This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Twenty-Three

They haven’t stopped trying to contact me, any of them. WhatsApp messages, missed calls, Instagram DMs — even a couple of emails when I turned my phone off. I have isolated myself, my only contact with the outside world being trips to the gym or my shifts at Frederick’s, where I obligingly take the worst work in the back room just in case one of them comes looking for me.

I have felt completely lightheaded about it all; the crying and lack of appetite has made me dizzy, like I’m not really here. I don’t eat all day, but as soon as I get home I stuff my face with bread and olive oil; huge vats of tomato pasta; multipacks of vegan cookies. After a couple of weeks of a gradual lessening of my dependency on food, I have well and truly relapsed. My distractedness is affecting my work. The other day I gave a child who was looking for a colouring book a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. His mother went berserk.

I’m toeing the line, I can feel it. I just don’t seem to care, which somehow makes me feel worse. I’m used to being full of something; rage, boredom, hate. I usually fuck it up for myself because I’m driven by some emotion or other, not because I’m empty of anything at all.

I’m sorting through some of our unsold sale items, packing them into boxes to send back to the publishers, and the methodical act of it is a nice distraction. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I go to check it isn’t Mum, giving me news about Nana. I can’t keep my phone off permanently, but I refuse to open anything from the girls.

It’s a tweet I’ve been mentioned in.

@EmmaPenton92 Ran into my adorable old friend @MaggieG123 the other eve. She’s writing a super cute little blog! Look at this one!

And then she has retweeted my blog about starting the gym as a newbie. I’m almost certain she’s done it out of pity, or even to mock me for going to the gym for the first time aged twenty-seven, but Emma has over 17,000 followers and the tweet has had 139 likes and 16 retweets already. I check my WordPress statistics. 296 total views of my site in the last 24 hours. I feel my stomach drop. I did this. I told her about the blog and now I don’t get to control how many NRJoggers see it and laugh at me anymore.

‘Maggie?’ Beric’s timid voice comes from the doorway.

‘Yeah, come in Beric.’ I dump myself down on a box of hardbacks, sliding my phone back into my pocket. I’ll process this later.

‘You OK?’ He stays standing, fiddling with the strap on his backpack.

‘Yeah. You?’

‘You seem upset recently.’

‘I’m OK, honestly.’

‘All right. We haven’t erm — initiated our plan?’ He looks at me from under his eyelashes.

Oh, the Darren Destruction Deployment. The big ol’ DDD.

‘I don’t know if I’m in the mood for that today, Beric. I just—’

‘You can’t give up!’ He says, with more energy than I’ve ever heard from him. ‘You can’t!’

‘I know, I’m sorry, another day?’

‘No! We’ve waited weeks. He’s only getting worse. I feel like I’ve got the balls to do it now, and I don’t know how long that will last.’ He rubs his eyes.

I look at Beric. I remember his demeanour when I started here, his shyness and anxiety. He’s different, recently. More confident, more sure of himself. I hadn’t thought that it could be because of our ‘solution’. Maybe the project would give me more of a distraction, something to focus on outside of myself and my problems. I remember Darren threatening Beric. Darren making him feel like he was going mad. Darren turning everyone against him . I stand up.

‘Let’s do it.’

His face breaks out into a grin. ‘I’ve got the stuff in my locker.’

‘What time are you on ’til?’

‘Close.’

‘Me too. Go grab it.’

Beric disappears into the staff changing rooms briefly and emerges, pink-cheeked with his rucksack in his hand. We squeeze behind some stacked boxes of stickers until we are completely hidden from view. He pulls his rucksack out and rummages inside, pulling out bits and pieces and setting things up.

Ten minutes later and we are back on the shop floor. Darren spots me as I leave the back room and makes his way towards me.

‘Have you managed to sort the unsold books?’

‘Nearly.’

‘OK, well, let me know when you’re done. No rush, take your time.’ He pats my shoulder and I’m dazed for a second; again trying to reconcile this kind man with the bully Beric tells me about. Part of me doesn’t want to believe it.

I look up. Anita is staring at us from across the room, her face twisted.

I walk across the shop, relieved that Darren didn’t suspect anything, and offer to help a lost-looking customer. I need a nice, normal human to converse with to distract me. I lead her to our recipe and cookbook selection and have a chat with her about our bestsellers. Her daughter is vegan so she’s giving it a try, too. I tell her about baked avocado and coconut bacon, as though I actually cook for myself and don’t live off non-dairy, family-sized garlic breads from Tesco.

I bag up her book at the till and wish her good luck with her journey. She smiles and walks away, and the next customer fills her place.

‘Maggie?’

Oh, god.

I knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time.

The worst has finally happened.

‘Hi, Mum.’

She holds an Anne Tyler paperback in her hand limply, going to put it on the counter and then looking at it as though she’s not quite sure what she’s supposed to be doing.

‘What — what are you doing? Here?’ The book slips out of her hand and lands with a thwack on the floor, the corners of its spine dented. I feel suddenly sad; it’s such a good read.

‘How’s Nana?’ I say. Maybe if I get her distracted she’ll forget I’m in uniform, on the staff side of the tills, and we can go and get a coffee.

‘Maggie.’ She sighs. ‘Are you working here?’

Damn it. I forgot she was a perfectly sane human being.

I wonder if there’s a real-life version of that spell they use in Harry Potter , where you just aim your wand at someone’s eyes and they forget everything. Like what happened to Professor Lockhart down in the Chamber of Secrets. I think he was pretty much permanently disabled after that, though. Couldn’t really do that to my own mother, could I?

Oh, I’ve just remembered. Roofies! Rohypnol! That wipes the memory, doesn’t it? A real-life version of the Obliviate spell. I wonder where you buy a nice packet of Rohypnol. I could take her for a drink and slip it in her Pinot Grigio while she’s in the bathroom. Although would it erase her memories from before she took it?

‘Maggie?’ I snap back to reality. Jesus Christ, was I really considering drugging my own parent? What is wrong with me?

‘Can we meet for a coffee? On my break?’ I’d rather explain when Darren isn’t watching me.

‘Well, yes, when is it?’ She bends down to pick up the book and slides it across the counter, catching my glances at my boss.

‘Half an hour, in Costa?’ I scan the book through and take her card.

‘OK, thanks.’ She takes the carrier bag and looks at me for a second. ‘See you there.’

* * *

I smoke a cigarette round the back before sloping over to Costa, dragging out the minutes so I won’t have much time to talk. Mum’s sitting by the window and she waves as I walk in, moving her scarf off the seat next to her.

‘Got you your favourite.’ She pushes a cup towards me. Earl grey with vanilla syrup and hot frothy milk. Don’t knock it before you’ve tried it.

‘I don’t drink milk . . .’ I say regretfully.

‘I know, it’s soya.’ I am momentarily surprised that she has remembered, but then of course she has. She remembers everything about me.

‘Thank you.’ I take a warming sip. ‘I’ll just say it all, and then you can speak. Is that OK?’

‘Yes.’ She sits back in her chair and I begin, intending to censor the worst parts of my behaviour but ending up including everything. I feel the pricks of emotion associated with each memory, and with telling it comes a sort of catharsis, my confession lifting a huge weight from my shoulders. When I’m done I sit back and sigh, checking my watch. Twenty minutes, that took me. I’ve only got fifteen left.

‘Oh, Maggie.’ Mum dabs a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I’m so upset.’

‘I know, I’ve really messed it all up. I’m sorry.’

‘No, love.’ She reaches forward and clasps my hand. ‘I’m upset you didn’t tell me.’

‘I didn’t want you to be disappointed.’ I’m welling up now. I didn’t expect this.

She laughs. ‘Darling, I could never be disappointed in you. Intrigued, bewildered, baffled — yes, but disappointed? No.’

‘I’m ridiculous, aren’t I?’ I wipe my nose.

‘You are a bit, yes. That’s why we love you. Now, do you want to know what I think?’ She lets go of my hand and sits up straight, ready to deliver her wisdom.

‘Yes, please.’

‘I actually think you’ve done something wonderful. You were miserable at work and you got fired, and no—’ she shushes my protests, ‘—it wasn’t under the best circumstances, but you carried on. Pretty much alone, it seems. You found another job. You were unhappy with your lifestyle so you joined the gym, you made attempts to quit smoking. You went vegan, started thinking more about what you were eating. Started yoga because you wanted a calmer outlook. Again, all by yourself because you had the gall to end the relationship that was making you miserable and refused to ask for help from anyone else. You had some horrible news about Nana and dealt with it, rallying to her side. Your friend got pregnant and that scared you, but you sucked it up to be there for her. And now they’ve betrayed you and you’re flying solo again.’ She takes a deep breath and leans forward. ‘And you’re coping, darling. You’ve had a series of shitty, rubbish events but you have taken them and moved forward, never giving up and still trying to improve yourself. Granted, you’ve created some of the turmoil yourself, but that’s just you, love. When you’re unhappy you rock the boat, no mind for consequences as long as there are some.’ She cups my face with her hand. ‘You didn’t need a list, Maggie. You didn’t need to try to be somebody else. You did this all by yourself.’

I’m openly sobbing in Costa Coffee now. I had been so focused on convincing my parents that I was still the half-successful person they thought I was, I hadn’t considered just telling them everything and allowing them to support me. Yes, I’d shared bits with my friends, but with their recent distance from me and the Martin debacle, I have pretty much been alone. Saffron has been an amazing, fresh perspective on things, but she doesn’t know me well enough to give me complete support. Everything with Gary had been funny and anecdotal. All I really needed was for someone who loves me unconditionally to sit me down and tell me I’m doing fine. None of this is a disaster. I almost laugh because it’s true — I’m still here, aren’t I? Still breathing, living, experiencing. So what’s the damage been, really?

‘Thanks, Mum.’ I lean over and crush her into a hug. I pull back as a thought hits me. ‘What about Dad?’

‘Oh, I’ll talk your father round. He’ll be fine.’ She waves a hand in the air. ‘Now, get back to work.’

‘I think I’ll just sack it off and come shopping with you.’

I laugh at the look of alarm on her face.

‘ Joking .’

* * *

I handle the rest of my shift well, feeling buoyed by my unearthed secrets, exposed and accepted. I’m pulling the shutters down at 5p.m. when Darren comes over.

‘Where’s Beric?’ he asks.

‘In the back? I’m not sure.’ I keep my finger on the button and watch as the shutters crunch to the ground.

Darren goes into the back room and I stand for a while, pretending to fiddle with the lock. I can’t leave Beric here alone with him. After several minutes Beric emerges, scanning the room until he spots me. He holds up a shaky thumb. ‘Bingo,’ he mouths.