in his pockets.
‘I don’t know, why would it be funny?’ she said, returning with a bag of cupholders. ‘Do you need this many?’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t,’ Emanuel grinned as Declan’s face reddened.
‘That’s fine,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sorry for bothering you.’
Imogen shrugged. ‘It’s not a bother. Nice to see another member of the resistance.’
He smiled a little, looking at her from under his lashes. ‘Cool.’
Emanuel’s voice cut through again, as he began cleaning the coffee machine. ‘We were just talking about the fact that Imogen is a cold-hearted woman who has no interest in love.’
‘Were we?’ she heard her voice shriek a little, ‘because I thought we were talking about your need to stalk any female who comes in here.’
‘No,’ Emanuel’s accent twanged, ‘I believe we were talking about the fact that you are incapable of showing romantic interest in people, and that you should work on that. Go on dates, that sort of thing.’
Emanuel was too casual, and when she chanced a glance at Declan, for some reason he was glaring at Emanuel, too. Maybe this was his thing, being a busybody in other people’s lives.
‘I’m sure I will, when I’m not falling down from exhaustion and staring at blank pages every night, wondering why I thought it was such a good idea to move to London and be a writer.’
‘Well, maybe you need some inspiration?’ Declan ventured awkwardly, rubbing the bristles on his chin. ‘This city is … well, it’s here to inspire. You won’t get anywhere by working here and sitting in your room.’
‘He’s right!’ Emanuel said, delighted. ‘Why don’t you let Declan take you out; he know London very well!’
‘Um –’
‘I –’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, no?’
Imogen could feel herself blushing, but also knew she was glaring at Emanuel. She didn’t need a pity date. It was nice enough for Declan to come in, for her to quietly drool over him until he left, and then wait for her heart rate to return to normal. That was all she needed. That was enjoyable, in a distressing sort of way. Now, he’d feel guilty and obligated, and she didn’t need that.
‘That sounds–’ Declan started, glaring at Emanuel as well, when his phone rang. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, answering with ‘I’m just picking up cupholders like you asked’. He looked at Emanuel again. ‘I’m on my way.’
He put his phone in his pocket, and picked up the bag. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to run. Apparently I’m taking the ruddy piss, or something. See you guys later.’ He sent a soft smile towards Imogen, and she nodded. Then he was gone.
‘What is WRONG with you?’ she rounded on Emanuel.
‘Sorry, darling, just trying to get you a life,’ he said, shrugging.
‘I have a life!’
‘A love life,’ he turned to serve a customer, leaving her completely irritated.
She didn’t need Emanuel’s broken concept of love. She didn’t need love at all. All the classic fairy stories told her everything she needed to know – the women who would cut their feet in desperation for a chance at a glass slipper and a better life, the abandoned children, the evil stepmothers. Okay, so Babs wasn’t quite in that territory, unless there was a story about ‘irritatingly sweet stepmother equivalents’, but no one talked about the characters’ dreams. No one thought, ‘Holy crap, that princess is going to have to give up her whole life to get dressed up, be presented to the people, pop out royal sprogs, and who the hell cares what she dreamed of doing before?’ Love trapped you. Kept you in one place. Hell, if her dad hadn’t become obsessed with her mum, they never would have lived in Doncaster. Maybe he’d have stayed in London, gone to college like he used to mention. He always wanted to be an accountant. But he met Daisy, and he chased her to Doncaster, and there he stayed, the local butcher for ever more.
Imogen always felt a little uncomfortable about how much her dad loved her mum, watching that unequal level of adoration. If love meant sacrificing every dream you ever worked for, and doing so without a second thought, she didn’t have time for love. Which was exactly what she told Emanuel when he brought the subject up again.
He looked at her with pity. ‘If you don’t have time for love, you don’t have time for life.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Go play a mentor in a rom-com, why don’t you?’ Then she disappeared to rearrange the stockroom for an hour, just so she didn’t have to listen to him any more.
*****
Imogen thought her little cousin had asked for her address to send her things: letters, birthday cards, care packages with her Auntie’s homemade baklava. Apparently that was naive. When she arrived back from work that afternoon, there was Demi, all blue-streaked hair and leather jacket, sitting on her front step looking miserable, with a rather alarmingly large holdall.
‘How long?’ she sighed, stepping over her to the front step.
‘Just a couple of days.’
They walked up the rickety narrow staircase, Imogen having to open the door and walk all the way through to the kitchen area at the end so that Demi could fit through the door and close it behind her.
‘You do realise this doesn’t actually qualify as a flat?’ Demi heaved her bag onto the bed and looked around.
‘You do realise you weren’t actually invited, and therefore don’t get to say shit,’ Imogen bristled. ‘Also, this is pretty spacious for London.’
Demi looked horrified, and Imogen nodded.
‘Anyway, we’re family,’ Demi shrugged. ‘Su casa es mi casa.’
‘That only works if I say it, Buster.’ Imogen clicked the kettle. ‘So do I need to call Thea so she won’t freak out?’
‘I called them from the train. Said they saw it coming. Plus I’m with family and they can’t get to me, so really they just have to wait ‘til I come home.’
Imogen rolled her eyes, but didn’t disagree.
Demi wrinkled her nose, still looking around. ‘No offence, but could we maybe go out and get a drink or something? This place is making me claustrophobic.’
‘Excuse me.’ Imogen turned the kettle off at the plug and grabbed her handbag. ‘I think you’ll find your presence is making this room claustrophobic. Which I would have mentioned. If you’d called. Running away from home every few weeks is stupid.’
‘I’m twenty-two. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible for me to run away from home – I shouldn’t be living there as it is.’ Demi was making a fair point, but it was undercut by the way she crossed her arms and glared from underneath her heavy dark fringe.
Imogen knew better than to press this, and instead ferried
