If You Don't Know Me By Now

‘Are they already banging on the windows?’

‘Yep.’ Declan grimaced. ‘One of them started yelling “Open this door, I can see you in there, you know!” I was tempted to reply, “Yeah, but you clearly can’t see the sign that says we open at seven, ya twat!”’

He growled a little, then laughed. ‘Sorry, madam doesn’t have sensitivities when it comes to bad language?’

‘What bad language?’ Imogen asked honestly, brow furrowed.

Declan grinned. ‘Good woman. Go on, sort yourself out and let’s get on with this bastarding day.’

She saluted. ‘Yes, sir, Captain Sunshine.’

*****

The thing Imogen was most annoyed about was that she had a whole day with Declan, and she was wasting it being a hungover mess. The only advantage was Demi arriving in the afternoon, dark circles under her eyes, croaking out for a large black Americano … and an orange juice, a sparkling water, a strawberry milkshake and a herbal tea.

‘I can give you a discount, but it’s still going to come to a fair bit, you know,’ Imogen warned her.

‘I would give my kidney for anything that would make me feel better right now.’

Imogen started making the drinks, Declan looking at the order and silently making things she had yet to start. It felt like synchronicity, perfect and normal and yet massively comforting.

‘You know, I feel a lot better, seeing you feeling so shit.’ Imogen stuck out her tongue at Demi, waiting for her drinks.

‘Well, fuck you very much.’

‘No, it means I’m not the older boring cousin who’s lost her ability to hold her drink. It just means we’re both bloody idiots.’

‘Ah, you must be the super-fun cousin,’ Declan boomed, handing over the milkshake.

Demi raised an eyebrow, arching perfectly.

‘No, most definitely not me,’ she winced. ‘No fun, not ever, never again.’

‘I thought you youngsters were meant to be unstoppable. These are your golden drinking years.’

‘Nope, my golden years are definitely behind me, Grandpa.’ Imogen laughed and pointed at Demi. ‘And she looks like a wild child, but it’s all an act.’

‘I’d argue, but I feel too crappy to bother. If you want to cast me as Maria from The Sound of Music, you can, as long as you do it quietly.’ Demi grumbled, clutching her Americano like a lifeline, while Imogen assembled the other drinks on a tray.

‘Sass runs in the family,’ Declan commented, Cheshire cat grin in place.

‘Along with quick wit, great hair and an inability to deal with bullshit,’ Demi said sharply.

‘The blatant hostility, however, is all her.’ Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Go sit down before you fall down.’

Demi shuffled off, holding her tray of drinks desperately, with both Declan and Imogen watching her in fear, until she finally reached the comfy chair across the room, gently lowered the tray and collapsed into the seat.

‘Sorry about her. She doesn’t deal with hangovers well.’

Declan shrugged. ‘You actually seem really perky.’

Imogen tilted her head. ‘As perky as I can be, working here.’

‘Aw come on, this place? It’s not that bad! There’s that guy who always parks his huge car across the bus lane, and then the bus driver gets out and loses his shit and the guy says –’

‘I pay my taxes! If I want to park in a bus lane, I can!’ Imogen finished. ‘And where else would we see St Francis Apocalypto?’

‘With the plastic bottles?’ Declan snorted.

‘Yes, collecting the plastic bottles out of the bins! I said we’d recycle and he said when the world was over, people would come to him, because he’d have all the bottles and they’d need bottles!’

‘And don’t forget Binky,’ Declan said seriously.

Imogen tilted her head. ‘Don’t know that one.’

‘Rich mum, trailed by a dead-eyed nanny? Michael Kors handbag? Drives a Range Rover?’

Imogen frowned. ‘You do realise that’s, like, eighty percent of our customers?’

‘Skinny hot chocolate extra cream.’

Imogen’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, that bitch!’

‘Haha!’ he pointed at her. ‘See, fun! And I can tell you from experience, it’s better than being that guy who stands with the cardboard signs pointing towards places. It’s better than being a roofer when you’re afraid of heights. It’s better than trying to sell PPI schemes and the only people you get answering the phone are little old ladies and you don’t want to screw them over. Plus, free coffee.’

Imogen shrugged, wiping down the tabletop, checking around for any customers. ‘Yeah, I guess. But it’s not what I came here to do. I came to write.’

‘So write,’ Declan shrugged. ‘Seems pretty simple.’

‘Yeah, it does until you have to do it. Until you’re exhausted and angry and stressed all the time, and you’ve got no time to be creative because you’re so emotionally spent.’ She shook herself in frustration. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

Declan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. ‘Oh really, Salinger? Why not?’

He wasn’t as pretty when he was looking at her like she’d managed to disappoint him. She winced. ‘I’m sorry, that was a really shitty thing to say. Precious writer girl bullshit. I just meant it’s easy to tell someone to create, but it’s difficult to actually do it.’

‘True enough,’ he shrugged, walking off, and Imogen felt a rustle of irritation at herself. She’d offended him, obviously, and things had been going so well … not that she wanted anything … but it was nice to have a friend …

Declan reappeared, clutching a small black notebook. He slid it across the counter to her. ‘You’ve heard of the saying “write what you know”?’

She opened the moleskine notebook, and saw not words, but sketches, cartoons and caricatures. The more pages she flipped through, the more people she recognised. There was the little old priest holding his bottles, but instead of joking, the words above his head said ‘Someday they’ll want me. I’ll be important.’ There was the mocha bitch who’d screamed at Imogen only three days before. Her eyes were bulging out of her head as the speech bubble yelled ‘Don’t touch my whipped cream!’ And there was Emanuel, with Cupid’s arrow stuck in his back, gazing lovingly at a coffee cup wearing a knitted hat and with ‘chai’ written across the bottom.

‘Dec, these are fantastic.’ She didn’t look up from the book, flipping through more. ‘Are you doing anything with them?’

When she looked up she saw he’d gone from rugged and confident to unsure, his shoulders curved in on himself. ‘They’re not exactly gallery material. They’re therapy, mainly. I do a couple of those, and then I’m ready to work on a bigger piece, or take some photos, or do something else.’

Imogen blinked slowly. ‘I don’t know, I just didn’t expect this from you.’

He chuckled. ‘Cheers, what did you expect? Football games and pints of lager and action movies?’