‘This flat is ridiculously empty.’ Declan looked around at her blank walls, grey as the morning light filtered through the broken blinds. She watched as he stretched across her bed diagonally, making it seem tiny. He was tanned, the sort of tanned that comes from working outside and never really seems to fade. He had one hand under his head, and the other holding a cigarette that he seemed to be playing with, rather than actually wanting to smoke. Imogen tried to blink away the thoughts of how she’d get the smell of cigarette smoke out of her sheets and whether she’d lose her deposit. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear and sat up as she handed him a mug of tea (strong, two sugars) and pulled the white duvet up around her, cradling her own tea (no sugar, dash of milk).
‘I can’t fit much more in here.’ She looked around at the built-in wardrobe, the books piled up along the window sill and the TV at the end of the bed.
‘I don’t mean stuff. I mean, like, stuff.’
‘Well, thanks for clearing that up.’
‘No.’ Declan shook his head, gesturing around the room. ‘Where is Imogen in here?’
‘Um, here?’ She pointed at herself.
He rolled his head back and let out a little squawk of annoyance. ‘There is none of your personality in this room. It’s like all the fun, colourful, sexy parts of you have just been painted over.’ He clicked his fingers and nodded at her. ‘This is the room of someone who didn’t think they’d be staying long enough to bother decorating.’
Imogen closed her eyes, hating the way he could accidentally fall onto some pseudo-psychological bullshit … and be absolutely right.
‘I was taking a big chance,’ she shrugged. ‘No one really thought I’d survive here and, to be honest, neither did I. Figured I’d try it out, probably fail, and end up somewhere a little bit more northerner-friendly, a little bit closer to home.’
‘And now?’ He tilted his head, as if he cared about the answer, green eyes locked onto hers.
‘Now I have the job, the friends, I’m making ends meet,’ she sighed, ‘and my family don’t really seem so desperate for me to come home, so …’
‘What d’ya mean?’ He slurped his tea, eyes still on her. There was something about that gaze that made her stomach itch. Like she was interesting. Like she had something to say.
‘My dad demanded I “let him have his life” after his new girlfriend moved in and destroyed any traces of my mother.’ Imogen felt her lip wobble a little, but she took a deep breath and imagined her spine made of steel. ‘So, I guess, after years of looking after him, he doesn’t need me. Apparently love only lasts until something better comes along. My mum and me included. So I may as well make my own life. I can do it without worrying now.’
‘Bit harsh, though, letting your mum’s memory just be trampled like that.’
His fingers traced her wrist to her elbow, soft and barely-there.
‘Yeah, just a bit. She’d made this beautiful fairy wood in the back garden when I was a kid, all wildflowers and wind chimes and sparkle.’ Imogen looked out of the skewed blinds at the grey-blue sky. ‘I miss having a garden. Having living things around in the middle of the hustle.’
‘That’s it!’ Declan grinned. ‘That’s what we’re going to do today!’
He jumped up on the bed, spilling most of his tea and nudging Imogen until he bounced onto the floor with a thud. ‘We’re going to decorate your flat – we’re going to make it your very own fairy wood!’
Imogen looked at him, all ruffled brown hair falling into his eyes, standing there in his boxers, grinning at her like she was in for an adventure.
‘Golden retriever,’ she said simply.
‘Woof,’ he replied and smacked her bum. ‘Get a move on. We’ve got a world to create!’
*****
‘I think I may enjoy arguing with you more than with my own family, and that’s saying something.’ Imogen stood back and admired their handiwork. The bland flat had been transformed, with plants, fake flowers, removable wall stickers and mirrors. A mirrored wind chime hung in the window, catching the light and reflecting it around the room like a discoball.
‘Well, I was right about the wall stickers, so I think I’m owed an apology, actually,’ he said, nudging her hip, ‘but I’ll settle for dinner.’
His phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his back pocket. ‘If that’s Jazz reminding me about fucking band practice again …’
He smiled at the screen and started texting, a smirk emerging.
‘Was it Jazz?’ Imogen asked, adjusting the plant hanging down from the top of her wardrobe.
‘Huh? Oh no, just Ella. Wondering what I’m up to,’ Declan shrugged, putting his phone away.
‘Uhuh.’ Imogen didn’t say anything. ‘Okay, well, do you want to go for dinner? My treat, as a thank you for today.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I was only joking about being bought dinner, but yeah, let’s get some grub.’
His phone beeped again. Imogen rolled her eyes. It had been happening all day. Ella has some recommendations for places we could get stuff. Ella really likes this colour. Ella thinks …
If ever Imogen did not want to hear what Ella thought, it was about what she was doing with her bedroom. She was an idiot to think she was anything more than a way to pass the time, wasn’t she?
As she washed her hands in the bathroom, admiring her new matching towels and bath mat in a bright jungle green, she noticed something behind the door. A little gnome with his hands over his eyes, his green hat at a jaunty angle.
Imogen walked back into the bedroom to see Declan still texting away.
‘Um, Dec. There’s a gnome in my bathroom.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking up. ‘I know he’s not Frederick, and he’s probably not going to give you presents if he has to live in the toilet, but every fairy wood has to have a gnome, right?’
Imogen blinked. Well, damn.
‘Sorry about the texting; she’s going through a hard time …’ Declan put his phone away. ‘This guy’s messing her around, and she’s kind of upset about it.’
The warm feelings about the gnome were dissipating rapidly with every mention of Ella. ‘Do you need to go to her?’ Imogen said simply.
He paused, considering it. ‘No, I’m here with you.’
Imogen fought back the temptation to say ‘Then be here with me! Not on your frigging phone!’
‘You’re sure?’
He stood up, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I am absolutely, positively, definitely, completely sure that I want to be here with you.’
He kissed her, tentative and sweet, paying attention as he gently bit her bottom lip. ‘But I think we should go for dinner in case we stay here and wake up the fairies with all your screaming.’
‘Excuse me?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You think you’re that good?’
‘And will be happy to prove it to you, madam, once I’ve been properly fed and watered,’ he grinned, resting a hand on her bum. ‘Come on, you’re going to need the calories. Lots of energy for later.’
Imogen rolled her eyes, but let herself be dragged by the hand out of the door, to the nearest steak restaurant.
*****
Receipt Deceit
You can tell a lot about a person by how they respond to being offered a receipt. Some baristas just automatically hand the receipt over without asking, but when I try to do that, I end up standing there for ages in some sort of homage to a stand-off at the OK Corral.
Look down at hand holding receipt.
Look up at customer.
She looks down at hand holding receipt.
She then looks up at me.
Raised eyebrow.
‘Would you like your receipt, madam?’ I ask, making it overtly obvious that the piece of paper I am trying to thrust at you is, in fact, yours to keep. Or not. Just tell me what you want.
‘No. Why on EARTH would I want that?’ Her voice rises and she appears offended as she puts away her purse (Miu Miu) into her bag (Dolce and Gabbana). ‘Do I LOOK like I need to worry about where my money is? Do I?’
Wow. Well, I suppose the stick up your arse is decorated with Swarovski crystals, too.
There are a few possible responses to this:
‘No, I don’t suppose you have to worry where your HUSBAND’s money is, you anti-feminist 1950s cliche.’
OR
‘Yes, I do. That’s clearly a fake D and G bag. I saw that in Wembley Market last weekend.’
Instead, I shake the shocked look off my face and replace it with a smile.
‘Of course not, madam. I’m very sorry to have insulted you with proof of purchase. I would offer you a paper bag for your purchases, but that might infer you are incapable of holding things. I would also give you a cup holder, but that might suggest your fingertips are overly sensitive and you can’t hold your drink. So I’ll just leave you to get on with your day without providing any of the services I am obliged to provide. In fact, I could just not make your coffee at all. Is that preferable?’
Of course, I don’t say this. (It’s rather disturbing just how much time I spend coming up with clever retorts in my head for customers who have already left.)
I smiled, I nodded, chuckled a little as if she was making a joke, and screwed up the receipt with more force than absolutely necessary. Then I told her to have a nice day. Because that’s what good coffee monkeys do. Even to entitled people with fake designer handbags. Ooh, I do hope she paid full price for it.
Probably didn’t get a receipt, either.
*****
‘Are you taking a picture of me?’ Imogen frowned at the little man with the huge circular glasses as she handed him his drink.
‘Um … well …’
‘Is this for that miserable barista thing?’ She widened her eyes. ‘Because I’m pretty sure taking pictures of other people without their consent is a violation of basic privacy rights.’ She wasn’t sure of that at all, but spoke with authority, while Agnes nodded aggressively from the till.
‘Well, you just looked so irritated when I asked you to change my drink …’
Yes, because you’ve made me remake it three times, and you wanted a medium three-shot-decaf, one-shot-caffeinated black Americano with ten ice cubes and a thimbleful of soy milk. I can’t imagine why I’d be irritated.
Imogen stared at him blankly. ‘My mother just died.’
He almost fell backwards in horror. ‘Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I didn’t, I mean … should you even be at work? You’re obviously not in a state …’ He grabbed his coffee and disappeared without even taking a straw.
‘Is that true?’ Agnes said suspiciously. ‘Because I think by law we have to give you time off.’
‘If you classify “just died” as ten years ago, then yeah, it’s true,’ she huffed, irritated at herself. ‘It was a low blow. I’m just tired of these idiots coming in taking pictures. I’m controlling my temper, my politeness, my words, but sometimes my face does things I don’t want it to. Including telling people exactly how annoying they are.’
‘I don’t think we have any control over your face in the barista guidelines, but I will look,’ Agnes said seriously, and Imogen just looked at her.
‘Joke,’ Agnes sighed. ‘I am joking. Sometimes I do that. Your face can do what it likes. I’m going for a break.’
She stormed off and Emanuel replaced her, holding up his hand for a high five.
‘Hey! I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!’ Imogen said.
‘I’ve been having adventures,’ Emanuel said, grinning to himself.
‘Shacked up with a pretty girl for a week until it all went wrong?’
He shrugged. ‘Love is complicated. C’est la vie. Onwards and upwards, Imogen.’ He turned to the next customer, an unimpressed-looking young woman wearing a vintage spotty dress and a hand-knitted beanie, even though it was July. Emanuel smiled, his voice taking on a languorous tone. The girl ordered a chai tea latte, and Imogen knew. Why he picked his crushes on beverage choice, she had no idea.
‘No, no, mademoiselle,’ he held up his hands, ‘I cannot take your money. Such a beautiful woman should never have to pay for her drinks.’
‘Oh, I …’ The girl paused, confused, and then smiled, preening just a little. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘You are most welcome. Have a lovely day.’ He nodded.
‘Thanks. You, too!’ The girl was no longer unimpressed, and Imogen noticed a slight blush on her cheeks. She handed her the drink and turned back to Emanuel.
‘You know it’s super creepy when you do that, right?’
He shrugged. ‘I was being friendly. I gave someone a compliment and a free drink, and it brightened their day. Where is the harm? It was one of my free drinks for the day.’
‘Well, maybe, if you’re so concerned with brightening people’s days, the next free drink and compliment should go to a man!’
Emanuel rolled his eyes. ‘Imogen, darling. If I give a man a compliment I will end up with my head through the coffee machine. Also we both know I’d be lying.’
‘So what happened to last week’s adventure?’
‘She was the light of my life, for a brief perfect week, and then she was gone. Back to her husband.’ Emanuel shrugged. ‘Win some, lose some. But our time together was perfection.’
Imogen bridled a little. ‘I don’t even know how to talk to you sometimes. That’s disgusting.’
‘Ooh, moral indignation. You think because two people sign a piece of paper it means anything? It means tax breaks and mortgages. Everyone’s got a story, Imogen. You should know that better than anyone.’
‘What, you mean she was stuck in a loveless marriage to a horrible man and she turned to you for comfort? Yeah, right.’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘And why should I know better than anyone?’
‘Because of Dec,’ Emanuel shrugged. ‘And because you’re a writer, you collect people’s stories.’
Imogen frowned, about to ask what, exactly, Dec had to do with anything, when Emanuel continued without looking at her.
‘Darling, just pour me an espresso please. You’re entirely too uptight. People do what they want, when they want, with who they want. You don’t control that. You’re just available for the journey or not.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t stalk anyone. I don’t force myself. I make it clear that I’m interested and then I leave them to it. That’s all I do.’
Imogen quietly fumed, still sure he was wrong, but not really sure what to say. It didn’t help that the chai-drinking-beanie-girl came over with her empty cup ten minutes later, said ‘thank you’, and left a piece of paper with her number on for Emanuel.
He grinned at her, pocketing the piece of paper.
‘You prat,’ said Imogen from the end of the bar, eating a teaspoon of whipped cream from a little pot in irritation.
‘Don’t hate,’ Emanuel laughed. ‘I just know how to play the game.’
Imogen’s mind still held questions, but maybe it was better to ask Dec upfront. If she even knew what she was meant to be asking.