool,’ Declan laughed, holding her gaze a little too long, until she felt her breath hitch. He stepped back and shrugged.

      ‘So …’ Imogen exhaled and heard it shake a little. ‘Cups?’

      ‘Cupholders,’ he shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

      Emanuel raised an eyebrow, ‘I find it surprising that your boss has got so much worse at ordering in the last few weeks. Before it was bad, but now it’s like he’s not even thinking.’

      ‘Seems normal to me,’ Declan said lightly, but glaring at Emanuel.

      ‘No, it’s definitely been more. We only used to see you once a month, and now, here you are every other day. Isn’t that funny, Imogen?’ A smile played around Emanuel’s mouth as he watched Declan shuffle, putting his hand in his pockets.

      ‘I don’t know, why would it be funny?’ she said, returning with a bag of cupholders. ‘Do you need this many?’

      ‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Emanuel grinned as Declan’s face reddened.

      ‘That’s fine,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sorry for bothering you.’

      Imogen shrugged. ‘It’s not a bother. Nice to see another member of the resistance.’

      He smiled a little, looking at her from under his lashes. ‘Cool.’

      Emanuel’s voice cut through again, as he began cleaning the coffee machine. ‘We were just talking about the fact that Imogen is a cold-hearted woman who has no interest in love.’

      ‘Were we?’ she heard her voice shriek a little, ‘because I thought we were talking about your need to stalk any female who comes in here.’

      ‘No,’ Emanuel’s accent twanged, ‘I believe we were talking about the fact that you are incapable of showing romantic interest in people, and that you should work on that. Go on dates, that sort of thing.’

      Emanuel was too casual, and when she chanced a glance at Declan, for some reason he was glaring at Emanuel, too. Maybe this was his thing, being a busybody in other people’s lives.

      ‘I’m sure I will, when I’m not falling down from exhaustion and staring at blank pages every night, wondering why I thought it was such a good idea to move to London and be a writer.’

      ‘Well, maybe you need some inspiration?’ Declan ventured awkwardly, rubbing the bristles on his chin. ‘This city is … well, it’s here to inspire. You won’t get anywhere by working here and sitting in your room.’

      ‘He’s right!’ Emanuel said, delighted. ‘Why don’t you let Declan take you out; he know London very well!’

      ‘Um –’

      ‘I –’

      ‘It’s a wonderful idea, no?’

      Imogen could feel herself blushing, but also knew she was glaring at Emanuel. She didn’t need a pity date. It was nice enough for Declan to come in, for her to quietly drool over him until he left, and then wait for her heart rate to return to normal. That was all she needed. That was enjoyable, in a distressing sort of way. Now, he’d feel guilty and obligated, and she didn’t need that.

      ‘That sounds–’ Declan started, glaring at Emanuel as well, when his phone rang. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, answering with ‘I’m just picking up cupholders like you asked’. He looked at Emanuel again. ‘I’m on my way.’

      He put his phone in his pocket, and picked up the bag. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to run. Apparently I’m taking the ruddy piss, or something. See you guys later.’ He sent a soft smile towards Imogen, and she nodded. Then he was gone.

      ‘What is WRONG with you?’ she rounded on Emanuel.

      ‘Sorry, darling, just trying to get you a life,’ he said, shrugging.

      ‘I have a life!’

      ‘A love life,’ he turned to serve a customer, leaving her completely irritated.

      She didn’t need Emanuel’s broken concept of love. She didn’t need love at all. All the classic fairy stories told her everything she needed to know – the women who would cut their feet in desperation for a chance at a glass slipper and a better life, the abandoned children, the evil stepmothers. Okay, so Babs wasn’t quite in that territory, unless there was a story about ‘irritatingly sweet stepmother equivalents’, but no one talked about the characters’ dreams. No one thought, ‘Holy crap, that princess is going to have to give up her whole life to get dressed up, be presented to the people, pop out royal sprogs, and who the hell cares what she dreamed of doing before?’ Love trapped you. Kept you in one place. Hell, if her dad hadn’t become obsessed with her mum, they never would have lived in Doncaster. Maybe he’d have stayed in London, gone to college like he used to mention. He always wanted to be an accountant. But he met Daisy, and he chased her to Doncaster, and there he stayed, the local butcher for ever more.

      Imogen always felt a little uncomfortable about how much her dad loved her mum, watching that unequal level of adoration. If love meant sacrificing every dream you ever worked for, and doing so without a second thought, she didn’t have time for love. Which was exactly what she told Emanuel when he brought the subject up again.

      He looked at her with pity. ‘If you don’t have time for love, you don’t have time for life.’

      Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Go play a mentor in a rom-com, why don’t you?’ Then she disappeared to rearrange the stockroom for an hour, just so she didn’t have to listen to him any more.

      *****

      Imogen thought her little cousin had asked for her address to send her things: letters, birthday cards, care packages with her Auntie’s homemade baklava. Apparently that was naive. When she arrived back from work that afternoon, there was Demi, all blue-streaked hair and leather jacket, sitting on her front step looking miserable, with

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