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

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       Chapter Four

      ‘You know, Immy, we really think things are working out with you. I hope you’re feeling like part of the Bean Team?’ Darrel grinned, ballpoint pen clicking against his cheek. There were four blue dots on his face, and a fairly big gash of ink in the corner of his mouth, but Imogen was so offended by the shortening of her name that she didn’t say anything.

      ‘I’m really … learning a lot about myself. And rising to a challenge.’ Imogen had started to say she was enjoying it, but lying seemed to be a bad option. She’d said she wouldn’t complain. And it was true; she was enjoying rising to the challenge. She still couldn’t really write, and she was exhausted, and smelled like stale whipped cream and despair at the end of every day, but it was becoming less ghastly.

      Most of that was to do with the team. Darrel was hardly ever there, except to do paperwork in the back office, encourage more understanding of the ‘company ethos’ and remind them that the auditors were due. Emanuel was becoming a friend – until he fell in love with a customer just because she’d been in twice in three days, and he suddenly had to expound on why her hair fell across her face like an angel’s.

      ‘Look at her, there’s something miraculous there,’ he sighed, eyes trained on the girl who sipped delicately at her mocha-sippy-something.

      ‘Yes, a deep conditioning treatment and absolutely no desire to date the staff,’ Imogen replied, throwing a cloth at him. ‘Save your attentions for someone worthy.’

      ‘What’s the point in saving the love when there is beauty everywhere to share it with?’ Emanuel raised an eyebrow.

      ‘You do realise you don’t have to be a cliche just because you’re French, right?’

      ‘And you realise I’m not French?’ Emanuel shook his head. ‘I’m from Guadeloupe!’

      ‘Yes, and yet you tell all these silly girls that you’re from France in the hope they’ll suddenly think of Audrey Hepburn and La Vie en Rose, and romance and art … except you’re picking people who are more about Marc Jacobs and Made in Chelsea.’ Imogen sighed. ‘Be more discerning.’

      Emanuel shook his head. ‘I never tell them I’m French. They assume. And how do you suggest I look for The One, then? Because as far as I can see, you’ve never even blinked at a customer.’

      Imogen twitched her lips thoughtfully, twisting her side-braid around to the other side of her neck, and then washing her hands when she realised what she’d done.

      ‘Well, there was the guy last week who said he and his wife were looking for a threesome partner, and asked if I knew anyone who’d be interested. I blinked at that.’

      ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know that very well.’ Emanuel rolled his eyes, setting up a coffee tasting, heating the cafetiere.

      ‘We’re doing training?’ Imogen asked, smiling. She was quite enjoying the ‘specialism’ of it all, knowing what blends went well with what flavours, what textures, what time of day. Personality type, star sign, bank balance, etc.

      ‘Yes, don’t change the subject. There’s been no one of interest?’

      ‘I … I just don’t have the time or energy. By the time I’m done here each day I just want to sit in a quiet room where no one’s asking anything of me. And small talk. I hate small talk.’

      ‘But the British weather is such an invigorating conversation topic!’ a voice lilted from behind them. Declan. She felt her cheeks warm, and tilted her eyes up to him, flashing a smile.

      ‘Come to steal more supplies?’ She twitched her mouth. Be clever, Imogen told herself; be relaxed and unimpressed and … nope. Imogen leaned back against the bar, her hand touching the jug of steamed milk. She jumped and yelped, knocking the jug with the milk all over the work area.

      Well, that took 45 seconds. Great. She grabbed a cloth, and Declan jumped over the bar to help.

      ‘No point crying,’ he shrugged, crouching down to stop the drip that was quickly making it’s way under the fridge.

      ‘Funny.’ She rolled her eyes.

      ‘It is. Especially when it’s 6 a.m. and you worked sixty hours this week, and some guy comes in asking for a macchiato, but what he really wants is a latte, but instead of realising that, he calls you incompetent and stupid and a pathetic waste of a human existence. Sometimes it’s not the spilled milk that gets you.’ Declan nudged her gently with his arm, and she looked up to find those blue eyes, soft brown lashes framing them.

      ‘So, how’s your week been?’

      ‘Broke three cups. Spilled bin juice on me and a customer’s child, because the little shit was playing kiss-chase with his imaginary alpaca or something. Served a senile priest, evil grandma and that guy off X Factor, who was actually really nice.’

      ‘Soy sugar-free vanilla latte?’ Declan asked, smiling.

      ‘Yeah!’

      ‘Have you started seeing people in their drink orders yet? It’s a bit like The Matrix. When you’ve been working here long enough, you don’t see red-head, or brunette, or blonde. You see soya, chai, double espressos. Objects become symbolic.’

      Imogen turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

      ‘What, I’m meant to be stupid because I work here? I thought you’d know better than that.’ He folded his arms, and though he was smiling, he looked a little disappointed. He stood up, wiping his hands.

      ‘No, it was just a very deep response to a very normal thing,’ Imogen shrugged, secretly wondering if she had assumed he wasn’t smart. Or maybe it had just been so long since she’d had a decent conversation that wasn’t about Emanuel’s love interests or Agnes’s failed attempts at dieting. And even those weren’t decent, but they were preferable to trying to explain why the prices were what they were, and how that wasn’t her personal decision. She, personally, wasn’t ‘capitalist scum trying to con the everyman’, which was pretty rich coming from someone who was … well, pretty rich.

      ‘Well, that’s me, deep as a shallow pool,’ Declan laughed, holding her gaze a little too long, until she felt her breath hitch. He stepped back and shrugged.

      ‘So …’ Imogen exhaled and heard it shake a little. ‘Cups?’

      ‘Cupholders,’ he shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

      Emanuel raised an eyebrow, ‘I find it surprising that your boss has got so much worse at ordering in the last few weeks. Before it was bad, but now it’s like he’s not even thinking.’

      ‘Seems normal to me,’ Declan said lightly, but glaring at Emanuel.