‘So, childstar, how’s it been going shadowing the Infamous Tabitha Riley?’ Harry leaned on her desk. ‘Learning lots?’
‘Harrison,’ Tabby called over, ‘fuck off and do some work.’
He winked at Imogen and called back, ‘Love you, too, light of my life.’ Harry turned back to Imogen, talking quietly. ‘Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s fantastic. Learn everything you can from her. Except the self-deprecation. It’s worth being arrogant in this field.’
Imogen made a face.
‘Yeah, somehow felt you two were probably kindred in that way, too,’ he laughed. ‘Everything going okay, though? Feel free to come and moan at me if anything’s a problem.’
‘Are you very bored, Harry?’ Imogen asked cheekily, grinning at him.
‘Absolutely. I have to re-read this article that’s been edited about eight times and it’s still not right. I can’t even remember what it’s about and I’ve read it eight times. Bo-ring.’
‘Do you think maybe it shouldn’t go in the paper then? If the deputy editor thinks it’s boring?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not bad writing. I just don’t give a crap about horse racing,’ Harry laughed, ‘and sadly, at the moment, the paper is not “things Harry loves”.’
‘You can always dream,’ Imogen shrugged.
Harry raised his fist, a Judd Nelson Breakfast Club moment. ‘Keep fighting the power, Imogen.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Like I said, any problems, I’m only down the hall … in the big important office.’
Imogen shook her head and returned to her edits. ‘Cheers, Harry.’
It was a massive relief when your boss, especially one who wears designer suits and looks like he knows how charming he is, turns out to be a massive goofball.
Tabby came over. ‘Happy with the edits?’
She sat on the corner of the desk, her cherry-print dress matching the red sunglasses on top of her head. If my life was a movie, Imogen thought, I’d get a makeover. A free makeover that would cut my hair and make me walk tall. And Tabby Riley would be my inspiration. She’d wave a wand and my cupboard would suddenly be filled with fifties-style dresses, and matching accessories.
Imogen looked down at her bitten nails, her holey jeans and battered Vans. Nope, she really needed to stop making Londoners into her fairy godmothers.
‘Yep, all good. Everything looks about right,’ Imogen nodded. ‘I need to stop panicking about getting sued.’
‘Yup,’ Tabby nodded. ‘You’re protected. It’s your opinion, your life! You’re allowed to say these things. I’m sure there’s a lot of people out there really relating to what you’re saying.’
‘Doesn’t stop it being scary,’ Imogen shrugged.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Tabby nodded, standing up, ‘but it’s Friday in London, and the sun is shining. So I think a drink in a pub garden is necessary.’
‘But what about work?’ Imogen frowned, gesturing at her empty desk.
‘You mean you can’t look over my latest article for Miss Twisted Thinks while sipping a cold beer in sunny surroundings?’ Tabby shook her head sadly. ‘Tut tut, Miss Imogen. I have not been teaching you the ways of the writer at all. Come on then. Lesson one: your environment is your mindset.’
She hustled Imogen up and grabbed her bag, walking her to the lift.
‘And my mindset needs a super-cold glass of rose on a sunny afternoon. Let’s get inspired.’ Tabby winked, and Imogen shook her head. No, definitely her fairy godmother.
*****
‘Have you seen the response you’re getting online?’ Demi didn’t bother saying hello when Imogen answered the phone as she walked to work.
‘No. Tabby said it’s best not to read the reviews. She forwards me the good ones, though.’
Demi affected her voice. ‘Oh, Tabby says! Well, maybe Tabby should tell you that the Metro ran an article this morning on “The West London Coffee Bitch”.’
Imogen choked a little, then laughed. ‘Man, I wish I’d thought of that as a moniker. So much more chilling!’
‘To be fair, it wasn’t all mean, but it started this #miserablebarista hashtag where people are tweeting in their pictures of irritated baristas, wondering if any of them are you.’ Demi snorted. ‘Have I mentioned how jealous I am of your life?’
‘Being called a bitch in print? Yeah, lucky me,’ Imogen laughed, rolling her eyes, but eager to get Demi off the phone so she could look at the pictures people sent in.
‘London … working with a real journalist … shagging some hot guy …’ Demi sighed. ‘You’re living the dream.’
‘Yeah … almost. Except I still have to do my sucky job,’ Imogen shrugged as she neared BeanTown, watching across the road as Ella stood smoking a cigarette, looking more Italian chic than Imogen even thought possible. ‘And … other things.’
‘You sound like you don’t want to talk about it,’ Demi said.
‘Not really. The “shagging the hot guy” comes with complications.’
‘Doesn’t it always?’
Imogen watched as Ella greeted one of their customers passing by, chatted with the delivery man and winked at a little child. All she needed was to be dressed by tiny animals and the girl had walked out of a fairy story. Which meant Imogen was the evil witch getting in the way, obviously. Evil witches don’t get the prince. At least not in the end. They probably got to have great sex, though.
‘This complication is a six-foot Italian goddess who is a sort-of-not-quite ex,’ Imogen sighed, ‘and jealousy and insecurity do not become me.’
‘Imogen! You’re the West London Coffee Bitch! That beats Italian goddess every time. Honestly,’ said Demi seriously, ‘I have the Top Trump cards to prove it.’
‘Sometimes you don’t get the happy ending just because you deserve it.’ Imogen shook her head, irritated at herself.
‘Who’s saying anything about endings? Shag him for as long as he’s exciting and then let him go back to the Italian. Casual, remember?’ Demi laughed. ‘Although the idea of you doing casual is hilarious.’
‘Why? I’ve done it before.’
‘With Neil? Neil who rarely left his dorm room except to find weed and family-sized bags of Monster Munch?’ Demi snorted. ‘You were hardly overwhelmed with passion.’
‘He was all right,’ Imogen said half-heartedly, knowing that Demi was right. The situations weren’t even comparable.
‘He was unwashed and uninteresting. But you, dear cousin, are a fairy-tale junkie. You’re also an addictive personality.’
‘Everyone gets through the entire series of Orange Is the New Black in two days! That’s what Netflix is for!’ Imogen argued. She could hear her cousin rolling her eyes.
‘No, dummy. When you want something, you binge on it. Find a book on a subject you’re interested in – you buy five and read them all. Start a new hobby, you become consumed by it until you’re bored or a pro. You’re all or nothing. It’s like there’s a switch in your head that says “super obsessed” or “not bothered at all”.’
Demi made sense. And loath as she was to admit it, Dec was falling into the ‘super obsessed’ category. His body, his eyes, the way his laugh was so loud she could hear it the minute she walked into his coffee shop. The roughness of his fingertips and the way he smoked his cigarettes, like he was having a conversation in his head about how he really had to quit soon.
It wasn’t love, though. It was just … appreciation.
‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ Demi commanded.
‘Nope, you’re completely spot on,’ Imogen sighed. ‘But casual is what I’ve got, so I’m going to enjoy it for as long as I can.’
She crossed the road and Ella looked up, waving. I need to stop thinking this girl is the enemy, Imogen thought to herself. She’s lovely. It’s not her fault she met him first. And that’s she’s lovely.
‘Yeah, well, enjoy it as long as it serves you. Don’t let yourself get dragged into bullshit,’ Demi said seriously. ‘I may visit soon. It’s getting all nutty up here again.’
‘Sure thing. Would be good to see you. Anyway, I’ve got to get into work, so I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Laters Gator,’ Demi said, the same goodbye she’d chanted since they were kids, and hung up.
‘Imogen!’ Ella smiled at her, those perfect dark eyes twinkling. ‘Hope you didn’t mind me stealing Declan away the other evening.’
Imogen listened for a hint of sarcasm, but all she heard was friendliness.
She shrugged, smiling back. ‘No, I had my own stuff to do. We’re pretty relaxed anyway.’
Ella nodded solidly. ‘Yes, that’s the way he always is with women. Has a little fling, then comes back again.’ She flicked her cigarette into the gutter. ‘Anyway, see you in there!’
Imogen stood outside, taking a deep breath. That was something, that was definitely something. The woman was so hard to read, though. Was it the accent that threw meaning where it wasn’t warranted? Her perfectly relaxed face never showed any sign of spite or sarcasm. Maybe she just wasn’t worried. Maybe when Declan was done with her he’d run back to Ella like every other time. If she were Ella, she wouldn’t be intimidated by an Imogen. She’d laugh at the idea that an Imogen could steal away a beautiful man.
But who cared, right? A little fun, and then her writing career would be interstellar and there’d be no time for Declan anyway.
Agnes knocked on the window by her face and yelled, ‘You standing outside all day or you actually here to work?’
Imogen sighed deeply and opened the door. Maybe it was time for the West London Coffee Bitch to have a crack at dictator supervisors with whipped cream addictions.
*****
Before I started this blog, some customers were so horribly rude that I couldn’t do anything but walk around in a dumb sort of shock for the rest of the day, spluttering in disbelief. I would carry around this weight in my chest, half rage, half sympathy, like a kicked puppy.
But now, whenever a real arsehole appears, I feel automatically vindicated. Because he (or she) will feel the might of my pen (keyboard) and will get what’s coming to them.
So here goes …
Mr Wanker Banker
(Or The Rudest Human I’ve Ever Had the Misfortune of Meeting)
So I join the situation to find a man screaming at my colleague. (I’d taken his order a few moments before, before going to restock. He ordered a decaf extra-dry soya cappuccino. I should have known there would be trouble).
He’s yelling because we won’t accept his £20 note. Why won’t we accept it? Because it looks like a dog had a real fun time eating most of it. It’s not even that it’s ripped and taped back up – that would be fair enough. There is more of the note MISSING than there is of it in existence.
He’s insisting that it’s valid, which is, I’m assuming, why he keeps screaming the phrase ‘LEGAL TENDER’ over and over.
He may be right. The metal strip of the note is intact – it’s the only thing that is. However, I and my fellow baristas are not risking our necks because he refuses to pay on a card.
He then comes out with this charming retort:
‘It’d be accepted in YOUR country.’
My supervisor very calmly turns around and replies, ‘Which country is that, sir?’
He seems to realise that blatant racism isn’t actually a good thing, and backtracks. ‘NO, I mean THIS country, YOURS and MINE! THIS is your country, too!’
Well, thanks for that, Hitler. Good to know.
And if he wasn’t talking about Britain, it wouldn’t make sense, because, duh, the pound would not be legal tender in Poland.
He then continues to rant on and on, louder and louder as I begin to fear for my blood pressure. Am slightly concerned that if I look into a mirror I will begin to turn into The Hulk.
Then:
‘And I would KNOW about all this. I work for the Bank of England!’
Aaah, THAT’S why you’re a massive wanker! Got it! Okay, I know what I’m dealing with now. Except that’s clearly a massive lie.
‘Well, in that case, sir, I’m sure they’d be very happy to exchange that note for you.’
That’s why B of E came tumbling down. They’re accepting non-existent banknotes. Illuminating! Also, don’t brag about being a banker to a minimum-wage coffee monkey. Yes, we know you’re a rich twat, but we’d really rather not know you’re a rich twat who may or may not be responsible for the economic state of our country. OUR country.
He’s still rabbiting on, while the girl on the till’s eyes are wide in terror, like she’s standing in front of a hurricane. He is shouting in her face so loudly I think I can see her hair being pushed back from the force of it.
I drown him out with my own homicidal thoughts until he ends on this lovely jewel:
‘It IS legal tender, it’s ALWAYS been legal tender, and I know all about it and if you don’t know that then you’re clearly as stupid as you look, and you’re uneducated and need to get an education’
Exit, stage right … where he continues as the poor supervisor slogs away at his drinks. I hope she gave him regular instead of decaf. Not that he needs any more energy; he has righteous indignation to fuel him.
An education? An education. Right, it’s not like, oh, EVERYONE working here has a degree, or qualifications, or is working on a degree, or a Master’s or a PhD, working so they can intern, or retrain. It’s not like any of us have any sense of competency, in ANY area, because of course, we’re foreign coffee monkeys who can just about understand the words ‘decaf soya cappuccino’ if you enunciate … really … slowly …
All I can say is they obviously don’t EDUCATE bankers that treating other human beings like they are capable of independent thought is a good thing, and that throwing a hissy fit in a public place, over two coffees that cumulatively add up to less than five pounds, is not.
Oh, right, it’s the economy, stupid … shall we perhaps reconsider that? It’s the state of the rich and entitled who think we are morons because we are not rich and entitled … stupid.
Here’s hoping that was his last note, and when he goes to the cashpoint, he finds that he’s bankrupt … well, that’s the cost of a decent education.