Babs was a five-eight, size-eight, forty-two-year-old divorcee who was just head over heels for her dad. Which Imogen hadn’t bought for a second, because her dad was a fifty-nine-year-old, five-foot-five, balding, pot-bellied Greek Cypriot man who worked in a butcher’s and had a hairy back. Something was rotten in Doncaster.
But she had to hand it to Babs. In six months she’d got Costa walking five nights a week, cutting back on the red meat and the salt, going to salsa lessons, and had a waxer on speed dial. She was working with raw materials and getting decent results. It was just that she was so … loud about it all. Their house had been so quiet all those years, just her and her dad, reading companionably, sharing meals, drinking Greek coffee. Occasionally the big family would descend upon them, and it would be music and parties and too much food, but for the most part they had a quiet little life. Imogen thought he’d been happy with that.
‘She turned my bedroom into a playpen for her chihuahua?’ Imogen had scoffed, but if she was honest with herself, Babs moving in meant she could move to London and pursue her dreams without worrying over whether her dad knew not to shrink things in the tumble dryer. She was free. It was just a shame that she was free to serve people coffee.
She pounded down the soggy streets until she reached a busy road, all cramped terraced houses leaning on each other out of desperation. She climbed the stairs, opened the door and followed the narrow stairs with the mildew carpet up two flights. Home.
When she’d told her cousin, Demi, about the studio in West London that she was moving to, she’d made it sound exotic and sophisticated. In fact, she was paying an eye-watering amount for a cupboard, with a tiny bathroom and a microwave oven with two hob rings on top. London life was a little depressing.
She flopped onto the bed and opened her laptop, too desperate to even bother taking off her wet shoes. It had seemed fated, this move to London. Her big adventure, after years of saving, staying at home, going to a local uni, working three jobs. Imogen had always known this was her dream, cliche or not. She was going to live in London and write. She didn’t even care what she wrote; she wasn’t the hard-hitting news sort of girl – it made her feel angry and helpless. But writing copy for a charity, writing articles, reviews? Something that could put some positivity out in the world, make people laugh, effect some change. Everything had seemed like it had fallen into place with perfect timing – Imogen had reached her saving goal, Babs had decided to move in, and a friend from uni, Saskia, had given her a heads-up about an internship at her magazine. Which, of course, had fallen apart the minute she got within the radius of the M25. Everything in London seemed to move twice as fast. She’d found a flat, tied up her life and moved down in two weeks – but it wasn’t quick enough. The internship was gone. As was, apparently, every writing opportunity in the city.
Surely one London paper, one tiny magazine or agency would take on a English graduate? Surely someone could do with a fairly intelligent person fetching their coffee? Surely one person out there could say, ‘Oh, hey, she was the editor of her uni paper, and she’s done a Master’s degree in fairy tales – cool!’
Apparently not. But at least she could afford to stay. For now. And how hard could serving coffee be?
‘You. New Girl. Come here.’ Agnes beckoned her behind the bar with a crooked finger. She dumped the tray she was using to collect soggy napkins and set her jaw. Agnes was terrifying. Terrifyingly efficient, but still plain terrifying. Her round face should have had a softening effect, but her stern features seemed to be sharp within their doughy edge. Her eyes were small and darted about the cafe, the captain in charge of her ship.
‘It’s Imogen,’ Imogen said brightly, with a smile, tapping her name tag.
‘Whatever. You will learn to make a cappuccino properly.’
‘Okay …’ Imogen swallowed, recovering her smile. ‘I’d love to learn that.’
Agnes rolled her eyes. ‘What you’d love to do does not concern me. Watch carefully. Most people get the foam-to-milk ratio completely wrong. That is not acceptable.’
Imogen blinked, and watched as Agnes steamed milk, tilted the silver jug, swirled and ground and pressed buttons, pouring until there was a perfect cappuccino with a heart on the top.
‘You try.’ Agnes gestured towards the machine, turning her back. ‘You stay here and keep trying for the next forty-five minutes. I will return.’
Imogen was sure she could do it. In forty-five minutes she would wow Agnes and win her everlasting respect. She would.
Forty-five minutes later, Imogen was angry at herself. She’d burnt the milk, burnt herself, got coffee grounds everywhere, sworn at the machine, accidentally started a cleaning cycle, and made everything but a cappuccino. Damn foamy bastards.
‘She freaked you out, no?’ A tall young black man with his hair tied back in a bun grinned at her, tying up his maroon apron and pulling on his baseball cap.
‘She could freak out world leaders. She’s wasted here,’ Imogen breathed, still fiddling with the milk jug.
‘If Agnes wanted world domination, she would have it. Sadly … she only wants the coffee shop to be efficient. And free whipped cream,’ he winked.
‘I’m not even going to ask,’ Imogen laughed, holding out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Imogen.’
‘Emanuel.’ The man smiled, his French accent acting as a balm. ‘Would you like me to teach you how to make a cappuccino?’
It took most of the day, but Imogen finally figured out how to make a cappuccino. And a latte. Mostly she cleaned, and listened in awe as the customers demanded things she didn’t even know existed.
‘My usual,’ was the cold-voiced demand she heard most; no please or thank you, or acknowledgement at all.
‘What’s his usual?’ she whispered to Emanuel as he started making the drink.
‘Large whole milk, triple-shot, extra-hot, extra-dry caramel latte,’ he shrugged, swirling around to reach for ingredients like a possessed dervish.
Imogen blinked, looking around for another example. ‘What about hers?’
‘The redhead? Small black decaf Americano, extra shot.’
‘The guy with the tattoos?’
‘Medium mocha, extra caramel, extra cream.’
Emanuel didn’t bat an eyelid, just grinned as she looked at him in awe.
‘You’ll pick it up quicker than you realise.’
‘Doesn’t it feel like a waste of brain space?’ she asked, before realising that was a pretty damn rude thing to say, especially to someone who was helping you.
Emanuel just quirked an eyebrow. ‘What else am I doing? Becoming a brain surgeon?’
‘Why not?’ Imogen shrugged, cleaning down the surfaces as Agnes gave her the evil eye across the cafe.
‘I like this. Some of the others, they are nurses, students, artists, musicians.
