This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Veronica is in full bloom. Huge red and white flowers have emerged as I slept, their faces tilted towards me as I shuffle into the room, pyjama clad and happy.

Gary stayed for a cup of tea before heading home, leaving me to my evening and my thoughts. I like him (a shitload, to be frank) and we’re going to see where it goes. I’m still not sure if I’m ready for a relationship, but it is what it is. Maybe we will take things slowly or maybe things will go no further; either way I’ll be fine. I will focus on myself and let the rest come naturally, as additions rather than necessities.

I thought a lot about the girls last night. I opened the envelope Anna gave me; it was the ultrasound photo of Nugget. How can we not go through this life-changing moment together, a compact and supportive group, as we always have been? Their absence is like a physical pain; not just being with them, but speaking, messaging, laughing every day. It’s hard. I know we’ll move on from this though, at some point. We might not be the same for a while, but we’ll come out the other side.

Something else has clicked in my head after my conversation with Anna. When she told me she was pregnant, I was convinced her life was over. She would be a mum now, forever tied to a man more than twice her age. Her youth had ended. It was so much the opposite situation of those glossy lives I saw on Instagram, the people I was trying to be and the life I had convinced myself I wanted. The high-flying worlds of Emma Penton and my brother and sister, who always outshone me. But who’s winning, really? Anna is happier than I’ve ever seen her, Veri and Charlie were miserable and Emma Penton wasn’t perfect at all. Maybe it really does have nothing to do with how things look on the outside.

I’m loading the washing into the machine and as I check the pockets of my jeans I find the list. It’s torn and stained, but I can just make out the words and satisfied crossings-out across the page. I almost can’t remember writing it, and it’s hard to transport myself back to the mindset I had when this was all that mattered. But there’s still a thumping at the back of my mind as my eyes travel down each item. I know I’ve changed, but wouldn’t it feel better to have changed and be skinny, sleek and polished? Maybe it would. Maybe I’d be happier and more popular, maybe there’d be career opportunities jumping at me from every corner. Maybe my friends wouldn’t have betrayed me in the first place, maybe I’d have coped better if they had. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost my job, wouldn’t have fallen off a treadmill, wouldn’t have embarrassed myself time and time again. And maybe... maybe all of it would have happened anyway. Maybe if I hadn’t been so focused on changing my exterior and chasing the idea of ‘perfect’, I’d have given time to the important things: accepting myself and nurturing those around me. Perhaps happiness isn’t born from itemisation and the magnifying of flaws. And isn’t a list really the antidote to impulsiveness and spontaneity and fun? To all the things I have struggled and fought and battled to love about myself?

There’s a funny kind of irony in it, really: the woman for whom no one day ever goes to plan, embarking on a life change using a list. It’s crackers.

Today is the day of mine and Beric’s Darren Destruction Deployment. Darren is in as the shop opens, so me and Beric are planning on getting there at 10a.m. We aren’t on shift, but we have work to do. It’s still early so I head to the gym, listening to my walking meditation in the daylight with my eyes open this time. Afterwards, I head into Tesco and grab some strawberries and vegan meringues (apparently made from bean juice, but I try not to think too much about this), and crunch on them with a cup of tea. I find I can eat more calmly now. I know there will be moments when I’m sad and a bucket of fried rice is my only solace, but my mind goes more quickly to calling my family, or asking Saffron to hang out, than to eating. Food isn’t company, and nor are people who don’t accept you for who you are. It took a while, but I’ve figured that out now.

Eventually it’s time, so I get dressed and take the eight-minute walk to Frederick’s, spotting Beric standing outside as I approach.

‘Hi.’ He looks at the floor, beetroot. It seems being in this place has pushed him firmly back into his shell, and the porn atrocity probably isn’t helping.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘She’s not here yet.’

‘She will be.’ I look around me, trying to pick out who she might be from the crowded streets.

‘You know the plan?’ Beric raises his eyes to me for the first time.

‘Like the back of my hand.’

On cue, a woman in an exquisitely tailored suit approaches and scans our faces.

‘Beric Johnsson? Maggie Gardiner?’ She says and we nod, shaking hands. ‘Shall we go inside?’

We walk nervously into the shop. It’s almost completely devoid of customers, and I spot Darren over by the counters murmuring to Anita. I lead our party over until we’re right behind him, and then tap him lightly on the shoulder. He spins round.

‘What are you two doing here? You’re not on the rota for today.’ He looks confused.

‘This is Pamela Stones.’ I gesture to the suited woman, who shakes Darren’s hand too. She really loves a good handshake, this one.

‘Right...’ He looks a bit worried now, but turns on the charm, flashing those pointy little teeth. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Before she has a chance to respond, Beric holds up his hand and reaches into his backpack. To the untrained eye, it could be quite plausible that Beric (small, put-upon, potentially unhinged) is about to pull something weaponised from the bag. This goes some way towards justifying the horrified, panicked expressions of Darren, Anita and Pamela. Those expressions don’t change when he produces a small electronic device and places it onto the counter.

‘What is it? What’s that?’ Anita has edged further along the counter, and is breathing heavily.

‘This is for you, Darren. Pamela, I’d like you to pay close attention.’ Beric reaches a shaking finger forward and depresses a small button on the side of the device, earning an audible gasp from Darren and causing Anita to throw her arms over her head dramatically.

The recorder crackles into life.

‘ . . . absolutely useless, Beric... You’re working stock check tonight, no overtime pay... What have I told you about trying to tell people? They’ll never believe you... Everyone thinks you’re mental, you know that, don’t you?... Looks like somebody knocked the Sci-Fi stack down, you’d better go and pick it up... You’re a waste of space... Try to tell anybody and I’ll make sure you’re never employed again... ’

I reach forward and press pause. Pamela looks horrified. Darren has gone an alarming shade of white, his undereyes sunken and grey.

‘Mr Farraday, is this how you speak to your employees?’ Pamela takes the recorder and holds it close to her chest. ‘Is this how you treat them?’

‘I... I...’ Darren gawps like a fish, his mouth opening and closing like an idiot. ‘He doesn’t do his work properly!’

‘And you think that’s an excuse to bully and manipulate him? To threaten him out of employment for your own satisfaction?’ She glares at him.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ Darren raises himself to full height, his face regaining colour at an alarming speed. ‘Get out of my shop.’

‘We were introduced several moments ago, Mr Farraday. My name is Pamela.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a curled-up lanyard, flashing the badge on the end at us all. ‘HR at Frederick’s . ’

Darren physically blanches. The amount of times his blood pressure has risen and fallen in the last two minutes is unprecedented. I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

‘Mrs Stones!’ Darren recovers and inexplicably holds out his hand again. I am reminded of my behaviour with Christopher in the bar the other week. If in doubt, just shout the person’s name at them. ‘I do apologise, I didn’t recognise you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Pamela narrows her eyes. ‘It’s Miss Stones, thank you, Mr Farraday.’ Oooooh, BURN. I’m learning a lot from these badass HR women. ‘And you’re suspended, pending an investigation into abuse and misconduct. I’ll keep this, if that’s alright.’ She slips the recorder into her bag and Beric and I nod, mute. Pamela takes Darren’s elbow and guides him, stunned, towards the main door. He is silent. We did it! We shopped the bastard!

I look over at Beric. His face is slack with relief. He watches as Darren is led towards the door, and then his eyes flit beyond me, to Anita. I turn. Her head is in her hands; wet, noisy sobs escaping from her mouth. We rush over, one of our hands on each of her shoulders.

‘I thought it was just me.’ She gulps. ‘I thought it was only me.’

I pull her into a hug and she snots onto my collar.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t help you.’ She turns her attention to Beric. ‘I didn’t want things to get worse.’

Jesus, Anita too. Beric told me everything was perfect until the three-month mark. It wouldn’t have been long until it was my turn.

Beric moves in to hug Anita and I edge away, leaving them to their shared moment. I watch as Darren leaves the shop. I feel a jolt of pride — I did that! I got that calculating, power-complexed wanker chucked out of here forevermore. And I did it through careful planning and well-timed execution, no impulse used whatsoever! I’m learning! Maybe I can be a calm, rational individual — not always, but sometimes? Perhaps I can be professional when it really matters, when real causes need fighting for.

Pamela and her detainee have reached the doorway.

It’s no use, I can hold it in no longer.

‘FUCK YOU, DARREN!’ I scream.

Hmm, maybe not.

* * *

Joy of all joys! I cannot believe we did it. Beric was like an unleashed animal, springing into animation the moment Darren left the building. ‘Pub?’ he asked me, and I agreed, despite it being ten thirty in the morning. We got suitably plastered and ordered a Wetherspoons all-day breakfast, mine consisting of beans, mushrooms and a roasted tomato — the establishment hasn’t quite got itself up-to-date with the new vegan trends just yet.

Beric didn’t mention the porn incident and neither did I — some things are probably best left unsaid. He did mention that he’d started seeing someone new, which will hopefully encourage him to change his sheets, clean his apartment and close all tabs before allowing visitors in. We discussed Darren and Anita at length; I always thought her quiet sullenness towards me was because I was new. Beric hadn’t said a word to her since she pretended she didn’t believe his story. He admitted that he probably would have done the same to her, when he was in the middle of it.

At 3p.m. I staggered home, merry and elated, and watched Father Ted reruns until I fell asleep. It was a wonderful day.

It’s Wednesday now — I had my first Darren-free shift yesterday. Things are chaotic (in his defence, Darren did run a very tight ship) but the mood was high, everyone was chatting and laughing and customers seemed to leave in a better mood than when they entered. It was mad but happy. A bit like me, I suppose.

I woke up at 6a.m. today; lie-ins seem to evade me recently. As do naps, thinking about it — I don’t really get tired so much anymore. I’ve got a decaf coffee perched on the armrest of the sofa, and the late spring light is filtering through the open windows, making Veronica sway.

I’m just reading through some of the comments on my blog — there are a lot — it seems I’ve hit the nerves of a lot of people with my eviction of Darren. Workplace bullying is apparently far more common than I’d thought, and people are inspired to take action. It feels good.

I’m going out with Gary later. We’re going to see the new sex exhibition at the museum — apparently there’s a real-life cryo-preserved vulva which I can’t wait to see. I think maybe I’d like to donate my vulva to science when I die — let people have a good old gawp when I’m not around to be self-conscious. I’ve booked us tickets (it costs a lot to learn about the mashing together of genitalia, would you believe) but they need printing, so I’m going to forward the email to Ryman’s and head over there to collect them after lunch.

I’m just scanning through my inbox for the confirmation email (it’s surprisingly easy to find things when you stop ordering clothes that don’t fit from ASOS and receiving 9,000 email updates per day) when I notice an unread message that came through last night.

Subject: Twenty Fucking Seven Blog Enquiry

Dear Maggie,

My name is Ross Chadwick, I’m a literary agent with Aldey a painting of a girl with frizzy hair, sitting at her computer and typing manically, steam coming from the top of her head. In the corner are the initials ‘SC’.

YOU ARE INCREDIBLE , I reply. Her work is amazing. I am overcome with such a strong feeling of happiness for her, for her talent, and it shocks me. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone do something wonderful and wasn’t jealous and resentful.

I make a cup of tea and gaze out of the window, imagining all sorts of far-fetched scenarios. Me at the UK Blog Awards, giving my acceptance speech, dressed in a gown, Gary in the audience. My author profile — Maggie lives in her rural Devon cottage, where she writes and looks after her dogs and chickens with her husband and three children. Maybe even branching out into vlogs — that’s what people do these days, isn’t it? I’m not sure people would want my face on a screen, though. Probably best to stick behind the keyboard.

I’m getting ahead of myself, so I take some deep breaths and reply to Ross carefully, giving him my free dates and telling him I look forward to meeting him.

He pings back immediately and we decide on tomorrow lunchtime, at Bousous.

Shit.