SEVENTEEN
GIO IS DUE BACK in Cambridge this afternoon. He’s been away for the past couple of weeks, fulfilling his sponsorship obligations and driving a race in Belgium, which he won. He made it look almost easy, like now he’s figured out how to win it’s become second nature. We haven’t talked much because we’ve both been busy, but he’s sent me some stills from his chocolate photo shoot, which are even sexier than I imagined. It’s not clear why he’s carrying a whip and a box of chocolates through a jungle, but who cares?
It’s tourist season and Suds has been crazy too. I finally told Lauren about my ‘relationship’, but I’m not sure she fully took it in because we’ve been so run off our feet trying to keep up with the demand for Summer Vibes. Meanwhile, I’ve been channelling my energies into Frankenbike, who in my modest opinion is now a thing of great beauty, freshly painted and ready for a test ride.
This is the reason I’m up at 6 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, pumping up tyres, checking the indexing on the gears and adjusting spoke tension in preparation. I’ve decided to ride along the river path to Grantchester because it’s flat, easy, quiet enough for what I need to do (but not quiet enough for psychopaths) and has pretty views of the meadows. I have to wheel Frankenbike along several roads to get there, taking twenty minutes to walk a route I could have ridden in five, but at least it gives me time to mentally prepare.
The morning air is colder than I expected, but I refuse to go back for a base layer. If I turn round now, I might lose my nerve. The last time I got on a bike, three months after my accident, I ended up shaking, vomiting and then crying for two hours. This time I’m better prepared, or at least I’m not queasy yet. My palms are still clammier than they ought to be under my gloves and I’m very aware of my pulse thumping in my neck.
Relax , I tell myself as I reach the spot I’ve designated as my start point. You can do this. If you can stay upright in three-inch stilettos for an entire evening, you can ride a bike . I close my eyes and use a psychology technique we learned in class to visualize myself reaching the tree at the bend up ahead. That’s my target. If I can make it there without stopping, then I’ll have succeeded, at least for today.
I glance over my shoulder, making sure there’s nobody close enough to witness my humiliation if I end up emptying my stomach over my handlebars, but there’s only a couple in the distance and they’re busy pointing at swans, so I lift my leg over the crossbar and perch on the saddle. I’m wound so tight it’s an actual effort to bend my legs enough to set my feet on the pedals. The bike wobbles briefly, but then I push off.
I glide along the path, breathing a shaky sigh of relief. So far, so good. Half of me can’t believe I’m doing this. The other half feels lighter already. I feel like my spirits are actually lifting as I pedal, like I’ve been walking around under a cloud and the sun is finally peeking out again. The bend is only a few metres away and I feel good . I pedal harder and the feeling grows. I don’t just feel good, I feel happy, like I’m glowing on the inside.
Naturally, this is the moment a group of joggers appear round the bend. I wobble in panic, then veer on to the grass to dodge them. It’s bumpier here, and a little closer to the river than I’d like, but it’s not exactly rough terrain. I can still do this .
‘Morning!’ Literally every single one of the joggers calls out, which is nice, but I’m so busy concentrating I can only mumble a reply.
I hold my nerve and then I’m past both them and the tree, overwhelmed with a feeling of such accomplishment I start crying and laughing at the same time. I’m back on the path, but I’m barely aware of my surroundings. My calves are starting to burn, and the saddle is so thin it’s like sitting on a knife, but I don’t care. All I care about is that I’m doing this. It feels so right I almost want a cliff to appear so that I can ride down it. Almost . I’m not ready for that yet, but the old desire is still there, to take the gnarliest route I can find and ride it to the finish. I haven’t felt this alive for a long time.
I give a whoop just as a pheasant darts out of some bushes ahead, straight into my path, so that I have to squeeze on my brakes. My body lurches forward as I skid to a halt, but I manage to stay upright, breathing heavily. Meanwhile, the pheasant stops on the other side of the path to look at me.
‘Nice try,’ I say, grinning, because although my bottom is sore and I need to invest in some padded shorts as quickly as possible, I still feel elated. Plus it’s only 7 a.m. If I get a move on, I can ride all the way to Grantchester and back before work.
BY MID AFTERNOON, I think I might be dying. Not just because my legs and butt muscles are beginning to ache, but because people are being overly nice to me. Lauren has asked me if I’m OK four times and Finlay, the new part-time assistant, keeps offering to make me tea. It’s a little disorientating and disturbing and I don’t understand why until my break when I look at my phone and find two missed calls and a string of messages from Gio.
It’s not true. I talked to Iris, that’s all.
We were not ‘cosying up’.
It’s only the tabloids trying to stir up trouble.
So that gives me a pretty big clue. I google his name with Iris’s and an article pops up with a grainy photo of them standing together in a dark room. Just standing, not touching, at least a foot apart. Considering the salacious tone of the headline – ‘Has Gio dumped girl-next-door Maisie to get back with stunner Iris?’ – it’s actually kind of underwhelming. I’ve had closer conversations with customers. Still … I feel a stab of jealousy that I have absolutely no right to, since Gio’s not really my boyfriend. If the article is true, then he may have broken the terms of our contract since we agreed to be fake exclusive, but technically he’s a free agent.
And since when was I a ‘girl next door’?
They say eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. They also say the internet is a spewing cesspool of hate, which is why I’ve made a conscious effort over the past couple of months not to look up anything about myself, but I must be in a masochistic mood because suddenly I can’t resist looking at the comments.
It doesn’t take long for me to feel like all the worst things I’ve ever thought about myself are obvious to the rest of the world. To paraphrase, I’m a worthless, ugly, underweight and overweight piece of human trash who looks like a total bitch and doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Gio. It’s sickening and horrible and I don’t understand how anyone can be so hateful. It would be bad enough if they’d met me, but all they’ve done is seen pictures.
I look at my reflection in my phone and wonder if my appearance is all that’s necessary to hate me. My hair is flat from my helmet this morning, but surely that’s not a crime? As for my skin, it’s not bad, but it’s not exactly glowy, and you can see my pores and the chickenpox scar above my eyebrow from when I was five. No wonder Iris Calver thinks she can just click her fingers and Gio will drop me. The woman’s naturally airbrushed.
I’m still wallowing in misery when my phone rings again. It’s Gio, but my break is over and I really need to get back downstairs, so I can’t pick up. I text instead.
I’m at work. What happened?
She was at the post-race party. I couldn’t avoid her, but we only talked for a couple of minutes. That’s all.
I puff my cheeks out with air. If he were actually my boyfriend, I’d worry that I was deluding myself into believing what I want to believe, but since he’s my fake boyfriend … I’m still not certain. Maybe he’s secretly back with Iris, but doesn’t want to ruin his new image by breaking up with me? Only I don’t think so. The Gio I’ve got to know recently wouldn’t do that.
I believe you. I type, because I do.
Can I take you out to dinner tonight?
I hesitate because I’m not sure I feel up to it, but I also don’t want to let the haters win .
Sure.
I go to put my phone in my bag, but it vibrates again, this time with a message from Ava.
SHE’S SUCH A BITCH!
I give an involuntary laugh and type back.
It’s ok. Gio says nothing happened.
I knew it!!!
Call later to discuss what a bitch she is?
Lol
Lauren and Finlay both give me sympathetic looks when I come off my break. It occurs to me that I could get a lot of mileage out of this. I could probably go home early, get the day off tomorrow too. But I won’t. They’re being nice because they think I’m having a crisis with my love life, but it’s not my love life. It’s not real at all.
I smile reassuringly in return and head towards the counter. My fake relationship with Gio was never supposed to affect my job. It was never supposed to make me jealous and confused and insecure either. It was never supposed to make me have feelings at all. Yet …
‘MAISIE?’ LAUREN SIDLES UP to me, as I’m restocking Happiness. The lemony freshness makes it one of our biggest sellers during the summer and right now it feels like a balm to my mood. ‘Don’t look now, but I think we have a problem.’ She gestures subtly towards the entrance. A man in a black shirt with a huge camera slung over his shoulder is pretending to look at one of the displays. ‘I think he was taking pictures of you through the window just now. I was about to go and say something when he came in. You should probably go upstairs while I deal with it.’
‘Are you sure?’ I shoot a death glare in the man’s direction. ‘Maybe I should tell him what I think of him?’
‘You’d only be giving him what he wants. Just get up there before he realizes we’re on to him.’
‘OK. Thanks.’ I put my soap down and scurry quickly towards the door at the back of the shop. It takes me a couple of seconds to key in the code, by which point the man has obviously noticed what I’m doing because I can hear him and Lauren arguing, but then I’m through, yanking the door shut behind me.
My heart is pounding as I sit down on the stairs and listen. Lauren is calling him a load of Suds-inappropriate names, but his only response is to ask her personal questions about me, at which point Finlay tells him where he can shove his camera. I’m touched by the variety and vigour of their abuse, but mostly I’m creeped out. Why would anyone want to look at a picture of me selling soap? Who cares who my exes are? How can anyone think it’s OK to do this?
‘Hey.’ Lauren opens the door finally. ‘He’s gone. Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’ I clasp my hands together because they’re shaking. ‘Lauren, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t blame yourself.’ She sits down beside me. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I never expected anything like this to happen.’
‘Who would?’ She puts an arm round my shoulders. ‘Look, why don’t you go home? You’re supposed to finish in an hour anyway.’
‘It’s OK, really. I just need a minute.’ I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself back together. ‘The story about Gio and Iris Calver isn’t true, by the way.’
‘That’s good. Still must be tough to read, though.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The thing is …’ Lauren’s tone turns serious. ‘I’m pretty sure that guy was hanging around yesterday as well.’
‘Oh no.’ I sink my head into my hands. ‘I think there was someone on my balcony a few days ago too.’
‘Fuck. That’s it. You can’t be here.’
‘What?’ My jaw drops. ‘Are you firing me?’
‘No. I’m giving you some time off until things settle down. You should go home. Home home, I mean. Be with your family. Get away from here for a while.’
‘I’m sure a journalist can figure out where my dad lives. Anyway, I’d rather—’
‘I’m not asking, Maisie.’ She gives my shoulder a squeeze before standing up. ‘Look, I’ll text you in a few weeks. Hopefully things will have calmed down by then. And don’t worry about money. I’ll arrange it so you get sick pay.’
I trudge upstairs to collect my things, glaring at all the boxes of soap that seem to taunt me. Happiness! Optimism! Ecstasy! Ha. I can’t believe a day that started on such a high has descended into such a total shitshow. I was so elated a few hours ago. Now I feel like I want to curl up in the foetal position.
I leave through the fire escape, walking fast, even though my muscles are beginning to ache properly now. I don’t think anyone is following me, but I can’t be sure and I hate feeling like I’m being hunted.
Half an hour later, I get home, close the door and collapse on to my bed.