Читать книгу If You Don't Know Me By Now - Jenny Oliver, A. Michael L. - Страница 16

Chapter Six

Emanuel tilted his head to the side, lips pursed as he surveyed her.

‘Something is different,’ he said with suspicion.

‘I trimmed my hair with nail scissors. It was a terrible decision, I know.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and focused on steaming the milk to exactly 94 degrees, or else the customer who was due to arrive in exactly forty-five seconds would be disappointed. Or royally pissed off and demand not only a remade drink but a freebie voucher. She could not afford to cost the store any more freebies this month. There was a chart and everything.

Emanuel shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it. It’s something on your face.’

Imogen looked at him in panic. ‘What is it? Get it off! I can’t stop the steamer!’

Emanuel moved closer, his dark eyes and little moustache twitching as he stared at her face. ‘It’s something in the mouth area, it’s like … the sides are moving upwards? Almost like … what do they call it? A … smile?’

Emanuel grinned and walked off.

‘You tosser!’ Imogen laughed. ‘I’m allowed to smile!’

‘Yes,’ he called back as he stacked sugar packets in the empty store, ‘but usually it’s more of a resting bitch face situation. Not a “quietly satisfied” look. Did Declan take you out?’

Imogen shook her head, wondering why she could feel her cheeks warm in a blush even though it had nothing to do with the stubbly Irishman.

‘No, this is purely creative fulfilment, I promise.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’ Emanuel pouted and punched in the order for a 94-degrees triple-shot soya white mocha with a half pump of caramel. The man in the Savile Row suit nodded in satisfaction, pausing to hold the takeaway cup for a moment, feeling the warmth in his hand. Then he nodded once more and was gone. The same, every time. Even when he complained, she wasn’t sure he spoke. He just looked scarily disappointed in her as a person and shook his head slowly until she panicked. The Suit. With the really girly drink. She should make a note of that.

‘Well, that’s the only sort of fulfilment I’m interested in. I’m actually happy, I think.’

Agnes marched out, tying on her brown apron, her face unimpressed. ‘Yes, yes, we all care deeply for your health and happiness. Go and count your till.’

Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘How much bullshit do I get if I call her a dictator?’

‘You get a pat on the head and gold star for understanding how chain of command works. Count your till,’ Agnes said, unfazed.

The rest of the day passed quickly, a flurry of coffee machine whirring, snippets of conversations and the overwhelming smell of mocha sauce, because everything was suddenly a story. Every complaint, every whinge, every ridiculous request was fodder. They were insights, hilarious and so nutty that someone else would get enjoyment out of them.

‘What is happening here?’ Emanuel said later that day, staring in dismay at the till.

‘What? What’s wrong?’ Agnes marched over to inspect, a dusting of whipped cream around her mouth.

Emanuel shrugged. ‘We’re just out of till receipt paper, it’s not a problem.’

‘Don’t worry me like that!’ Agnes filled another cup with a swirl of whipped cream, finishing with a flourish, and marched out to the back room again.

‘Imogen, any idea why we’d be out of receipt paper when I just filled the roll this morning?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow. ‘Possibly to do with how inflated the pockets of your apron seem?’

Imogen put her hands in her pockets, crumpling the small bits of paper under scrunched fists. ‘I was inspired and I didn’t have a notebook.’

‘Show me.’

She scooped out the scraps of paper. Some were single words, some sentences, some little drawings with speech bubbles. They piled up as she placed them on the side, like a Jenga tower.

‘Sorry, I’ll bring a notebook tomorrow.’

Emanuel shrugged. ‘I don’t know if it’s funnier that in a place that gives you free caffeine, you’re stealing paper, or that you think I care. Write all you like, darling. Just be nice to me in the book.’ He winked and disappeared out to collect wayward cups, and Imogen had the sneaking suspicion, not for the first time, that Emanuel was her London fairy godfather.

*****

The Tale of the Lemony Muffins

‘So … explain these muffins to me.’

It shows you how long I’ve been working as a barista now, that this doesn’t even seem like a strange question.

‘Well,’ I reply cheerily, ‘this is our muffin selection, this one has this, this and this in it. This one has nuts. My personal favourite is this.’

‘What about the lemon muffin?’ The customer points to said muffin.

‘What about it?’

‘Explain it, what’s in it?’

‘Er, lemon.’

I start to suspect this is, in fact, a customer service training exercise, and she’s an undercover market researcher. Except she’s a policewoman. That level of undercover market research may be a little too committed.

‘Yes, but how lemony is it? Is it very lemony?’

What, like you want a percentage? It is 75% lemony, with 15% sugar and 10% ZING.

‘Erm, well, yes, for a LEMON MUFFIN, it’s definitely the more lemony choice amongst our pastry options.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure if I want a lemon muffin that’s very lemony. What about the peach muffin, what does that taste like?’

There is no way to reply that the peach muffin tastes like peach without sounding sarcastic.

‘It … tastes … like … a sweet nectarine-like fruit that’s been blended in with the muffin mixture.’

Okay, that sounds even more sarcastic.

‘So there’s actually pieces of peach in the peach muffin? Does that mean there are pieces of lemon in the lemon muffin? Or is it just lemon-flavoured?’

This is where I start clawing at my own face asking for some kind deity to please make it stop.

You’re the police. Shouldn’t you be off fighting crime instead of worrying about exactly how much a muffin tastes like the thing it’s named after?

She thankfully takes the damn lemon muffin, after all, and my colleague comes up to me after.

‘Hey, I wanted to ask you a question. You know orange juice … does it taste like oranges? How orange-tasting is it on a scale of one to ten? Because I don’t think I want my orange-tasting juice turned all the way up to eleven.’

On this day, I make a vow, to never eat a lemon muffin again.