what are you here for?’ Imogen took a sip and had to admit, the man could make a decent cup of coffee.
‘Ah, but of course,’ he gestured at himself. ‘L’amour.’
‘You came here for love?’ She smiled to herself as Emanuel chuckled.
‘Yes, and then she left. And I stayed for another. I always stay for another. Something about London girls … they’re so disinterested. It’s almost French.’
Imogen had to admit, as she hobbled home exhausted, feet aching, the faint aroma of stale coffee beans clinging to her skin: it was exhausting, and confusing … but it didn’t suck.
*****
Imogen was wrong, of course. It did suck. Which she learnt when she was finally allowed to use the till and serve her very first customer.
‘Good morning, welcome to BeanTown, what can I –’
‘Oh. My. God.’ The pretty Indian girl plastered in Marc Jacobs burst out laughing. Imogen froze, blinking, waiting for an explanation.
‘I didn’t think you were going to speak English!’ the girl explained, still smiling. ‘No one in the service industry speaks English. And you look so foreign!’
Imogen looked at the Indian girl, honestly stunned.
A bunch of responses appeared in her mind, including:
‘Well, so do you.’
‘Yes, I do appear to have a tan, madam, you’re very astute.’
‘What the fuck?’
Instead, she settled for retaining a cheerful expression and simply shrugged. ‘Well, appearances are often deceptive – what can I get you?’
Life went on. The day passed in a flurry of rudeness, casual racism and coffee grounds. Agnes seemed to inhale whipped cream in times of panic, but even she had looked over at Imogen’s stoic responses and nodded in approval.
The trick, Imogen realised as she rubbed at her red eyes in the mirror of the disabled toilets, where she had barricaded herself for the thirty minutes of her lunch break, was not to let them get to you. Or if they did, not to let them know it. Which was why she was making it through with the odd lip wobble and ‘something in my eye’ until she made it to her break or the flat.
The pub had been bad at first, too, she had to remind herself: the shouts of ‘oi darlin’’ and the bum pinches, the insinuations that she’d sleep with them and the comments about her boobs. But no one had ever made her feel like an idiot before. The pub lot had never shaken her.
She took a deep breath, fanned her eyes and stepped back outside again.
A small woman with owl-like eyes behind square glasses stared up at her.
‘I need the bathroom code,’ she demanded.
‘X4093,’ Imogen rattled off thoughtlessly.
‘And what if it doesn’t work?’ The woman crossed her arms.
Then you try it again until it does? Imogen raised an eyebrow.
‘If it doesn’t work, madam, feel free to come and bother me with it.’
‘Excuse me?’
I won’t complain, I won’t complain. I said he could fire me on the spot if I complained.
‘Oh so sorry, madam,’ Imogen sighed and hated herself for what she was going to do, ‘my English not very good. Come get me if there’s a … problem? Not bother, I meant no bother to you. I wouldn’t want to cause you bother, you see?’
The woman raised an imperious, thinly drawn eyebrow, but seemed satisfied and walked away.
‘You’re English is not very good?’ Emanuel smirked as she returned to the bar and commenced making her tenth espresso of the shift.
‘Of course not, I’m foreign.’ She rolled her eyes and threw back the shot.
The nights in the little flat were starting to get to her, too. She’d lie there, still hyper from all the caffeine she’d ingested that day, her mind going over and over the horrible things the customers said:
Are you stupid?
How did you even get this job?
Is there anyone here who isn’t completely incompetent?
What colony are you from?
What is wrong with you people?
Was it worth it? Was it worth it, just to have enough money to live in a tiny box room where the walls were starting to cave in? She was exhausted, too stressed to write anything. The only creative work she was doing was imagining all the witty remarks she’d wished she’d made to those horrible people. But what was left for her back home? Going back to her dad and Babs, cuddled up on the sofa while she tried not to remember her mum sitting in exactly the same spot? Watching as her home slowly became their home. She’d needed to get out before that happened; it was too hard to watch all those memories get painted over as if they didn’t matter.
‘It’s not so bad,’ she told her cousin, holding the phone with her shoulder as she watched bright blue lights chase across her dark room. She held her breath – seconds later the ambulance sirens blared. She hadn’t thought to check if her ‘perfect London flat’ was on a main road.
‘Then why are you calling me at midnight?’ Demi yawned. ‘Happy people tend to call to comment on their happiness when it’s light out. Unless you’re waking me up to purposefully gloat, in which case: fuck you.’
Imogen sighed. ‘Okay, it’s crap! It’s horrible! The flat is awful, I’ve eaten toast for dinner every night this week, and I’m getting fat from all the paninis and cake I’m eating at work just to give me enough energy to get through the day!’
She heard her cousin stifle a laugh. ‘Go on.’
‘The job is bad, worse than bad. People are mean! And it’s not like they’re sad because they have sad lives! They’re rich and have everything and are still dickheads! This woman screamed at me today, actually screamed in my face because I forgot that she wanted extra whipped cream. I gave her a normal amount and she freaked out.’
‘We all scream for cream,’ Demi laughed, ‘but at least you know they’re ridiculous. How’s the writing going?’
‘Too exhausted. And emotionally deadened.’ Imogen stretched, rotating her shoulders to release the kink in her neck. She lifted up a hand to her neck in dread, wiping it. ‘And I’ve just found mocha sauce on my neck.’
Strangely, it was this that made her almost burst into tears.
‘Dirty bitch. You’re wasting your time being single if that’s the fun you’re getting up to.’ She could hear Demi’s wicked grin in her voice, and suddenly missed home fiercely.
‘Maybe I made a mistake,’
