‘How goes the professional bitching?’ Demi asked, sounding irritable at the other end of the phone. Imogen supposed, with the crazy working, and then spending most of her week off either with Dec or discussing plans for possible gig nights at the Hope and Anchor with Keith, she hadn’t really been there for her younger cousin.
‘Pretty good. Remind me to get that printed on my business cards,’ Imogen smirked.
‘And how is Mr Casual, the gentleman caller?’
‘Completely ungentlemanly and just how I like ‘em,’ Imogen laughed. ‘Actually he’s got a gig in a few weeks that I’m helping set up, and I wondered if you wanted to come down for it?’
‘Sure.’ She could hear Demi shrugging. ‘What else have I got to do except sit around waiting to die?’
‘Cheerful. What did they do now?’
‘Mum found my jewellery-making supplies for my Etsy store. She was getting on at me for staying up in my room all the time ‘doing God knows what’. I made the terrible mistake of telling her it was a business.’
Imogen paused, waiting for Demi’s inevitable ‘my mother the evil witch’ impression, complete with thick accent and the perfect balance of disappointment and rage.
‘Business? What business! You go to work, you come home like good girl. You don’t go see friends, you have no time for family! You a selfish, selfish girl buying all these things!’ Demi impersonated, then cleared her throat.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I said, “Mama, I’ll pay you some rent if you’re so worried about it.”’
‘Holy shit,’ Imogen winced. ‘What did she say to that?’
‘She made the sign of the cross three times, asked God for strength and hasn’t spoken to me in four days.’
‘You knew that would wind her up, though. Anything else but family and hospitality. You could have said her moussaka tasted like dogshit and she’d be less upset.’
‘I’m regressing!’ Demi whined. ‘The longer I’m here the more I want to do things just to irritate them! I’m in my old room with the single bed, with Hello Kitty on my duvet cover, and all they’re bothered about is that I’m in the house, but not in their way!’
‘Are you looking for design work?’
‘What’s the point? I’ve got no savings, and while they don’t really want me here, they don’t want me gone!’
‘Can’t win,’ Imogen shrugged, ‘so come to London.’
‘You’re encouraging me to run away again?’
‘No, I’m encouraging you to think about getting a high-paid job in the capital so you can share a half-decent flat with your writer cousin,’ Imogen laughed. ‘But actually, I was talking about visiting.’
‘To see your boyfriend’s band.’
‘To see Dec’s band,’ Imogen corrected.
‘You still don’t know what the fuck’s going on?’ Demi sighed. ‘I thought he was all sweet and thoughtful and being a regular Prince Charming?’
‘Yeah, he has been. We’re fine. Having fun, keeping it casual. Why does everything need a label?’
Demi exhaled, clearly frustrated. ‘Because you’re you! You’re the brainiac who spent four years studying happy ever after! You think you’re going to get that with someone who doesn’t know if he’s your prince or not?’
Imogen huffed. ‘I may already have my fairy-tale ending – being empowered, living alone, writing with my idol and being happy. Who says I need a prince?’
‘Uh, duh – the stories.’
‘The prince is a metaphor for the thing that fixes your life. Dec isn’t my prince, London is.’
‘Urgh!’ Demi let out a little yelp. ‘Look, if I thought you were really cool with no commitment and this Ella chick hanging around in the wings waiting for you to choke on an espresso, then fine. But you’re not cool with it. Because you’re you.’
‘I want to be cool with it. And Ella’s apparently been going through a hard time. They’re friends. She’s my colleague. Not everything’s sex and secrecy.’
‘I know you think you’re all London bohemian now, but that doesn’t mean you have to befriend your boyfriend’s bit on the side.’
‘She’s not his bit on the side.’
‘She was,’ Demi said simply.
‘Yeah.’ Imogen was suddenly really tired of everything.
‘You’re the writer – do feelings ever go away? Or do they lie there waiting to reappear and cause trouble for everyone?’
Imogen was silent. Demi counted fifteen seconds. It was childhood again, and Imogen, the older, sensible cousin would inevitably cave. But she was frosty about it.
‘You coming to the gig or not?’ was all she said.
‘Yeah, text me the date,’ Demi replied coldly and hung up. They’d apologise in an hour or so, Imogen knew, but the problem was that once Demi said something, so insistent and demanding, it infiltrated Imogen’s thoughts. Perhaps she was right; maybe she wasn’t cool and collected. She always had been, though – the situation with Neil at uni, always relaxed, no drama. No passion either. Unless, maybe in the most horrifying way, Dec was enough to make her want to commit, and she wasn’t enough to make him? There comes a point where you have to stop time-wasting. It had been months. Months of mostly fun, mostly lovely, happy times. But it was the moments of being pushed away, the idea that if anything serious ever happened, she wasn’t able to be the person to deal with it, that were starting to get old. It was time to stop coasting. Imogen selfishly wished she could put it off as long as possible. As long as she could stay cool. The moment she felt herself visualising throwing a frapshake at Ella, that was when she had to end it.
The truth was, she just wasn’t the sort of girl to make a man look at his life and say, ‘I will do anything to keep you.’ She was the sort of girl who was fun to be around, was occasionally motherly or a shoulder to cry on, and then they were gone. She used to watch them at uni, those girls watching the broken boys, the bad boys, so sure they could change them, make them shiny and new. They’d make them ‘boyfriend material’, that was the mantra. They would fail, time and time again, and then, somehow, along came a girl who wasn’t trying, and she changed the guy’s whole life. Some people were just like that, the important ones. The Game Changers. Imogen was not a game changer. She was just someone passing through.
She turned back to her laptop, scouring through her notes to access some sort of bitterness, something she could use to be funny. But she didn’t feel angry or funny or outraged. She just felt sad. And nobody wanted to read about that.
*****
Staring, Stalking and other Shite
Hey, here’s a question: do you ever find yourself inexplicably staring into the cold, dead eyes of a caffeine addict? No? Then you must not be a barista. I don’t know if it’s the demand for attention, or the fact that they should probably switch to decaf, but people stare.
Not even like ‘Oh, that crazy woman has mocha sauce on her neck and is begging the espresso machine to hurry up’-type staring. More like ‘If I kidnapped you and stole your clothes I could probably wring them out and get a hit by drinking that’ kinda staring.
Please stop, it’s creepy. If I am making eye contact with you, it is because I am LISTENING TO WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME. It is not because I want your babies. When this is the case, you’ll never know.
Similarly, if you have been into the store every week for the last year, and if you have been an ARSEHOLE, I am going to remember your drink. Even if you haven’t been in for three weeks. Because THAT’S MY JOB. You don’t need to blink at me and go ‘Oh. Creepy’. Also, if it’s that easy for someone who neither knows nor likes you to figure out your schedule, maybe you should shake it up with a little spontaneity. Not that ‘go to work-get coffee-go to the gym – get coffee’ isn’t massively exciting. Every day. But … well, if you were in a movie where you got mixed up with the mob, you’d be really easy to find and kill. That’s all I’m saying. Luckily, you don’t do anything interesting enough to get involved with the mob. You know how I know this? Because you’re ALWAYS HERE, looking at me like I’m nuts because I can remember you’re that rude guy who always throws his money at me and demands a double espresso.
Also, while we’re on this subject, please do not ‘congratulate’ me on being able to remember your drink/name/the topic of conversation the last time we talked. If you’re pleased you can say ‘Oh it’s so nice that you remembered!’ That’ll do fine. Do NOT call me a ‘good girl’ (I am not a dog. I do not work for treats or respond to reinforcing good behaviour. Fuck you), or tell me ‘Oh look, you have a memory!’ (Yes, I am, as we have established, a HUMAN BEING. When you’ve got a robotic barista asking how your kid is doing at uni, maybe THEN is the time to freak out).
I am providing a service. I am providing a personalised beverage and/or food while letting you know that you are a special little snowflake, just as individual as every other fucking moron that comes in here and pretends I’m a stalker. I’m NOT. I’m just fairly OKAY at my job, which requires REMEMBERING things.
But back to uncomfortable eye contact. Sometimes it happens accidentally. You’re making a latte, milk gets in your eye, you squint, and Robby McRandom thinks you’re hitting on him. You ask how someone’s day is, and they ask you what time you get off work. You ask if they want whipped cream on their hot chocolate and they look at you like you just pulled a leather whip out of your apron pocket. What the fuck is wrong with everyone?
Eye contact is a necessary part of human interaction. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem like we’re listening to you. So then you SHOUT IN MY FACE. Or, alternatively, your eye contact is so dead-and-creepy that I look away, and then you think I’m being coy. Read back over this post. Do I seem at ALL like a person who is capable of acting coy? If so, then you’re still not using your eyes the way they need to be used. Which is to SEE when you are making minimum-wage coffee monkeys uncomfortable.
If you don’t want me to remember who you are, consider this list of people we DO remember:
– The arsehole customers who are always rude
– The arsehole customers who always make you remake their drink at least twice
– The arsehole customers who have ridiculously complicated drinks orders
– The nice customers who come in every day and have a slightly unique drink
– The nice customers who have had a distinctive conversation with you about something you’re interested in (travel/ interesting job/festivals/local news/coffee)
– The nice customers with hilarious/cute children
– The nice customers who have previously bought us a gift at Christmas (I know, right?!)
– Anyone with a specific signifier (the Raspy Voice Lady, the South African Music Teacher, the GingerBread Family, That Woman Who Keeps Trying to Get Free Stuff, etc)
– Anyone who at first seemed cute, and then turned out to be an arsehole customer
– Anyone who at first looked like an arsehole customer, but then turned out to be a sweetheart
– Anyone who comes in more than once a day
The rest of you: de more interesting.
Also, perhaps consider drinking something other than a latte, and changing your name to something with more than one syllable. Or possibly cultivate an accent, or a hobby that you’re comfortable talking about in public. Trying to convince your wife to sleep with you, and asking for pointers, does NOT count as ‘acceptable waiting-for-coffee conversation’ FYI.
You remember how people interact in the Real World? They remember people who have shown interest in them. You know, like conversation? If you ask me how I am, I’m not automatically going to assume you’re chatting me up. I’m going to assume that, like a decent human being, it makes more sense to have an asinine conversation about the weather for thirty seconds than to stand there in silence. But, whatever.
And if you’ve never been caught in an awkward situation with a Starer, then it’s entirely likely that YOU are the one causing these awkward situations. Stop. Staring. And drink decaf.
*****
‘Sir, if you are taking a picture of me I have to warn you that I will be forced to call security to take your phone and delete the images,’ Agnes warned a customer who was sneakily trying to angle a photo behind the coffee bar.
‘I just wanted to do a Monday “hashtag miserable barista”,’ he whined, ‘seeing as you’re all so cheerful this morning.’
‘Sir …’ Agnes smiled her ‘corporate responsibility’ smile. ‘I understand your desire to share my staff’s exhaustion on a Monday morning, especially as you’re starting your day in here at eight-thirty a.m., when they’ve been here setting up since five a.m. I am very sorry that they are not perky enough for you. But perhaps having to remake your drink five times because the ice wasn’t ‘crunchy’ enough for you, while you try and take pictures of their sad, minimum-wage-making faces, might be part of the problem.’
Imogen grinned into the coffee machine – bazinga! Agnes, when you got her going, was a badass. Normally, her route to acknowledging the customer was blaming the staff’s incompetence, but ‘hashtag miserable barista’ had really started to get to her.
‘Well, looks like we found the West London Coffee Bitch.’ The man grinned at Agnes, as Imogen handed over his drink.
‘No, sir, but whoever he or she is, I definitely agree with them. Have a lovely day.’ Agnes dismissed him, turning with a wide grin to the next customer.
By the time the morning rush had finished, and everything was clean, ready for the lunch rush, with frapshakes galore for the tourists and business people suffering through a heatwave, Agnes’s retort had almost been forgotten.
Except by Imogen.
‘Thanks for standing up for all of us,’ Imogen ventured, and Agnes raised an eyebrow, sipping on an iced black coffee.
‘With the photos thing,’ she elaborated.
Agnes looked at her tiredly. ‘I have done this job for years. People have been rude in more ways than I could imagine. They’ve been racist, sexist, judged my language skills, my nationality, my abilities. They’ve called me stupid and ignorant and seen me as less than a person. More of a robot, or a well-trained dog. But up until this miserable barista thing, they never seemed to …’ – she searched for the word – ‘… revel in our sadness or exhaustion. It used to be they would be rude to make themselves feel better. Now they’re doing it to take a photo and share it with the world. It makes me sick.’
Imogen felt partly responsible for this. If she hadn’t started Twisted Barista, the opposing paper wouldn’t have started the hashtag. She was going to write an ‘in defence of miserable baristas everywhere’ post tonight.
‘No whipped cream today?’ Imogen nodded at the iced coffee. In fact, she hadn’t seen Agnes with a whipped cream pot in a week or so.
Agnes rolled her eyes, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears. ‘No, no more whipped cream for me. I was going through a break-up, and comfort eating. Panicking about paying bills when he left, trying to survive. But … not a good choice.’ Suddenly, she looked at Imogen like she’d shared too much. ‘Anyway, take your break now, before the lunch rush. Be back at twelve sharp,’ she said brusquely and marched off, before Imogen could even say she was sorry.
Still, she was becoming a human, so that seemed like a good step in the right direction.
On the lunch break she texted Dec.
‘Do something tonight?’
The reply was instant. ‘Got band practice till seven – come watch for a bit, if you like? Then get dinner?’
Imogen briefly thought that sounded a bit like a girlfriendly duty, but agreed anyway. She could always do some writing to a background track of sixties-style rock ‘n’ roll.
*****
‘Hey, you must be Imogen.’ A bearded man in plaid opened Dec’s front door. ‘I’m Earl. Come on in.’
She followed him down the narrow corridor, to the sound of chattering and drum beats. The living room was cramped full of kit and what looked like a group of unwashed boys. Dec looked up from tuning his bass and grinned at her. ‘Hey! You’re here!’ He sidled over to kiss her cheek. ‘Guys, this is Imogen!’
They nodded and hello’d, Dec making her a cup of tea and Earl offering her a plate of biscuits arranged neatly.
‘Wow, I guess I thought band practice would be all beer and noise,’ she laughed, taking a chocolate digestive. Earl smiled kindly at her. ‘Sometimes it is, but we’re making a good impression.’
Imogen shrugged. ‘Don’t dial down the rock ‘n’ roll on my account.’
‘Listen to the lady, fellas, she wants rock ‘n’ roll!’ Jazz was the frontman, a weedy little guy with a shaved head and a thin, dark moustache. He seemed to have an intense energy about him, always bobbing about, head moving to an invisible beat, rarely making eye contact or talking in full sentences.
But when they started to play, Imogen could see why. All that nervous energy seemed to lift the music, a deep, sweet voice emerging from him. Imogen watched Dec’s face as he played, grinning at his hands, eyes closed as he seemed to feel the music.
They were good, Imogen admitted. They had passion and rhythm and charm. Imogen had two cups of tea, almost an entire plate of biscuits, and was happy enough listening, making notes in her notebook about nothing and everything. She was surprised by how much she was enjoying herself. As they finished with what seemed to be a thirty-second drumroll and a clashing of guitars, Dec threw off his bass and whooped. ‘All right, lads, I’m off to have dinner with a beautiful lady. See you next week!’
‘Mate, this is your house …’ Jazz shook his head at him.
‘Then don’t forget to close the front door when you leave.’ Dec winked at Imogen. ‘Ready to go, Trouble?’
She stood up and nodded at them all. ‘Nice to meet you guys. I think the show is gonna be great. Keith’s really excited to have you guys play.’
‘Ah yes, fair Imogen set up our newest gig locale!’ Earl nodded. ‘Cheers for that.’
‘Yeah, yeah …’ Jazz nodded away, his cockney accent strong. ‘You can come again, babe. He’s much better at playing when he’s showing off for his missus.’
‘Oi,’ Dec laughed. ‘Let’s go before they get any meaner.’
They stepped out onto the street and Imogen breathed deep, the warm summer air fresh on her skin. Dec’s hand rested at the base of her spine, pulling her towards him. ‘Hey, not so fast there, lady.’ He pulled her towards him, kissing her. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck, curling the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers. He pulled back, eyes close to hers. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.’
Imogen smiled, leaning her forehead against his. ‘Well, then I’m glad you did.’
She straightened, taking his hand. ‘So, where we going for dinner?’
Declan grinned. ‘Only the best and most extravagant date yet.’
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting on swings in an empty park, with a extra-large pizza box at their feet. ‘Night-time picnic,’ Imogen laughed. ‘Definitely new. We’re not going to get stabbed by youths, are we?’
Declan rolled his eyes. ‘If they tried, I’m pretty sure you could take ‘em.’
‘I will do what’s necessary to protect this pizza,’ she said seriously, swinging her legs out in front of her. ‘You come here often?’
‘Only when I want to eat pizza with a pretty girl in the middle of the night,’ he laughed. ‘So here’s a question. You heard from your dad at all?’
Imogen huffed. ‘Nope. A Greek man’s pride. Or maybe he’s just busy with his new life.’
‘That kind of sucks.’
Imogen sighed. ‘He found something else to make his life full … it’s just shocking … I mean, if you’d seen what he was like before.’
Imogen scuffed her feet, twisting the chains of the swing.
‘My dad lived for my mum. He adored her. I’d never seen anything like that kind of love before.’ She smiled to herself, lost in thought. ‘It was icky when you were a kid, seeing your parents so in love. They were the dancing-in-the-kitchen kind of parents. Snuggled up watching movies. She loved him, really loved him, but the way he looked at her … it was like he was the luckiest person on earth.’
Dec smiled at the ground softly, like he knew exactly what she meant.
‘When she was ill, he was like a zombie. Desperate to keep her there, looking for any ridiculous response to the cancer. He spent more time on the internet looking at chakra healing forums, colour therapy, macrobiotic diets, meditation … she didn’t want to do any of it. She wanted to be comfortable, be with us. But … he couldn’t deal with the idea of letting her go.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘When she died, he just disappeared.’
‘People change when they’re in pain,’ Dec said, his hand resting on the edge of her swing. ‘Grief’ll do that to you.’
‘You know,’ she shook her head, ‘it wasn’t even that he disappeared … it was that I disappeared. I looked after everything. Cooked, cleaned, figured out bills, arranged the funeral, forced him to go to work … he looked through me most days, didn’t see anything but the gaping hole she left behind.’
Dec squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips and planting a kiss there.
‘It’s dangerous, that love business. All sorts of complications,’ he said simply.
‘Yes, it is.’ She looked at him closely, almost willing him to share something. Come on, one tiny part of what makes you who you are, how you’ve been hurt. Tell me something real.
She left their hands intertwined, hanging between the swings. Declan smiled at her, and she shook away her thoughts. Closed book.
‘Have you got an early shift tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘No, why?’
He shrugged. ‘Want to go eat the rest of this pizza in my bed, and listen to the band get quietly drunk downstairs?’
‘Quietly?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘Well … loudly, until I shout at them to get the hell out so we can make our own noise.’ He pulled her up, kissing her neck as he cradled her.
‘I can never work out if you think you’re actually being charming when you say shit like that,’ she laughed, crouching to grab the pizza box.
‘That’s because you know I’m being charming,’ he said as they started walking back.
‘Hey, Dec, I forgot to ask a really basic question.’ Imogen put her arm around his waist as they walked. ‘What’s the name of the band?’
‘Chocolate Biscuit,’ he said seriously, looking at her. ‘What?’
*****
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
There’s just something about Sundays that sucks arse. Big time. The clearest and simplest reason is that you’re serving people who are spending time (not quality time, but time nonetheless) with their families and friends. Which just reminds you that you are not.
Or it could be that people are just massive wankers on Sundays.
Example One:
The Hungover Arsehole
‘Give me a fiveshot black Americano.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Are you being SNIPPY with me? I have a HANGOVER!’
Oh, I’m sorry, did I miss the part where having an overabundance of alcohol in your system means social norms don’t apply to you? And maybe if you’re so fucking hungover you shouldn’t have DRIVEN to the coffee shop. Or maybe you should have had a shower. That would have made you feel better. And the rest of us would really appreciate it.
These aren’t really too bad. Usually, you look a bit affronted, then they get all bashful and go ‘sorry, raging hangover’, and together you laugh at why a thirty-five-year-old man still can’t figure out how to hold his drink. It’s a delightful bonding exercise.
Except, there’s The Drunk Arsehole.
‘OI LOVE! OI! YOU! YEAH! YOU! DARLIN’! WANNA GO ON A DATE?’
‘I want to get you a cup of coffee.’
‘THAT’S LIKE A DATE INNIT?’
‘Do you normally pay your dates?’
‘ … I’ll have a black coffee. Two sugars.’
The worst of these was the bigoted, homophobic, racist moron dancing around with a broom and a traffic cone on his head, shouting insults. The best was the confused tipsy man who walked in after a work party and asked if he was anywhere near Manchester Central Station. That was the last place he remembered from the night before.
Now, none of these compares with the families. Or, more especially:
The One-Day-a-Week-Dads.
The worst thing about this particular specimen of customer is that they’re not always divorced dads who don’t really know how to bond with their kid in the limited time they have. That, maybe, I could understand. They buy the kids everything they could possibly eat or drink in the hope that providing will make them the world’s best father. That’s fine, good luck to you.
It’s the ones who aren’t separated that drive me nuts. You’re looking after your children for AN HOUR. And you don’t know the dimensions of the buggy so you keep bashing into people, and you wait in a queue, telling the kid to be quiet so you can phone Mummy and ask if dear little Tarquin is allergic to nuts or dairy.
THIS IS YOUR KID. Stop treating it like a one-day training exercise. Yes, we do babychinos. Yes, it’s just froth. Yes, chocolate has dairy in it. No, your wife doesn’t normally give your kid chocolate cake at eight in the morning. Yes, I can get you a high chair. No, it’s not adjustable. Yes, a chocolate cream has chocolate in it. No, we don’t do sugar-free caramel.
No, I’d rather little Timmy didn’t hold up a queue of fifteen people because you want him to put the card in the machine because your wife said it’s good for his motor functions. Now we have to reset the cash register. Thanks. At times like this, I miss your wife. And that’s saying something, because she’s a vindictive spoilt cow who talks to me like I’m a moron. But at least she knows what she wants to fucking drink.
And don’t spend fifteen minutes lecturing me on why you don’t want to pay for extra shots of coffee, just to insist on a takeaway bag for your cake, and EAT IT OFF THE TABLE. What, you’re sitting there with an iPad, but you refuse to spend twenty pence so you can have a plate? No, go ahead, please hold up an entire slew of people to ensure your child gets ‘the best possible babychino, in a bigger cup’ (who knew dick-swinging could apply to childcare?), but then sit and ignore the kid by having loud, obnoxious phone conversations with Larry at the office. And then sit waiting desperately for your wife to appear, only to hold up your darling demon child, and show her he’s still breathing and everything.
So you both toddle out, happy that you have proven your interest in your mini-me, and I am left with the destruction you have caused. The bits of tissue dear little Joel has shredded, the crumbs of carrot cake he decided to press into the sofas. The stickers on the floor, the chocolate milk sprayed across the windows, and, in general, enough mess to warrant three cleaners and a forensics team.
Now I’m not saying all our dads are like this. We have a few stay-at-homes who come in every day, collect their coffee, allow their very polite children to ask for some water, and then quietly entertain them for an hour or so. These people are lovely. But they do not come in on Sundays. Because they, in their infinite wisdom, know that arseholes are about.
Oh, and a special shout out to the Sunday Dad who came in ten minutes before closing, ordered a drink, dithered about making me change said drink, and then said I looked tired. When I pointed out I’d just worked a ten-hour shift, he said, ‘Oh yes, that would make you tired. I’ve spent all day watching TV.’
Did I go off about how I have two degrees, and am now going off to my second of three jobs after I finish that shift? Nope. Instead, I decided to pity someone who wastes a Sunday in such a manner.
So go forth readers, enjoy good coffee, make good children. And for fuck’s sake, don’t waste a Sunday!