In between helping Keith at the Hope, working double shifts as Ella had gone on holiday and Agnes had gone back home, and writing her articles, Imogen didn’t have much time to miss Dec. She also didn’t have much time to worry about Ella’s threat. She’d got what she wanted, and Imogen was toying with the idea of getting transferred to a different BeanTown. She was sure there had to be other areas of London where bankers, hipsters and tourists all congregated to make baristas’ lives hell – she could live in any of them.
The thought of leaving tugged at her. Perhaps she could keep her little flat, with her fairy garden, and just commute … perhaps, perhaps.
She was cleaning up under the bar, rearranging the straws, when a distinctive cough grabbed her attention. She should place a little bell on the bar so she was allowed to wander away for more than three seconds, Imogen thought to herself as she got to her feet.
Declan blinked at her.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ she replied. ‘What’s in the box?’
He was holding a huge cardboard box, but didn’t seem to be struggling with it. It was easier to focus on the box than on him, how he good he looked. A little tired, maybe, a little paler. The gig was in a couple of days and she could notice the string lines across his fingertips and lips that had been bitten.
‘Stock. My manager insisted we give back a bunch of stuff, as it was throwing off our stock take and ordering system,’ he shrugged, gesturing with the box. ‘Shall I stick it out the back?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, thanks.’
Emanuel watched with narrowed eyes from the coffee machine. ‘Very symbolic,’ he muttered quietly. ‘Didn’t he have anything of yours?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘We were casual, remember?’
Declan reappeared, pausing briefly. ‘How’s the writing going?’
Imogen shrugged. ‘I’m just … carrying on. Trying my best.’
He smiled a little. ‘That’s what you should be doing. No one’s going to stop you from doing that, Imogen. You just keep going. It’ll be great, promise.’
He looked at her intensely for a moment, trying to convey something, but as she looked at him, her stomach twitched and she just nodded, clearing her throat. She wanted to say that he couldn’t promise her anything any more, but she stopped herself.
‘Thanks.’
‘Yeah …’ he shrugged. ‘See you at the gig, then?’
‘Yeah … maybe,’ she said, knowing full well she would be there, and so would Demi and Tabby and Harry and everyone else she’d told about it.
‘Good, good.’
He disappeared, and as the door closed, Imogen allowed herself to breathe, the tension disappearing with him.
‘That was …’ Emanuel started.
‘… Awkward? Tense? Horrible?’ Imogen offered.
‘… Interesting,’ he replied. ‘I was going to say interesting.’
*****
The next morning her column was printed, a particularly scathing look at the way people dealt with receipts, when she noticed the image above it.
‘This week, on Twisted Barista, we decided to offer up a little caricature to go with our ranting. What do you think of our angry customers? Anyone recognise themselves?’
Imogen frowned. They hadn’t told her they were adding artwork to her blog. She clicked the link, and a whole gallery appeared. There was a sad old vicar, hoping someone would love him, a bitchy girl in a bobble hat demanding her drink ‘so hot it would scald the face of the sun’. Imogen remembered that one. She recognised the style immediately, from the first time she’d looked at Dec’s sketchbook, before any of this began. It was like running full circle. But why had he submitted his work now? Had he wanted to all along and was just waiting until they were finished, to be polite? That didn’t seem right, but Imogen couldn’t think of a reason at all.
Imogen was about to risk the supervisor’s wrath and overrun her break in order to call Tabby, but one of her regular customers walked up.
‘Did you hear? They found out who the West London Coffee Bitch was!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Apparently the whole time it’s been that Irish bloke down the road! Someone on Twitter matched up his portfolio online with the cartoons this morning!’
Imogen felt her jaw drop. ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Dunno,’ the woman shrugged. ‘Heard he’s been fired, though. It’s all online!’
Imogen checked her phone, and sure enough, someone had written a blog post connecting the articles on The Type to Declan’s online portfolio and website.
One customer was live-tweeting from the Notting Hill store. She scrolled down.
‘Customers have noted that he’s given them little drawings before #dumbmove’
‘The WLCB is a boy! Who knew men could be so bitchy?! #cafedisaster’
‘Someone didn’t have enough caffeine this morning! He’s leaving at the moment – dirty looks! #cafedisaster’
Imogen thought she was going to be sick. Who cared if she was late – she rang Tabby.
‘Hey, what did you think of the article? Looks good, right?’ Tabby answered.
‘Have you seen what’s going on with Twitter?’ she asked. ‘And why did you okay those images? You didn’t say anything to me!’
Tabby paused. ‘Declan said he’d been a dick, and wanted to give them to you, to go with your work. He said you’d inspired him. I thought the whole “reaching out to you via your blog” thing might be good.’
Imogen took a deep breath. ‘He’s just been fired. They think the whole blog was him. They recognised the pictures. I thought you promised to be the last line of defence!’
‘For you!’ Tabby replied. ‘I don’t know about images! He said he wanted to do this; he signed an agreement! He was determined.’
‘I’ve lost him his job. He’s now an unemployed music-slash-graphic designer living in a London house with a bunch of men with beards! I’ve turned him into a cliche!’
‘I think a lot of that he did himself,’ Tabby breathed, and took on a soothing tone. ‘Look, Imogen, sweets … I think you have to consider that maybe he knew what he was doing here.’
‘What?’
‘I mean maybe he knew he was going to get fired if he submitted those images. He’s not an idiot. He’s the one who set up all your anonymity settings before you came to The Type, right?’
Imogen was silent, and Tabby continued. ‘But the question is, why would he do that?’
Imogen thought of Ella, head held high as she announced she was going on an unplanned holiday, didn’t know when she’d be back. Her look of derision as she walked past Imogen.
‘He did it to make sure no one could find out it was me,’ she said quietly, more to herself than Tabby, ‘so that even if I was accused, I wouldn’t lose my job.’
Tabby inhaled sharply. ‘That’s a gesture and a half. For someone who’s supposedly casual.’
Imogen said nothing.
‘They can’t sue him if the images only connect with the latest post. It looks like he was a sympathiser, but they can’t prove he wrote them. So he’s fired but he won’t get sued,’ Tabby pointed out. ‘Do you think he knew that?’
‘I have no idea.’ Imogen paused, letting her mind tick over. ‘Tabs – do you think Twisted Barista has the possibility to expand?’
‘What do you have in mind?’