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This is Not a Love Story Chapter Twenty-Nine 100%
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Chapter Twenty-Nine

I haven’t slept a wink. I spent all night tossing and turning, my mind raking over my meeting with Ross and the unspeakable trauma of last night’s cryo-preserved vulva. I saw a penis, too. I think it’s ruined sex for me forever. Even Gary couldn’t cope, he tore up the leaflet as soon as we left and didn’t speak for several minutes, his eyes wide and traumatised. Needless to say I will be burying my genitals with the rest of me.

I’m actually quite worried that I look stark-raving bonkers, which may very well be true. My hair is not cooperating despite a deep and expensive conditioning treatment, and my eyes are ringed with black circles that even the most industrial concealer is failing to remove. I had a major wobble when considering what to wear — I was really tempted to go for my jeans and crop-top combo, but that just wouldn’t do for such an important meeting, so I stood in front of my wardrobe for twenty-eight minutes contemplating my vast array of unwearable clothes. Is a skirt suit too formal? Is a t-shirt too casual? I went with the suit, in the end. I can always say I’m meeting him on my lunch break. I’m going to give most of my clothes to charity this weekend — there is simply no point pretending I’m a chiffon blouse and maxi skirt kind of girl.

At 11.50 I’m sitting in Bousous, a green tea in my hand. Jason, the pimply witness of my pre-interview vegan debacle, almost fainted when he saw me in the queue. I gave him a reassuring look and dropped a few pounds in the tip tray. ‘That avocado barm was delicious,’ I smiled. He looked like he wanted to headbutt me.

I’m facing the door, and I start panicking about how I’m going to recognise Ross when he comes in. He certainly won’t recognise me. I do a quick Google search of him, realising that I should have done this last night instead of painting my nails and hyperventilating, and pull up an image of a ginger man with a neatly trimmed beard. I set my phone on the table and zoom in on his face, scrolling around from eye to eye to beard to mouth to pass the time.

‘Maggie Gardiner?’

I look up to find said ginger bearded man standing above me, frowning down at my phone. I quickly lock it and jump to my feet, knocking the table and sending hot tea coursing onto the floor. Jason sighs loudly and trudges over with the mop.

‘Hi! Sorry, sorry, I was just — just looking at your face. Your picture, I mean. So I could recognise you, you know. When you came in. But you recognised me! That’s great. Wonderful. Really great and wonderful to meet you.’ I hold out my hand and he takes it, his eyebrows raised.

‘I did a quick search of you, found your LinkedIn profile.’ He sits down opposite me as Jason drags the mop bucket back behind the counter. ‘Thought it might be useful to know a bit about you.’

‘Oh, absolutely, yes.’ I nod enthusiastically, wracking my brains for what utter shite and lies I have undoubtedly spread all over my LinkedIn profile. I’m almost certain I said I was a paralegal at some point.

‘You’re looking very smart,’ he remarks.

‘Just on my lunchbreak,’ I breeze, no hesitations.

‘I thought you were a sales assistant at Frederick’s?’ His brow furrows.

There is a pause.

I appear to have no response to this.

‘So,’ he says eventually, putting his briefcase on the table (a briefcase, I kid you not) and sliding out some papers. ‘I’ve printed a few extracts of your blog to show you the parts I really like. The parts I think could sell.’

‘Sell?’ I’m confused. How can he sell what is already out there? ‘You mean, like, putting advertising on my page or something?’

‘No...’ He sighs. I note that Saffron’s natural warmth is not an indiscriminate family trait. ‘I mean if you write the book.’

‘The book?’ I stare at him, dumbfounded.

‘Did you look up my work, or just my face?’ He finally smiles.

‘Erm. Just your face, actually.’ I feel myself going red. ‘I’m quite new to this.’

‘I don’t represent blog writers. Well, I do, but only if they write a book.’ He says. ‘I think it would be a great idea for you.’

‘A book?’ I say again. Bloody hell, writing a book is only my life’s dream. No big deal, Ross. Just come in here and throw that at me like it’s nothing. I scan my eyes over the posts he has highlighted. ‘So like... my blog made into a book?’

‘No, a collection of other anecdotes. The same style as the pieces you’ve already written, but completely new stuff. You have a real natural talent for writing funny, relatable material. Very contemporary and relevant. Just what the market is looking for at the moment.’ He shuffles through his papers. ‘I don’t know if half the stuff you write is even true, but it gets a good response.’

‘It’s all true!’ I say eagerly, wondering whether I’m doing myself a favour or making this man pity me for my chaotic life events.

‘Well, you’ve got quite the following and a great platform to market it on. I think it could do well. If you use your Facebook and Instagram to publicise to people you know, too—’

‘Oh, I deleted them.’ I admit.

‘You did what?’

‘I deleted Facebook and Instagram. Sorry.’ Why am I apologising? This isn’t China, I can choose to have social media or not. I choose not.

‘Why?’ He looks baffled.

‘They made me depressed. All that comparison, you know?’

‘Right... well, that might knock our marketing strategy a little bit. Would you consider re-joining them?’

‘Hmm.’ I contemplate this. It took a lot of balls for me to finally uninstall those two toxic apps. Recently I found that I didn’t even enjoy using them; the restless energy of constant scrolling and comparing. It almost made me feel mad, like I was trapped. I got rid of it all in one fell swoop last week and I’ve never felt happier. I’m reaching out and connecting through my blog, a medium where I can be 100 per cent myself, almost untouched by other people’s ideals and faux-perfect lives, and it’s infinitely more satisfying.

‘I could use it on my computer, but I don’t want it on my phone,’ I concede. In all honesty, I can’t imagine that my 500 Facebook friends and 65 Instagram followers would make a huge difference to the marketing strategy , but whatever he says.

He nods. ‘OK. I assume you’re still active on X?’

‘Yes,’ I nod. X I have kept. There’s an incredible community out there, and I feel like I owe it to them to be involved, especially since they’re the ones who retweeted my blog into oblivion and got me here in the first place.

‘That’s good.’ Ross downs the rest of his coffee. ‘Well, I’ve got to get to a meeting. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Great.’ I want to ask when, like, will he call me? Should I keep my phone on loud? Does he like me? Have I ruined it by zooming in on his eye and throwing green tea everywhere? ‘Please respond at your convenience.’

No idea why I said that.

‘Take some time to think about what you want from your writing.’ He scoops my work back into his briefcase. ‘A little fact for you, though, if you’re doubting the book route: it’d do well. Bear that in mind.’

He stands to leave and I shake his hand numbly, stunned by the speed of our meeting and the overload of information. I resist the urge to shout ‘Yes! It’s a yes! I want to write a book, say you’ll represent me!’ Some things really do need careful thought.

I sit back down and stare into the distance. I can’t quite believe this is happening to me. I almost don’t feel I deserve it, after all the shit I’ve done. Me — the unfashionable, abnormal catastrophe. But I do, don’t I? I worked hard at this, and I love it. Why should I be undeserving yet assume that other people should get what they want? They were old Maggie’s thoughts, and she’s been shoved in the backseat.

A red, blotchy hand reaches across the table and slides a cup in front of me. I look up to find Jason, half a smile on his face. ‘It’s soya,’ he says.

* * *

All the leaves are back on the trees now. I’m walking slowly to the tram station; there’s no rush. I’ve realised that there’s rarely really a need to rush — it’s just what we do to keep ourselves motivated. Walk faster, barge through, get in the winning mindset. It’s exhausting, honestly.

I take in a big lungful of air and try to ignore the faint tinge of dog shit and bins. It’s nearly summer! It’s my favourite time of the year. The tram station is quiet on this Monday afternoon with everyone ferreting away in their offices. Only the elderly and odd are clambering on and off the trams — I place myself firmly and proudly in the second category.

With no Instagram or Facebook to distract myself, I spend the journey to Altrincham gazing out of the window and noticing things. The mismatch of houses squished by the sides of the tracks; the faint slash of green on the distant horizon; the smatterings of people going about their daily lives.

When I arrive I take a detour past Nana’s house, just one more time.

I look up at the tiny stone terrace, almost identical to every other house on the entire street, save the ‘For Sale’ sign nailed to the drainpipe. I notice the little things that have always been a part of my life — the knitted doll in the upstairs window, the lion’s head doorknocker, the lavender bushes in the tiny front garden. It’s all so achingly familiar and comforting and the pressure of tears builds behind my nose. I let them fall, just for a moment, and then wipe my eyes and reach into my handbag, pulling out the list.

I gaze at it for a second. Who was this girl? The girl who wrote down all the things she hated about herself. I want to hug her, because really, she had spent so long pretending, that what she actually hated wasn’t really her at all.

I crouch down onto the pavement, holding the list in both hands. I place it face-down in the smears of mould that the council still hasn’t cleaned. I press gently, making circles, slowly at first, feeling the damp seep through the paper and onto my fingers. And then I start scrubbing hard, back and forth, until I see clean stone and the list is shredded and crumbled like wet toilet paper on the path.

* * *

The nursing home is massive. Honestly, I’d pay £5,500 a month to stay here. Shady Forest , ironically, doesn’t seem to have an ounce of shade within a one-mile radius of its shiny new doors. It’s a huge stately home set in a good few acres of fields, filled with benches and flowers and smooth, Zimmer-frame-friendly paths. Around the perimeter of the grounds are thick, ancient oak trees, presumably to remind the residents that they aren’t so old after all.

I walk into a spacious foyer with huge glass skylights and fresh flowers on solid-wood side-tables. At the check-in desk (sorry, reception, it really is hard to remember this isn’t a hotel) a smartly suited woman beams at me.

‘Good morning!’

‘Hello!’ I match her tone.

‘Who are you here to see today?’ She taps at her computer.

‘I’m considering getting a room for myself!’ I laugh.

‘Oh, we only take over-sixty-fives, I’m afraid.’ She frowns sympathetically. Another sense of humour lapse — why is everyone so unfunny?

‘I was joking, don’t worry. Enid Lawson.’

She beams again and scoots round the glass-and-wood counter. ‘Follow me, madam.’

Fucking hell, what is this place? We walk down an airy corridor, passing a colossal, intricately decorated dining room, with full tea service set at each round table. At the far end of the room, a long row of bi-folding doors open out onto a wooden terrace adorned with comfy, outdoor recliners, overlooking a duck pond. I wonder if they do cocktails. I may well visit more often.

Nana’s room is at the end of the corridor. There’s no name, just a shiny number 34, and that makes me happy for some reason. Like she’s got her own apartment.

As we get closer, I notice a girl leaning against the doorframe .

I sigh inwardly.

My cousin. Fucking Suzannah.

The receptionist drops me at the door and clips back down the corridor.

‘Mags!’ Suzannah lisps through her fillers. ‘You look gorgeous. ’

I smile. ‘So do you, Suze.’ And she does. She looks happy. I’m glad.

She scans me through her spidery eyelashes. ‘You know, I could give you some more SlimFast shakes if you want a big change. Like, a noticeable difference. I’ll give you a discount if you let me take before and after shots. Preferably in underwear, but a bikini is OK if you’re self-conscious or something.’

‘I’m good,’ I laugh, meaning it more than I have ever meant anything. I’m good . Just like this. ‘Come on. Let’s go in.’

It turns out Nana has more than her own apartment. It’s a bloody penthouse. There’s a sitting room with brand-new sofas, plush carpets and fresh roses on the coffee table. In a separate, spacious room is a dining table adorned with doilies and her favourite tablecloth, with a bedroom off to the left. From what I can glimpse she’s got a king-size, with discreet buttons on the side to lift her up in the morning. Where do I get my hands on one of those? There’s no kitchen, which doesn’t surprise me — dementia and ovens are a fateful combination.

Nana is relaxing in a humungous armchair, looking pleased as punch. Mum and Dad are sitting on one sofa, Veri and Charlie on the other. Charlie is texting, a quiet smile on his face. He’s lost weight and his colour has returned — he looks happy. Veri smiles as we walk in.

‘Hiya.’ She gives me an uncharacteristic hug.

‘Hi.’ I squeeze her back harder, the emotion of it all compelling me towards closeness. I pull away and glance towards Charlie, who is still besotted with his phone, and she raises her eyebrows.

‘Well hello, my darling!’ Nana pats the stool at her side and I take a seat, feeling like we’re congregated for council around an ageing monarch. ‘What have you got to tell us, then?’

‘I have some good news.’ I look around at their faces. They look intrigued, but warily so. It’s understandable — I’ve never had actual good news before, at least not in their books. I haven’t told them yet that Ross has offered representation — he sent the email through this morning after a month of agonising waiting. I filled the time with blogging — every moment I’m not at Frederick’s I’m writing until my wrists ache. I love it.

‘Can I ask you something first, Nana?’

‘Anything, love.’ She smiles down at me.

‘Do you remember the plant you gave me, last time I visited you at your house?’

‘Of course I remember! It was an amaryllis.’ She nods.

‘Do you know what amaryllis symbolises?’ I hold her papery hand.

She smiles, her face crinkling. Her eyes meet mine and twinkle knowingly.

‘Worth beyond beauty,’ she says.

I look around the room. Mum is nestled into Dad’s arm, her eyes closed, her face calm. Charlie looks up from his phone and grins at Veri, winking. Veri rolls her eyes but I can see the smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Worth beyond beauty.’

THE END

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