If You Don't Know Me By Now. A. Michael L.

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       Chapter Three

      Imogen was feeling surprisingly chipper. Things could be worse. She didn’t have to hear Babs’s nasal whinnying every night (as well as worse noises) from her father’s bedroom any more. She had free access to caramel macchiatos, and Agnes had patted her shoulder this morning when she weighed her cappuccino to assess the foam-to-milk ratio.

      ‘Passable,’ Agnes nodded and marched off to the back office with her tiny espresso cup swirled up with cream like a mini Cornetto.

      ‘That was a big deal,’ Emanuel winked at her. ‘She doesn’t give away such praise every day.’

      ‘Passable is praise? What happens if she says I’m good?’ Imogen grinned, refilling the espresso machine.

      ‘I will fall down in shock,’ he snorted, then pointed at the twitchy businessman walking up to the till. His tie was askew, his jacket creased and his face crinkled with strange lines. ‘Prep his usual – a red eye.’

      Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not on the menu.’

      ‘Black filter coffee with a shot of espresso in it,’ Emanuel replied, going to put it into the till wordlessly, nodding at the zombified businessman.

      ‘Two shots today,’ the man yawned, and Imogen pressed the button, wincing at the anticipated taste. She passed him the drink and he saluted her with it.

      ‘What’s it called when it’s got two shots of espresso in it?’

      ‘A black eye,’ Emanuel said, deadpan.

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Why not? It’s the same as a punch in the face, no?’

      All in all, not a bad day. Customers had been rude, but unmemorable. There had been a lot of tourists, which meant a frustrating number of gesturing, umming, and awwwing, as well as some mis-made drinks, but she’d made it until three p.m. and there wasn’t a wobbly lip in sight. The sound system, which usually repeated the same African-themed versions of Paul Simon songs all shift, had a new CD, and Chuck Berry’s ‘You Never Can Tell’ came on. Emanuel even jived with her behind the bar when there were no customers around. She was just cleaning the filter machine, planning what she would write when she got back to the flat, and the actual food that she might make for dinner after stopping at the shops, when an Irish voice bellowed across the cafe.

      ‘Oi Miss Barista. Get your cups out fer the lads! I like ‘em large!’

      Imogen whirled around to face the door, an eyebrow raised at the tall, brown-haired man with the scraggy beard and bright eyes. She watched with some satisfaction as the smile fell from his face, and his eyes widened.

      ‘Oh no, no, no!’ He stepped forward, hands raised. ‘I thought you were Liza …’

      ‘Who?’ Imogen frowned, arms crossed.

      ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said, his Irish accent emphasised as he moved swiftly across the cafe, unbuttoning his coat. Some of the customers looked up with interest.

      ‘What are you –’

      ‘See?’ The man pulled open his coat dramatically. To reveal a maroon BeanTown apron. ‘I’m a member of the resistance,’ he whispered dramatically. ‘I’ve been sent by HQ to procure more drinking receptacles. The plan for world domination via caffeine is going better than expected.’

      He leaned in on the counter, grinning at her expectantly, his eyes a deep blue in contrast with the reddish tinge of his brown stubble. Here was a man who knew the effect he had.

      ‘Emanuel?’ Imogen called, not taking her eyes away from the man, ‘were we expecting any strange people today?’

      ‘No more than usual,’ Emanuel replied, shrugging, until he looked up and saw the other barista. ‘But we make an exception for this one. Hello, my friend.’

      The men shook hands, and the stranger gestured at Imogen. ‘What happened to the she-devil?’

      ‘Left to become a fashion blogger, or something,’ Emanuel said with distaste, then pointed at her. ‘This is Imogen. She’s an improvement. Imogen, Declan. He works at the BeanTown in Notting Hill. He often comes to bug us for things that his idiot manager was not smart enough to order enough of.’

      ‘Hey, you ever expect a truckload of Japanese tourists to want vanilla frapshakes in winter? Give the guy a break,’ Declan shrugged. ‘Nice to meet you, Imogen. Sorry about the heckling. I was used to Little Miss Vogue looking down her nose at me.’

      ‘Does anyone get away with looking down their nose as a barista?’ she asked, blinking at the intensity of Declan’s gaze. He was an active listener.

      ‘Not if they don’t want hot coffee thrown at them,’ he replied.

      ‘Someone threw coffee at her!’

      ‘No, customers threatened to. I dreamed about it a few times,’ Emanuel admitted.

      ‘Me too. There’s no place for ego here. You’re being paid for people to emotionally beat the crap out of you. But I’ll tell you a little secret, Imogen.’ He leaned in against the counter, eyes hypnotic, the vaguest smell of cinnamon and Columbian blend as he spun her a tale, his voice soft. ‘You are terribly important, because you are the Guardian of the Gate. You are the thing that stands between them and their working at maximum efficiency. You have the most incredible power …’ He dropped his voice even lower, and Imogen felt herself drawn in. ‘If you so choose, you can give them decaf. And royally fuck up their day. And they’ll never even know.’

      Imogen grinned. ‘Well, that sounds infinitely more reasonable than stabbing them in the eye with a stirrer.’

      ‘It’ll actually be more painful. But with great power comes great responsibility …’ He winked at her, and she found herself drawn in, her pulse fluttering, just a little.

      ‘I’ve already had to warn her about being more careful about giving the skinny bitches whole milk. They have a sixth sense,’ Emanuel sighed.

      ‘Hey, never whole milk! Even I’m not that mean. But if a bitch calls me incompetent, then she’s getting the semi-skimmed at the very least.’

      Declan held up his hands. ‘Preaching to the choir, СКАЧАТЬ