This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Eighteen

I haven’t slept well for worrying about Nana. How could it be that she’s lonely? Actually, scratch that — how could it be that we hadn’t noticed she’s lonely?

When I think about it, it makes perfect sense, which makes it even harder to swallow. I feel guilty, mostly, for being so selfish. I always saw her as the matriarch; ever-present and strong, pottering around and doing her thing and perfectly content with it. Obviously, since Gramps died, I knew she’d be missing him, but she always seemed so warm and chirpy when we went to see her. I suppose I never stopped to wonder whether she was happy just for those moments; the moments she wasn’t alone. Because you don’t think about what happens when the door closes, do you?

I have spent the last few days trying to swat it away and stay strong. What use am I if I crumble? Besides, this revelation is so gargantuan that it’s blurring all my other crises into insignificance. When I receive a text from Martin telling me he’s seeing someone new, and that he wants me to meet her, I brush it off. I don’t have time to be sad and whingey — I only have time to keep moving forward.

This is just classic Martin anyway, isn’t it? Showing off the girl who would say yes. He never really wanted me. He wanted what I represented — the fiancée on his super-toned arm, his female counterpart in the idyllic home. Whoever she is, I’ve no interest in meeting her. I do, however, need to get Martin’s collection of weights out of my apartment. I’ll think about that later.

As soon as I got back from the hospital I hit the gym, smacking my feet down on the treadmill until they wouldn’t run any further. I managed a new record of fifteen minutes of solid running. Pete gave me a thumbs up as I left, and I felt pretty vindicated. Then I rang the woman from the council, again , and told her what had happened. She was mortified, as she bloody should be, and swore down on her nephew’s life that she’d have it sorted before Nana got out of hospital. If she doesn’t I will murder her nephew with my bare hands.

Joke.

Maybe.

It’s Tuesday now, and I’ve been applying for jobs and practising my mindfulness all morning. It’s getting a little bit easier, but my posture still needs some work. I’m resisting the urge to scroll through Instagram and have instead downloaded a new book onto my Kindle. I’m three chapters in when the phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, am I speaking to Margaret Gardiner?’ It’s a woman’s voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Oh hi, it’s Monica here from Frederick’s. We’re sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you, Darren’s been off sick but he’s been reviewing candidates from home.’

My stomach somersaults. I hope it wasn’t my sweaty hand germs that made him ill.

‘No problem at all,’ I say, with as much calm as I can muster.

‘So we’re really happy to tell you that you were successful at interview and we’d like to offer you the position of full-time sales assistant. You don’t have to accept now, you can think about it, but do try to let us know as soon as you can.’

Oh my god. I’ve been offered the bloody job! I have to stop myself from asking what my staff discount will be straight away — that wouldn’t come across well.

‘I’d be delighted to accept!’ I say, a little too enthusiastically. ‘When would you like me to start?’

‘Great! I know it’s very short notice, but could you come in and do some shadowing on Thursday at 9a.m.? Just for a few hours. Then we’ll get you on some proper shifts.’

‘Of course, that’d be great, thank you so much,’ I gush.

As soon as I hang up I do a little ‘whoop!’ and call Cecilia. I feel an unquenchable urge to show her that I’m getting my life together.

‘C? It’s me, I got the bookshop job!’ I screech as soon as she picks up.

‘Aw Mags, that’s great news! I’m really happy for you.’ She sounds distracted.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine! Why? Why wouldn’t I be?’ She laughs but it sounds false.

‘No reason, just wondering. You need to come over and we can do wine and watch Mamma Mia to celebrate. When are you free? You could come over tonight?’ I start picking stuff up around the room and tidying, the phone wedged on my shoulder.

‘Oh, I can’t tonight. I’m busy with David. I’ll call you and we can sort it out. I’ve got to run, Mags. Congratulations again! Love you.’ She puts the phone down.

That was weird. Wasn’t it? Maybe I’m imagining things. I fire off a message to Sophie and Anna, but Sophie doesn’t reply and Anna just says, Woo! Proud of you gal. Can’t tonight but soon x .

I sit down again, a little deflated. It’s fine, there’s plenty of time for us to celebrate. My phone buzzes. It’s Anna again: Don’t forget my scan next Tuesday, 3.30p.m.!! x . Oh good. I hope I’m not working. Actually, I hope I am.

Working! How exciting. I briefly remember that less than two weeks ago the prospect of working made me want to electrocute myself, but I’m over that now. I’m a new woman. A new, book-selling woman! Frederick’s never gets really busy, either, it’s always so calm. I’m sure I’ll be able to spend most of my time curled up in the kids’ corner, leafing through the latest paperbacks. If a customer needs me they can come and sit next to me and ask me whatever they want.

God, I hope we don’t have to dust all those books. Surely they’re not on the shelves long enough to get dusty? But what about those ones that are really difficult to shift, like War and Peace ? I know it’s a classic, but surely nobody actually buys that anymore? It’s the kind of thing your uncle forces on you at Christmas, to show you how people used to live and how much of an ungrateful brat you are for not appreciating the straighteners your parents got you in the wrong colour.

Frederick’s is a five-minute walk from the gym, too! I can go when I finish my shifts. And yoga is only down the road; hopefully I can get out no later than half five on Wednesdays and run straight there. I wonder if it’s too early to start making requests?

I grab a glass of water and neck half of it, chucking the rest on Veronica (who is now completely brown and crispy) before rolling a cigarette. I lean out of the window and take a few long, deep drags. I’m really excited! This could be the start of a brand-new career for me. I might meet some authors, or agents, who I can pitch my book ideas to. Of course, that would require me actually coming up with a book idea, but maybe once they see my blog they’ll suggest something of their own?

My stomach sinks a little bit as I remember the nasty comment on my latest post. It was such a cruel thing to say; I actually feel quite angry. What gives that arsehole the right to make me feel so terrible, to make me completely abandon something I really enjoy? It’s one person’s opinion, and they don’t speak for everybody. The post has about thirteen likes now, why should a single comment override all that positivity?

I pull out my laptop and start a second post, the fire of defiance burning in my belly. Balls to you, boring troll. The words flow easily as I describe my vegan journey so far — how many times I’ve forgotten, how I’ve struggled with restaurant menus, how the smell of bacon has driven me to the brink. It’s light and comes easily, and for now, that’s all that matters.

* * *

Mum calls as I’m walking to yoga the following day, to say that Nana’s hip is healing well, but mentally she is worse than ever.

‘She’s been kicking off at the nurses a lot, especially at night. Moonlighting, I think they call it.’ She sounds tired.

‘Moonlighting? Like, showing her bum to everyone?’ I am horrified at the thought.

‘No!’ She laughs. ‘Dementia patients get a bit crazy when the sun goes down, apparently. Sundowning! Sorry, not moonlighting, sundowning. She’s just been trying to get out of bed, screaming that she’s been wrongly imprisoned, asking where Gramps is. Stuff like that.’

‘Jesus.’ This is not good.

‘Yeah. They’re not going to let her go home until we’ve sorted out some support for her.’

‘It’s the hospital, she’s not used to it. She needs to be around her stuff, her memories.’ I suggest.

‘I know, you’re right. But we can’t deny that she’s not the same, even before all this happened. I think we should get her to move in with Charlie and your dad and I for a bit.’ She sounds exhausted at the idea.

‘Oh, god. That’ll be awful for all of you, Nana included. Don’t we need to think long-term? She can’t stay with you forever.’

‘Yeah. But for now I just want her out of the hospital.’

‘I get that.’ It’s too much to think about right now. ‘All right, Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ll go and visit her tomorrow afternoon after—’ I nearly say after my first shift, but then I remember that my parents still think I’m working for Theo and I stop myself, ‘—after work.’

I put the phone down and head up the stairs to Namaste studios. Dreadlocks guy gives me a cheery wave and I wave back, genuinely happy to see him. He’s weird, but he’s welcoming. I’m starting to like him.

I’m early, but Gary and Altantsetseg are already here, sitting in uncomfortable silence. Well, the uncomfortable silence seems just to be on Gary’s part — she’s sat meditating and he’s shifting his eyes around the room as though she’s masturbating in front of him or something. Relief washes over his face when I walk in.

‘Thank god you’re here,’ he whispers as I roll my mat out next to him. ‘I’m not coming early again.’

I laugh. ‘I can’t cope with her at all. She’s constantly pissed off. I thought yoga was supposed to make you chilled and all-loving.’

‘Apparently not.’ He smiles at me.

* * *

We walk down the street after class finishes, until we reach the corner where we usually go our separate ways.

‘I feel really chilled and all-loving right now.’ Gary laughs.

‘Same. I’m really enjoying this, you know. More than I thought I would.’ I take in the quiet streets, the steamy windows of the pubs. I feel suddenly and inexplicably un-alone, entirely unselfconscious.

‘Me too.’ He catches my eye as I look at him and holds my gaze for a second. ‘You up to much tonight?’

‘Yep, only three more episodes of The Office left until I’ve finished the final season. It’s a big night.’ I smile.

‘Ah, OK. Sounds important. Maybe next time?’ He reddens a little.

Oh, shit, was he asking me out? I thought we were making small talk; I’m so useless with these things. God, what do I do now?

‘Yeah, maybe next time,’ I say eventually. ‘Shall we swap numbers, though? Then we can make sure we arrive at the same time and avoid being alone with Alabama Slammer or whatever her name is.’

He throws his head back and laughs, his hair flopping back and exposing his creased-up face. ‘Alabama Slammer. You’re funny. Farty, but funny.’ He clocks my glare and holds up his hands. They’re big, I notice. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Yeah, let’s swap numbers.’

I walk home feeling wired and buzzy. Was that a friendly invitation, or something more? Panic swirls in my chest. I can’t get locked into another relationship. I can’t even face imagining it. Fat-free dinners and long weekends and impromptu proposals. I take a deep breath. Maybe he just wants a friend. Christ, maybe I could do with a friend. And even if it’s more than that, it’s not like one date would swipe my independence, is it? Rational thoughts like that don’t get rid of the butterflies swimming around in my tummy, though.

* * *

My first day at work. Shit.

I’m wearing black suit pants and a cream shirt. I assumed I’d be given an official Frederick’s uniform and I was right; a girl called Anita has just thrust a crumpled, suspiciously not-new-looking polo shirt in my hand and directed me to the staff changing rooms. The dingy space is in stark contrast to the cosy, low-lit atmosphere of the shop; all metal pipes, chipped paint and fluorescent tube lighting. I sniff the shirt tentatively (it smells like bolognese) before taking a deep breath and wrenching it over my head. The top three buttons are done up, so it gets stuck on my nose, smears my make-up down my face and pulls all my hair out from its bobble.

I eventually unpop the buttons and manage to get the shirt on. It’s a sickly green colour and it’s huge , an XXL at least. I look like the winner of The Biggest Loser. I am disheartened to realise that I don’t look cute, like other girls might. I don’t look like a dainty model, swamped in her boyfriend’s t-shirt. I don’t look like Emma Penton. I turn away from the mirror.

Leaving my stuff under one of the woodchip benches, I head out onto the shop floor and make my way over to Darren, who is murmuring to Anita by the recipe books. He spins round when he sees me, and the girl hurries off.

‘Maggie, welcome! I see Anita has given you your uniform.’ He flashes those weird, pointy teeth at me.

‘Yeah, it’s a bit big . . .’ I start.

‘Well, it’s our newbie shirt. All newbies wear that one until we’re sure they’re going to stick around, then we give them their own.’ He looks at me proudly, as though this is the best idea anyone has ever had.

‘Does it ever get washed?’ I brave.

‘Oh, no. Probably not. Nobody wears it for that long anyway. Now, let me find Beric and he can show you the ropes.’

I follow him round, feeling filthy and contaminated, until we find a weedy blonde boy crouched next to a table display.

‘Beric, meet Maggie.’

The boy starts suddenly, trembling to his feet and staring at us with big, round eyes. ‘I’m just doing the crime thriller stack... I’m nearly done,’ he whispers.

‘No problem, take your time,’ Darren twinkles.

Beric flits his eyes from the display to me, as though he’s weighing up the least dangerous option.

‘I don’t bite!’ I try, feeling creepy as soon as it comes out of my mouth.

Darren booms with laughter. ‘I’ll leave you two to it. Good luck on your first day.’

Beric’s eyes follow Darren to the back of the shop until he is out of sight. We stand in silence for a second.

‘Want a hand?’ I offer, getting on my knees and reaching for a book.

‘No, it’s OK. I’ll sort it later. Come on, I’ll show you around.’

* * *

Beric is really sweet, showing me everything I need to know at an unbelievable pace. I’m not really taking any of it in; he’s rattling off really minute details until he’s out of breath, his eyes darting around the room and never meeting mine. If I’d been paying attention, I’d know where the spare fuses for the staff kitchen kettle are kept. I tried to process it all for the first ten minutes but then I gave up, figuring as long as I knew where the toilets were I could ask about other stuff when needed. At midday, Darren seeks us out again.

‘Got the gist of it all, then?’ He smiles.

‘Yep, pretty much, I think. It might take a few goes to get the hang of some things, but I think I’ll be okay.’

He nods. ‘Of course, of course. Rome wasn’t built in a day, et cetera.’ He turns to Beric. ‘Now, Beric, I don’t want you taking this the wrong way and panicking, but a customer has just tripped over an Agatha Christie from the stack you were doing earlier. Completely not your fault — I asked you to show Maggie around — but would you mind going and finishing it off now?’

Beric scampers off at an alarming speed, his knees trembling as he flees to the other side of the shop.

‘God, is the customer OK?’ I start. ‘I feel awful, I hope Beric isn’t upset.’

‘Not a problem at all, she’s absolutely fine.’ Darren gives me a warm grin. ‘These things happen. Here’s your rota for the next fourteen days, see you tomorrow?’

‘Absolutely.’ I nod.

Darren heads off to the other side of the shop, where Beric is hurriedly finishing his stack.

‘He’s really nice, isn’t he?’ I turn to Anita, who is sticking 3 for 2 labels on a stack of paperbacks.

‘Mmm.’ She doesn’t look up from what she’s doing.

I keep watching her for a second, but she doesn’t offer anything further. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

When she doesn’t reply I make my way to the back, grab my stuff and change my top. In a last-ditch attempt, I offer Anita a wave on my way out of the main door. She hesitates for a second and then looks down again, ripping a sticker off the sheet with force.

That was weird , I think as I walk down Deansgate. Beric obviously has quite bad anxiety; he was so desperate to do everything right and give me all the information he could as quickly as possible. He evidently doesn’t cope well with new people. I hope I can earn his trust; it’d be nice to have an ally who can tell me how I can get rid of my newbie shirt. It’s really lovely how patient and kind Darren is with him too — Theo would have given him a total nervous breakdown by now. He went to speak to Beric a few times when he was alone and I was practising something, checking everything was going OK. It’s such a relief to finally have a nice, normal boss, who isn’t interested in small talk about women’s problems and iguanas. I’ve got a good feeling about this place.