Читать книгу If You Don't Know Me By Now - Jenny Oliver, A. Michael L. - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

Declan came in again the next week, and after messaging him online about her little blogging adventure, Imogen was eager to see what he thought. She hoped he knew she’d been inspired by him. She hoped he didn’t think she’d copied him. Which really, she sort of had. Crap.

‘Which feeble excuse are we using this time? Cup holders or straws?’ Emanuel rolled his eyes as Declan burst in. Declan’s mouth became a thin line.

‘Neither,’ Declan shook his head. ‘I’m here to see my dear friends who are always so pleased to see me. Obviously.’ He winked at Imogen. ‘How you doing, Trouble?’

Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but Emanuel got there first.

‘There’s something terribly wrong. It’s like she’s happy or something. I don’t know what to do about it.’ Emanuel grinned and swanned off to talk to the little old lady in the corner about the variety of cups they sold. Imogen knew this, because the little old lady came by every Friday morning at 10.45 a.m. and had done ever since she’d started working there. Still hadn’t bought a damn cup, though.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Declan grinned at her, and she felt a fluttering in her stomach as his eyes met hers. ‘I think she’s a little twisted, our Imogen.’

Imogen bit her lip, trying not to blush, but looked around to see a mostly empty store. She leaned forward on the bar and whispered, ‘What did you think?’

‘Does it matter what I think?’ He leaned back, hands in pockets, a wide smile on his face.

‘Well, sorta, seeing as you’re the one who inspired this whole thing. I didn’t mean to steal your idea, or anything, I just –’

Declan stepped forward, placing a hand on hers on the counter. ‘Hey, love, you’ve done better things with that concept than I ever could. Plus, I turned them into pitiable sad characters in society. You’ve got some rage on you. Funny girl.’

Imogen made a face. ‘Too ragey?’

‘No, but I’ll be sure not to piss you off from now on.’ That Cheshire cat grin again. ‘I’m obviously not the only one who thinks you’ve got talent, either.’

She noticed his fingers stroking hers on the table, and tried not to look down, her heart thumping.

‘What? Who? No one else knows it’s me, right? It needs to stay anonymous. I could get in some serious shit if anyone else knew.’ She pulled her hand away to hold it to her stomach, slightly panicked. ‘I thought I put lots of safety things in place. Did someone mention something?’

Declan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, a small, surprised smile on his face. ‘Imogen, have you even read the comments on the blog?’

‘No … I just hit “publish” and then ignored it, like releasing a balloon full of crap. Except that it floated … I’m shitty at metaphors. What about the comments?’ Imogen asked. ‘Lots of people telling me that if I hate my job so much I should just go get another one?’

Declan shrugged. ‘A couple, but no, it’s mainly people really connecting with you. A couple of other baristas, bar people, waitresses. You should read them. It looks like you’ve hit on something that people really recognise. I think you’ve got something special on your hands here. How many hits have you got?’

‘Hits?’

Declan held in a little sigh. ‘Don’t you want to know how many people are reading what you’ve written? I thought you wanted to get onto a newspaper or something? Being able to take forward how many readers you have is going to help with that!’

Imogen tilted her head and just looked at him. This strong bear of a man with the kind face and arms that looked like they were carved out of marble. Strong and steady.

‘You’re making yourself a little too impossibly necessary in my life, you know.’

‘Impossibly necessary.’ He nodded. ‘I would have taken charming, interesting, sexy … ’

‘No comment,’ Imogen mumbled, averting her eyes.

‘Would you like me to help you with some of this? The tech side, I mean.’ He shuffled forward again. ‘Setting up SEO and comment filters and social widgets?’

Imogen’s eyes widened. ‘Are we speaking the same language?’

‘Helping people to find your blog.’

‘But not to find me?’ she double-checked.

‘Exactly. I’d say bring your laptop to a coffee shop, but I think we’ve had more than enough of that. You could come round to mine, but it’s currently full of my housemate rugby teammates. Bit loud.’

Imogen recognised this was probably the part where she should say ‘You can come round to mine!’, but she just couldn’t. The idea of him being in that space, that tiny, sad little space that didn’t in any way show who she was, was mortifying. It would be depressing. Plus he’d take up every bit of air in that room, and it would be uncomfortable, and they’d be in each other’s personal space, and the only place to sit was on the bed …

‘I have the perfect place – this sweet little pub near mine. I go and do work in there quite often. I’m mates with the owner now.’

‘Cool, so – tomorrow? You’re off, right? And I’m on an early so I finish about two p.m.’

‘Sure, I’ll send you the name of the pub,’ Imogen nodded, feeling a little shaky as he typed his number into her phone, wary that Emanuel was slyly looking over from the corner of the room and mouthing ‘I told you so’.

‘Well, I’d better get back to work before Agnes has a fit, but I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, suddenly shy and unable to make eye contact.

‘It’s a date,’ he said distinctively, and grinned at her when her head flew up in shock to look at him. ‘See you tomorrow!’ And he was gone, off before she could reply.

‘A date?’ Emanuel sidled up.

‘It’s a friend helping me out with a creative project.’

‘If it’s making an art installation out of your underwear, then sure. Very Tracy Emin. I like.’ Emanuel sauntered off and Imogen stamped her foot a little that he always managed to get the last word. She was going to make him suffer over whichever chai-drinking hipster chick he fell in love with today. That was certain.

But when no one was looking she clapped her hands with glee and allowed herself a little dancing bum wiggle of joy. Laptop or not, he’d said it was a date. This whole London thing was looking up.

*****

‘Young, Rich Couple seek Barista as Personal Chew Toy’

It’s busy, a Saturday afternoon. Don’t ask me why your average coffee shop should be overpopulated on a Saturday afternoon. I would desperately hope that people had better things to do. But, they don’t. So there’s a big queue, and I’m running back and forth, getting orders. This has worked sufficiently for the last five minutes. And then they arrive.

Mid-twenties, beautiful, and entitled. You may recognise the word ‘entitled’ in these blogs. It’s a trait I find equivalent to being homicidal. Possibly worse, depending on whether they sound like a toff (when killing you, or ordering you around, it’s all the same really).

‘Hi, can I get your drinks started?’ I squeak in my excited, ‘grateful to serve you’ voice.

‘Oh, oh, darling, I think she’s talking to us!’ The woman puts her hand to her chest in surprise, like the corgi just declared she needed to go for a tiddle.

‘Are you talking to us?’ the man says in confusion.

‘Yes … yes, I am. Can I take your drinks order … sir?’

The woman then steps forward, while the man throws his hands up, like the concept of ordering is just far beyond him. Women’s business.

‘I’ll have a skinny latte, a chai tea latte –’

‘Are they both medium?’ I jump in, suddenly aware she’s going to regale me with a torrent of orders.

‘They’re all medium,’ she says pointedly.

You’ve only told me two. Two is both. I have an English literature degree, so don’t mess with me, bitch.

‘Okay, both medium,’ I say to myself as I mark the cups with the appropriate hieroglyphs. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact …’ She then lists a few more pretentious drinks, and I can tell exactly which one is for her (sugar-free vanilla soya cappuccino extra-hot) and which one’s for him (medium skinny latte) and can imagine who their friends are, depending on the variety. The kooky girl with the good stories has the chai tea latte. The two guys who don’t really drink coffee, but didn’t feel like they could ask for a coke have got regular lattes. The filter coffee with pouring cream is for the driver on what is no doubt a jaunt to a country estate for the weekend, in what I would presume is either a Mercedes SLK or a BMW. It’s fifty-fifty odds that one of them is named Binky.

‘Oh, oh, actually, I think I’ll have a brownie. I’ll be so terribly bad!’ The man, before this comment, could have been considered attractive.

Weird, a brownie, my money would have been on –

‘Oh, and a granola bar, yum!’

There it is. The grand order of the world has been restored. You are not a unique snowflake, with the wings of a butterfly. You are a subject created of class, income and whatever magazines you read.

Mr Previously-Attractive then continues to repeat, loudly, to his girlfriend about the brownie, for the next three minutes, while I am making their drinks.

‘Where is it, why hasn’t she got it? Was he meant to get it? Did I pay for it?’

Well, if you looked at the price you were paying instead of throwing down a fifty-pound note, maybe you’d know.

I hand over the five drinks, the granola bar and the brownie, and Previously-Attractive looks at me in surprise, a crooked grin appearing.

‘Well, aren’t you a good girl!’

And I’m back to being the corgi.

‘Come on, darling,’ the girlfriend replies. ‘Binky’s got the Merc running. We need to be in Windsor by five.’