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!’
