This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Sixteen

I gasp awake. I am drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. Light is seeping under the curtains as I check my phone: 7:12a.m.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I pad to the bathroom and turn the shower to cold, scrubbing the sweat from my neck. I spray the cold water directly in my face, urging away the fug, until my mind clears and the anxiety begins to fade.

Right, I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this. I am going to smash this interview.

I try a power pose in the mirror, but my towel falls down and my boobs swing around like loose ferrets as I scrabble to get it.

Feeling as though I’ve left what remains of my modesty and dignity in the bathroom, I pull on my clothes and put some neutral make-up on, scraping my hair into a topknot which makes me look like Kim Woodburn, and not in a good way. I ram my feet into my mum’s old court shoes. We’re the same size, but she has skinnier feet. ‘Chunky toes’, my dad calls me.

I hobble out of the apartment and begin the eight-minute walk to Frederick’s. Another bonus of getting this job would be the complete removal of my morning commute. All things considered, what I’ll lose in pay I’ll make up for in bus fares, not to mention lie-ins, so really I’d be winning, wouldn’t I?

The entrance of the shop looms in front of me. All the lights are off, and I’m suddenly terrified that I’ve got the wrong day. I try the door — locked. Why is nobody here?! I check my watch.

It’s 8 a.m.

It’s eight o’clock! I’m an hour early!

Why am I so utterly incapable of doing the simplest of things?

I storm past the shop, enraged at myself. Throwing myself into Bousous Café, I sulkily order a latte and a bacon barm, only remembering how low I am on funds as I tap my card on the reader, parting with the cost of a studio flat in Rusholme to pay for my breakfast.

I sit down by the window and unwrap my sandwich. I snap a photo from above and add a flattering filter which makes the bacon look like it’s just had a facial. It smells good — almost too good — and I lift it up to my mouth slowly, ready to savour the first bite.

And then I remember.

I’m vegan.

I gaze at the greasy, white barm filled with crispy bacon and the full-fat, milky latte sitting in front of me.

I bump my head down onto the table, a guttural groan escaping from my mouth.

‘Are you okay, madam?’ It’s the guy who served me.

‘I’m vegan!’ I wail.

He pales. ‘Oh my god, I’m sorry. I thought you said a bacon barm and a latte? It’s mad in here this morning, I’m so sorry.’

‘No, it’s not your fault. I forgot I was vegan,’ I moan.

‘You forgot you were vegan?’ He frowns at me.

‘Yes. I forgot.’

He looks concerned now. ‘Well, then I’m not sure what we can do about that really... if you ordered the bacon and latte, you’ll probably have to stick with it.’

The guy’s manager is glowering over at him from behind the counter, annoyed that he’s chatting during the morning rush.

He shoots an apologetic look over his shoulder and makes to move away, but I can’t bear the idea of abandoning my vegan mission. Nor can I bear the idea of paying for another breakfast, or going without one.

‘No, please, wait,’ I say loudly to the guy’s back, earning a sudden hush from everyone in the room.

He turns back around.

‘I did order the vegan option,’ I say. ‘No, I didn’t, that’s a lie. I’m lying. Please could I have the vegan option? Even just the latte? I’m unhinged.’

The guy stares at me, his mouth slightly open.

‘Jason!’ The suited manager scoots around the counter, marching over to my table. ‘Have you served this woman incorrectly?’

‘I–I just—’ Jason stutters.

‘No! No, he didn’t,’ I say hurriedly. I gesture to my barm. ‘This is... it’s amazing. Best barm ever.’

The manager frowns. ‘Right. Well. If we can’t get you anything else... Jason, back to it.’ He marches Jason back behind the counter. ‘Lucky escape with that one, Jason. Vegans are lawsuits waiting to happen...’

I stare at my barm forlornly. Apart from anything else, it’s a waste, isn’t it? What’s the harm, really? The bin, or my stomach? It’s a matter of principle, though, at the end of the day. But what about the principle of waste ?

I go to lift the barm to my lips, the sweet feeling of giving in tantalisingly close, but the future guilt nudges at me, and I hesitate.

From nowhere, Jason is sweeping past my table, surreptitiously depositing a new barm and a drink clumsily onto the table as he goes. The bread is filled with avocado, and the latte smells frothy and nutty.

My mood soars. Jason collects some detritus from the tables around me, and then heads back to the counter without meeting my eye.

I wrap the offending barm in a napkin and tuck into my avocado (delicious — not bacon, but delicious) and scroll through Instagram on my phone for a while. I’m so massively jealous of some of the things I’m seeing, it makes me sick. How has Sarah Gleaves managed to keep a completely flat stomach when she’s already had two kids? And how is she affording the Bahamas when she’s a Juice Plus ambassador? Maybe I should become a Juice Plus ambassador. I’m not sure many people are aiming for the podgy-chic look this season, though, and I’d rather not be in any more competition with Fucking Suzannah . I reply to a few of my group chat messages — Anna is going for her first scan and wants me, Cecilia, Sophie and Brian there. That sounds like a completely run-of-the-mill, normal occasion on which to meet the new, 58-year-old boyfriend.

I wonder if we’ll have to have a baby shower for Anna. I mean, we definitely will, won’t we? But how does it work? Can none of us drink, or is it only her? I really hope it’s only her. Cecilia can organise it as long as she doesn’t let David do the décor.

I load up one of the meditation apps on my phone. Opting for ‘waves of calm’, I shove my earphones in, slurping my coffee as I listen.

This woman’s voice is quite nice. A bit nasally, but nice. I can hear a little click at the back of her throat every time she does a ‘c’ or a ‘g’, like she needs a glass of water. It’s fine, though.

Ow! I’ve missed my mouth and sloshed coffee in my lap. It’s this clacky woman’s fault, why did she tell me to close my eyes?! Surely she should give a pre-warning? Like, ‘don’t listen to this meditation around hot beverages’? It’s just irresponsible. I wonder if I could sue?

She’s telling me to breathe out all the negative stuff, and inhale all the good things. I’m trying, I really am, but I can’t stop focusing on her clacky voice. She’s got some weird American accent, what is that? The spiritual one, something quite neutral. Californian? The type of accent that would belong to someone who has a hypnotherapist for absolutely no reason.

OK, I can’t do this anymore.

No, Maggie, stick with it! I settle further back into my seat, ignoring the woman’s request that I ‘sit up straight and comfortably’ — that’s a paradox, surely?

‘Your breath is your inner voice,’ she murmurs. ‘Listen to it. But do not respond. Just watch.’

What’s the point in having an inner voice if you can’t talk back to it? I do as she says anyway and try to observe my breath. At first, my breathing goes all weird and I try to correct it; making my inhales shorter and my exhales longer, battling a few dizzy, panicky, oxygen-starved moments before righting it again. It’s never this hard during yoga; Altantsetseg never taught us this. It’s completely impossible to think about your breath without thinking about your breath. Eventually I find myself falling into a natural sort of rhythm, and I relax slightly. As soon as I stop focusing on my breathing, though, my mind wanders. I realise I’ve got a chunk of avocado in my tooth and resist the urge to pick it out. I wonder what the price difference is between the normal latte and the almond milk one.

This is bullshit.

Ten times angrier than when I began, I rip my earphones out and open my eyes. Jason quickly diverts his gaze from where he’s obviously been staring at me, perplexed.

I dab at the puddle of coffee sitting in my lap and thank god that my skirt is black. I should wear black more often — it’s evidently useful for more than just interviews.

Oh my god, my interview!

I stab the home button on my phone: 09:01.

I’m a minute late and I’m sitting in a café, fishing avocado out of my teeth and trying to meditate.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I leap up, sending crumbs flying across the room. Weaving between the tables, I shoot a parting glance at Jason, who looks deeply concerned. This is exactly why I’m so careful to always be on time — if I take my eye off the ball for just a second it all goes to shit.

I hurtle down Deansgate, flimsy wisps of frizz escaping from my bun and damp patches seeping through the armpits of my blouse. There’s a homeless man outside Frederick’s and I hand him the bacon barm and cow’s milk latte before throwing myself against the double doors. Even he looks worried about me.

I sweatily find a sales assistant loitering by the science fiction.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, I got here an hour early so I went to get breakfast in Bousous but there was a bit of a drama because of the bacon, and then I tried to meditate to prepare for this but I must have lost track of time because her voice was so clacky— ’

‘Sorry, who are you?’ She squints.

It takes me a second to respond; I’m so riled up I’m not actually sure what the answer is. ‘Maggie Gardiner, interview, at nine?’ I breathe, finally.

‘Oh!’ Her face smooths. ‘We only just finished putting the shutters up, you’re fine.’

I sink with relief into the seat she offers me and try to think of some answers to questions I might be asked. I haven’t actually prepared for this, at all, and it might have been better to start thinking about these things quite a few days ago. Or, you know, while I was sat in Pret causing drama and meditating. I can’t even remember what I’ve got on my CV. I’ve barely had a second to reflect before a short, stocky man with a buzzcut swaggers out of the back room and heads towards me.

‘Margaret Gardiner?’

‘Yes, hi, that’s me, hello.’ I clumsily get to my feet, catching my bag as it slides off my lap and yanking my skirt down at the back. I shake his hand and watch as he leaves it hanging by his side for a second, fingers splayed, before discreetly wiping it on his pants. I am quite sweaty.

‘I’m Darren, the store manager, do you want to come on through?’ I follow him into a tiny, cluttered office and perch on a hard, wooden chair at his desk.

‘Sorry we kept you waiting. As I said on the phone, it’s been a manic few weeks.’ He smiles and sinks into the much nicer seat opposite me.

‘Oh, no problem at all. I thought I was late, to be honest!’ I giggle. Why did I say that? Now he’s going to think I’ve got no concept of time and that I’m an unreliable and not-at-all-punctual individual. My stomach starts knotting.

‘Right.’ He offers a weak smile. ‘So it’s just me today, I’m afraid. I usually bring a sales assistant in too, but we’re crazily understaffed.’

‘Looks like you’ll have to hire me then!’ I joke, regretting it immediately.

‘Let’s see how you do, shall we?’ He turns a page in front of him. ‘So you’ve got a pretty good Biology degree, and you just left a nice position with a... herbal supplements company? Why would you want to work at Frederick’s?’

Bloody hell, that’s direct. Isn’t that a bit offensive? Assuming that a job in pseudo-pharma is ‘better’ than a job in a shop? In any case, I have no idea how to respond because I’m a dick and I didn’t think of how I was going to explain any of the situations I’ve got myself into over the past few weeks.

I decide to just start talking. ‘Well, I always thought I liked biology. I mean, I do like biology, I find it really interesting. But I love books even more, and I guess I didn’t think about that when I finished my A Levels. Working with books didn’t even enter my mind as an option. But working in the drugs world is terrible. It’s just this sell, sell, sell mentality and it doesn’t fit with my values.’ That sounded all right, didn’t it?

‘You know we have a pretty big “sell, sell, sell” attitude here, too?’ He raises an eyebrow.

Shit. Selling books. I forgot this was a corporation, too, and not just a cosy, paper-scented place to relax in.

‘Oh, of course. But I believe in books. I can’t tell you how much I love books. When you sell a book you’re selling someone an experience , you know?’

‘And when you’re selling drugs, you’re selling someone the chance at health and a better life, no?’ He’s being antagonistic now, but this time he actually doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m on the upper foot here.

‘I’ll have to partly disagree with you there actually, Darren.’ I sit up in my seat. ‘I was primarily charged with condensing all the complicated research information into positive “scripts”, so the sales reps could go out and sell what we were offering. The majority of our product base was weight-loss supplements. Granted, most had at least some solid evidence behind them, but they were sold at extortionate prices — very much for the benefit of the company and not the patient. Or, I suppose in some cases, the NHS, which is struggling as it is. Many of their active ingredients could be found in foods too, so you’re buying a ￡5 meal sachet when you could get the same nutrients from a head of broccoli.’ I shift uncomfortably, suddenly realising that the skinny tea I’ve ordered fits this exact description. ‘When you sell a book, you don’t feel bad. You’re selling pleasure, aren’t you? It’s a choice, an addition to your life, not a fundamental necessity to be able to live normally, or a thing that you’re promised will solve your problems when in all likelihood it won’t. There’s no exploitation, I guess.’

Bloody hell, I didn’t even know I felt like that.

Darren holds his hands up. ‘You know more than me about these kinds of sales, I can’t argue with that.’ He laughs. ‘So it says here that you have previous retail experience at... Fashun Shoes? Is that how you pronounce it?’

Yes, Darren, I spent a month at Fashun Shoes in Sale town centre when I was sixteen, before I stopped going in and ran off drinking vodka and smoking with my friends instead.

‘Oh, yes. That was a wonderful little shop, very quirky.’ Translation: they sold leopard print stripper heels and fake Ugg boots and the entire place stank of plastic. Imagine Primark’s shoe section, and times that smell by 8,000.

‘And what kind of responsibilities did you have there?’

Making tea and coffee, stealing the occasional pair of flip flops and being ignored by all the people who actually worked there?

‘Assisting customers, putting purchases through the till, opening and closing the store — all the usual stuff.’ I never even got near the till. Or a customer.

‘All right.’ He lets out a whistle through his nose. ‘And you were a member of your university’s book club?’

‘Yes. I hosted our meetings several times. It was my favourite part of the university experience — getting to read fantastic books and meet new people at the same time.’

I don’t know if the University of Salford even had a book club.

Darren flashes me a smile, two pointy incisors making him look like a hyena. ‘Okie dokie. Just a hypothetical situation question now. Can you tell me about a time when you disagreed with your superior and how you handled it?’

I start to sweat.

Of course, Darren. Quite recently, I went to a workshop and events transpired that made me feel belittled and overlooked. I responded to this professionally and maturely, by downing a bottle of wine, heckling a data management woman and calling everyone in the room a square. This precise incident has shown me the importance of not getting plastered during working hours, and has taught me the invaluable skill of submitting multiple job applications as a consequence.

‘Ooh, I hate these questions,’ I laugh, buying myself some time. ‘Errrrm. Let’s see... well, we had sales reps as I’ve mentioned, who were above me in pay grade and status. One particular sales rep was quite rude and derogatory to me at times and we disagreed on the principles of the job I was doing. I handled this by taking her to one side and explaining how her remarks made me feel, and how I didn’t think it was contributing to a good team atmosphere in the office. She was mortified and apologised, she hadn’t even realised what she’d been doing, and we got on really well after that.’ I smile.

What a load of shit. What actually happened was that I screamed ‘skank’ at Rachael in the bathroom one morning after she told me a monkey could do my job better than me. Thinking about it, it’s possible that all these little episodes might have contributed to Theo’s case for dismissing me on the grounds of ‘inappropriate behaviour’. Hmm.

‘It sounds like that was handled pretty well.’ Darren taps his papers against the desk. ‘Well, I think I know everything I need to — thanks so much for coming in.’

He rises and holds out his hand, and I shake it again, imagining him scrubbing my sweat off in the bathroom as soon as I’m gone.

‘Thank you for your time.’ I smile.

‘We’ll be in touch.’ He opens the door and I walk out into the shop. I hear the soft thud of his office door behind me, and I’m alone.

The shop is quiet and smells, as Frederick’s always does, of newly printed paper and fresh coffee. I wander the aisles and flick through autobiographies, niche historical fiction and number one bestsellers.

I dip my head into a Charles Dickens, breathing in deeply, and hope against hope that it was enough.