Chapter Fourteen
I spend the weekend cleaning the apartment for the first time since Martin left. I am actually baffled by how he found the time to keep all the tiny, insignificant areas of our living space grime-free. The underside of the tap, for example — I caught a glimpse of it while I was picking up a stray sock and it was gleaming . I get a pang of nostalgia when I try cleaning the toilet roll holder like he used to, and I consider texting him.
But then I stop myself and realise how ridiculous I must look, crouching next to the toilet bowl, vigorously sawing a string of dental floss into the cracks of an object that literally nobody will ever see. The man wasn’t normal.
The majority of my brain space is being used up thinking about what theme I should go with for my blog. Food blogs are popular, but they’re also everywhere , and the only things I can cook are frozen pizzas and microwaved leftover takeaway. Maybe that’s a theme in itself? No. Besides, neither of the above fit into my vegan lifestyle plan, so wouldn’t it be a bit fake to be writing about them? Fashion is out of the window as I dress like a homeless person from the nineties — and not at all in a good way — and I’m far too self-conscious to take photos of myself lying on top of Victoria Bridge wearing my latest ‘haul’.
I discovered the vegan range in Aldi on Friday: dairy-free mozzarella sticks and crispy bean burgers. All cooked from frozen. People have been going crazy for it on Instagram so I ran down there to grab some before it all ran out. There was a surprisingly large quantity of stuff left; I bought one of everything and they are honestly amazing . Who knew vegans could eat such delicious things? It’s a brave new world and I bloody love it. I even consider basing my blog entirely on Aldi’s vegan selection, but I’d probably run out of things to write about pretty quickly.
I go round and round in circles, taking breaks to smoke endless cigarettes and watch the pigeons on the street below, before Sunday arrives and I decide I need to stop thinking and do something.
Something like putting my new gym membership to use.
* * *
The gym on Market Street is in a tiny doorway, wedged between a bubble tea shop and EE, and the desire to grab a mango boba and go straight back home is overwhelming. I put my blinkers on and drive myself through the door and up the narrow staircase.
There are three screens on my left, inviting me to join the gym. On the right are four pods with a keypad next to each one. People are beeping in and out like it’s some kind of teleportation device. Maybe that’s how it works? Enter the pod a total mess, leave looking like Jodie Marsh in her bodybuilding days?
Where is reception? Where are the staff? What do I do?! I bring the ‘Welcome to the gym’ email up on my phone and read it for the first time. Oh, there’s a PIN. I need to enter the PIN. I walk up to the nearest pod and stab in the numbers, watching in awe as the door slides open. As I step inside, the pod shuts behind me, and for a second I am sealed inside this little glass cylinder, wondering what will happen next. Am I going to be sucked up a tube like Augustus Gloop? I would definitely get stuck, and the Oompa-Loompas would not rescue me because they would know what a greedy, chocolate-gorging mess I am. I’ll be drowned in molten Cadbury’s and it will serve me right.
Shit. I’m starting to panic.
Just as I’m about to scream, the door on the other side of the pod opens, and I am thrust into the loudest room I’ve ever been in. The noise of twenty treadmills going full-pelt is barely drowned out by the intense, bassy music pounding through the speakers. The air is so thick with sweat you can chew it, and there’s a heady aroma of new carpet, disinfectant and unwashed socks. It’s an assault on every single one of my senses. The customer service in this place is apparently non-existent — does anyone even work here? What does Martin do all day?!
I suddenly feel very exposed and very self-conscious. People must be able to see that I don’t know what I’m doing. I can almost feel them all eyeing me, like I’ve got a ‘not a fucking clue’ sign flashing above my head. I can’t stand around or I’ll look lost, but I don’t know how any of this stuff works. It’s so hot.
I need to find the changing rooms. I need to take my jacket off and get away from this music. I spot the ladies’ across the room and make a bee-line, dodging glistening, red-faced humans as I go. Bursting through the door, I am met with a writhing sea of bodies in various states of undress. I don’t know where to look. Someone is vigorously talcum-powdering their thighs in the corner and little puffs of it are landing on the benches around her. Squinting, I head towards one of the few empty lockers.
‘Excuse me.’ I squeeze between a woman who is sitting and texting, and another who is wearing a sports bra with a long, floaty skirt. She is obviously halfway between outfits, but it sort of works. I pull open the locker and carefully slide my jacket off, accidentally elbowing people in the process. This is horrible . I have never felt such a lack of personal space. I am suddenly met with a very strong desire to stand in the middle of a vast, open field.
I put my foot up on the bench and lean forward to redo my shoelace. As I do, floaty-skirt woman simultaneously whips off her sports bra and twists round to her locker in one swift movement.
For one, brief nanosecond, I am still pure. I am still innocently unaware of the trauma to come.
And then her boob slaps me across the head.
‘Oh my god.’ I clutch my face, rubbing at my stinging eye as tears leak down my cheek.
‘Shit, did I catch you?’ She’s fastening her bra now. ‘Sorry, they’ve a mind of their own!’
Sweet baby Jesus. I’m pretty certain her nipple came into contact with my retina. I am unsure how to process this — has this ever happened to another human in the history of Earth? I try to laugh it off but I am possibly traumatised. It was just so unexpected. I feel like I’m caught in the middle of a bad club I’ve changed my mind about; all bodies and sweat and white powder and no escape.
Against every screaming instinct in my body, I make my way onto the gym floor and position myself on the last remaining treadmill, still rubbing my sore eye. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to work out how to make it start before I see the big ‘GO’ button in the middle and hit it. The machine jerks into action and I stumble forwards, trying to play it cool but misjudging my speed and ending up walking into the dashboard thingy.
God, this thing is so slow. Does it speed up by itself?
There’s a picture of a man running, with a ‘+’ and ‘-’ either side. I give the plus sign a few taps and the machine gets faster. This is quite easy, actually! Admittedly, I haven’t done any exercise yet, but using the machine is a piece of cake!
Right, time to crank this baby up a notch, get a bit of a sweat on. I hold down my finger on the plus sign until the screen tells me I am at a speed of ‘twelve’. Whatever the hell that means. Twelve what? Twelve footsteps per second? In any case I am now running faster than I have ever run in my life, simply because if I don’t I will fly off the back. The man next to me is peering over worriedly, probably shocked by my rapid change in speed, but this is actually not at all difficult! In fact, I’d almost go as far as to say I’m enjoying it!
I’m pounding my feet down and pumping my arms by my side, and all I can think about is putting one foot in front of the other. I can feel my ponytail whipping across my neck, and for the first time in weeks I am completely in the moment — serenely free. Who knew I was a natural runner?
My breath is getting a little shallower now, my thighs burning a bit. But this is good! Pain is gain, which is useful because there is a sharp, stabbing sensation beginning in my lower right abdomen.
This is fine. This is absolutely fine. I’m not actually sure when I last took a proper breath, as my lungs appear to have collapsed, but I am still moving, which means I am still alive. I cannot imagine even childbirth being worse than the pain in my stomach right now, but this is what exercise does, isn’t it? Every marathon runner crosses the finish line looking like they’ve been hit by a truck. It’s supposed to nearly kill you; that’s the thrill of it.
OK, I’m actually not sure if this is normal anymore. I’ve just seen several twinkling stars creeping into my vision, and I’m certain I didn’t spot any special effect lighting when I came in here. I can hear my broken throat rasping for air, and I think, somewhere in the distance, someone is moaning.
I think that person might be me.
Through the descending blackness I scramble for the minus sign, holding my finger on it and willing myself to stay conscious as the treadmill slows and the pressure on my chest lightens a little.
‘Are you OK?’ A personal trainer is leaning against the front of my machine. Where did he come from?
‘Yes... yes, fine...’ Every word deprives my body of oxygen, and my chest screams at me to shut up.
‘You sure? You were sort of growling a bit.’ He frowns.
‘Yep! I . . . just not used . . . such long distances . . .’ I manage.
He squeezes between the machines and peers at my dashboard. ‘You were only running for one minute and thirteen seconds.’
Is he serious? That can’t be right, surely? I’ve just nearly died!
‘Felt like... an eternity.’ I’m calming a little.
‘If you want to start running, start slow. Try some hills, get your heart rate going,’ he taps a ‘+’ sign on the other side of the machine, and it tilts upwards slightly, ‘then flatten it out again and jog at a much slower pace than what you were just doing. I’m talking eight, max.’
‘OK,’ I say, slightly defensively. For all he knows I could be a triathlete, just having a bad day.
‘I’m Pete, call me if you need any more advice.’ He saunters away.
I am aware that the over-exertion and newness of the activity has made me self-conscious, and that I should probably just take it easy for a minute and follow Pete’s advice. But no. Piss off, Pete. I’ll show you how much I need your help.
I get my machine back into a fast walking pace and slam my finger down on the incline button. The machine tilts backwards at an alarming rate, and my phone slides from its holder and flies towards me. I reach out to catch it but I am marching at such a gradient that my balance is off, and it clatters down onto the floor. I try to straighten up and stumble backwards, screaming, as I realise I’m about to fall from the almost vertical drop I am hiking up. I flail my arms forwards, scrabbling for the dashboard and catching the bright red stop button with my palm.
The treadmill lets out a wailing alarm sound and stops immediately.
But I keep going.
I soar forwards into the void, only stopping when my head collides with the front of the machine. I crumple into a heap at the bottom of the treadmill, almost certain that I am dead.
‘Oh my god, is she OK?’
‘What happened?’
‘She’s really red... is that a sign of anything?’
‘She’d be pale if she was dying, so I reckon she’s all right.’
‘How would you know, Darius, you idiot?’
‘Lisa, will you shut your mouth for once in your life?’
I open my eyes and ease myself to my feet. A sea of people part in front of me and I smile weakly.
Pumped-up Pete breaks through the crowd. ‘Excuse me, please, thank you.’ He stops in front of me. ‘Let me get you an ambulance, you’ve a nasty lump on your head.’
‘I’m fine. Fine, honestly.’ I push through people and hurry towards the changing room, ignoring the protests behind me.
I grab my stuff and head towards the exit, the crowds of people already dispersed back to their machines. Pete catches up with me as I’m stabbing my PIN in the door.
‘I really think you should be seen. You had a pretty rough ride on that treadmill.’
‘Yes, no, thank you, Pete, but it’s OK. I feel fine, it was nothing.’ The door flashes red and I sigh, entering the eight digits again.
‘I noticed you didn’t exactly take my advice.’ He smiles.
‘Yeah, evidently not too great at the whole listening thing.’ I stab at the keypad, which has just rejected me for a second time. ‘Oh my god, how do I get out of this place?’
Pete reaches over and taps on the keys and the pod door slides open.
‘Thanks.’ I look sheepishly at the floor, feeling guilty. He’s actually quite sweet. I really should stop being such a horrible cow to everybody.
‘Next time you come in, I’ll show you how to get started. If you’ll pay any attention to me, that is.’ He laughs.
The pod door closes and for some awful, inexplicable reason, driven, I think, by a desire to make Pete like me, I smile at him and then give a quick salute.
I salute him.
Why? I don’t know.
He frowns slightly and gives me a half wave, before heading back over to his next client.
For the second time in five minutes, my face flushes crimson.
I am such a nob.
* * *
Four hours later and I have just about recovered. I am showered, dressed and waiting at the tram station for the next one to Sale.
On reflection, I don’t think my first gym experience was that bad.
Yes, I was assaulted by a boob.
Yes, I nearly died on the treadmill.
No, I didn’t actually do more than four total minutes of exercise.
But let’s look at the positives! I went, didn’t I? I pushed through, despite every cell of my being wanting to go home and eat Supernoodles on toast. I actually ran for the first time in years . How mental is that?! I pull out my list and review it.
1. Stop smoking.
2. Lose weight.
3. Exercise.
4. See family more.
5. Change your fucking job.
6. Start yoga.
7. Do tea detox.
8. Go vegan.
Technically, I could cross off numbers three, four, five and eight. I have essentially done all of these things. I hover my pen over 3. Exercise. It feels wrong, almost, to cross it out. Like I’m cheating. As for numbers four and eight, I did see Nana, and I haven’t actually eaten any animal products for a few days, but this is supposed to be long-term. Otherwise I’d be able to strike 1. Stop smoking out every morning because I haven’t had a cigarette for eight hours. And I haven’t changed my job yet, have I? I’ve just lost it. As much as I want them to be, they are not the same thing. I put the list back in my pocket.
The tram finally pulls in and it’s practically empty, so I spend the first two minutes of the journey traipsing the carriage and looking for the seat with the least offensive stains on it. By the time I’ve put my headphones on and chosen a playlist to match my mood (fundamentally depressed but with an air of forced optimism), we are pulling in to Cornbrook.
‘Maggie?’
I freeze, hoping I can get away with ignorance by hiding behind my music. Someone slides into the seat beside me and shakes my arm.
‘Maggie?!’
I stay facing the window, until I realise how tapped I must seem to not be reacting to aggressive physical contact, and then slowly turn my head. It’s the girl from the conference (workshop). Shit, what was her name? Sadie? Saskia? I’ve been staring at her for quite a while now, and she looks a bit freaked out.
‘Saffron!’ I cry, suddenly remembering. She jerks backwards at my sudden outburst.
‘I thought it was you! Are you okay?’ She frowns.
‘Yes! Sorry, god, I must look crazy. I’m really out of it today. How are you?’ She probably thinks I’m pissed again. I didn’t give the best impression last time.
‘Oh, poor you. Good, thanks, yeah. Nothing’s changed, still touring the country on my mission for research enlightenment.’
‘Ah. Same old, then?’ I forgot how much I liked this girl.
‘Yeah, pretty much. Anyway, I’m so glad I bumped into you, I’ve been dying to know what happened after you got dragged out of that room. It’s literally all I’ve thought about since, like, “whatever became of that mental drunk girl who said all that stuff we were all thinking?”’ She laughs.
‘It definitely wasn’t what everyone was thinking.’ I’m laughing too now. It’s funnier imagining it from her perspective — especially if I imagine that it wasn’t actually me that did it, but a blurry, unidentified woman instead. ‘I got called into HR the next day and lost my job.’
‘NO.’ Saffron stops laughing and covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Seriously? They chopped you, just like that?’
‘Yep. I doubt they’ll be serving wine at the next one. There’s always one that has to ruin it for everyone.’ I pretend to bow in my seat and she laughs again.
‘Well, I’m glad you can see the funny side. I’m guessing you haven’t found anything else yet?’
‘Nope, applied all over the place so it’s just a waiting game now.’
She thinks for a second. ‘You know, we’ve just had another PA position open up. I know I act as though going to all these workshops is a nightmare, but it’s been amazing for my CV. You’d be working for a different guy anyway. He’s lovely.’ She smiles encouragingly.
Oh my god. This is like fate. I need the money and I need something to do with my days. It’s as if Saffron was put on this tram to save me from all my problems. This is an amazing opportunity! I’d be mad to say no, wouldn’t I?
Although... back into the drugs world. More conferences, more stuck-up sales reps, more sitting at a desk all day browsing Amazon for material possessions to fill the black hole in my life (which I’m actually still doing — must put a stop to that soon). I suddenly realise that losing my job wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s spurred me on to think of what I really want to do, and now I know, I don’t think I can face taking a defeated step back.
I get the feeling I’m about to make a huge mistake.
‘I don’t think the drugs world is for me anymore, to be honest,’ I say eventually, hammering the nail into my own coffin. ‘Thank you so much for the offer, though. You were the only thing that made that conference — sorry, workshop — bearable. I’m really grateful for you trying to help me out.’
Saffron smiles and reaches for my phone. ‘Take my number. Call me if you change your mind.’ She pulls her rucksack onto her back and stands up. ‘And for the record, I wish I had half the balls you’ve got. I really hope you find that writing job.’
My eyes fill as I watch her get off the tram. She is literally so nice. It’d be fun to work with her. I stare down at her number, now saved in my phone.
I promise myself I will not change my mind.
* * *
Mum throws open the door before I’ve even had a chance to knock.
‘Darling! Wine?’ She yanks me inside.
‘Yes, wine, please.’ I break free of her grip and kick my shoes off. I’m still preoccupied by my conversation with Saffron, and being in the House of Great Expectations is already filling my brain with rational thoughts. Career, career, career, scream the walls in here — the tribal chant of my childhood. Am I insane? Why in god’s name did I turn down the opportunity of another job when I’m practically penniless? I suddenly remember I still owe Mum ￡50. Shit.
‘Mum.’ I follow the clinking of glasses into the kitchen, where my mother is pulling an ice-cold bottle of white from the fridge. ‘That fifty quid you lent me the other day...’
‘Oh, darling, don’t worry about that. Give it to me whenever you’ve got it. In fact,’ she hands me a glass, ‘see it as an early birthday present, like you said. I got Ricardo some sunglasses the other day so it’s only fair.’
‘Of course you did. Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.’ I take a sip of my wine. SO good. Why does wine have to be so bloody good?
‘Isn’t that funny? He’ll be here soon.’ She takes her drink over to the worktop and starts emptying an M spoilt, energetic and apparently, now in possession of his very own pair of Ray-Bans. I adore him, but his presence is, obviously, always paired with my sister’s. The other night at my flat wasn’t a one-off; our relationship is consistently icy and only thaws once a year — after seven miniature glasses of Baileys at the end of Christmas Day. Last year she uncharacteristically confided in me that her left boob was significantly larger than the right one, and things have been even weirder between us since then.
‘So Veri’s coming, too?’ I whinge.
‘Yes.’ Mum catches my eye. ‘Oh, for god’s sake Maggie, don’t look at me like that. She’s your sister. You need to sit down and sort it out.’
‘There’s nothing to sort out. We’ve never got on.’ I slide myself onto a bar stool and start drawing a penis in the condensation on my glass. Veri and I are completely different people. She is serious, driven and competitive, while I am careless, scatty and perpetually floundering. In her opinion, each of my personality traits is a cardinal sin, and she takes every opportunity to remind me what a huge failure I am. I internally reprimand myself for showing her the list the other night. It’s ammunition for her campaign against me; the one she has been waging since I entered the world. I am used to our dynamic, but her impending arrival is making me sweat, because today I need to lie, and you cannot lie to Veri.
As if reading my mind, Mum turns from her mixing. ‘How’s work, love?’
‘Good, good.’ I feel the heat rushing to my face. Why am I being so obvious?!
‘And Martin?’ She peers at me. ‘Where is he today?’
‘He’s gone for Sunday dinner with his Mum.’ The pre-rehearsed fib slips out of my mouth smoothly. See, I can do this!
‘Abandoning us for his own family, is he?’ My dad’s voice cuts across the room.
‘Hi, Dad.’ I stand up and give him a hug. ‘How are you?’
‘Well, very well. You girls! Drinking without me?’ He gets himself a glass from the cupboard. ‘You still giving that career ladder a good climb? Any promotions on the horizon?’
‘Oh, John, leave her alone. She’s only just arrived!’ Mum slaps him on the arm.
‘I like to keep abreast of what she’s up to. I’m an excellent father, you know.’ He winks at me and I laugh.
‘Well, not much to report,’ I say, desperate to change the subject. ‘I’ve started yoga classes, though. That’s fun.’
I’m sure some people class farting in a room full of strangers as ‘fun’.
‘That’s a bit bloody hippy of you, Mags.’ Dad creases up his face.
‘She’s always been crackers, though, hasn’t she?’ My brother’s voice carries through from the doorway.
Why can’t people in this house congregate all at once? Why do they need to keep dripping in one by one, like this is some kind of pantomime?
‘Piss off, Charlie.’ I stand up and give him a big squeeze. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I live here, so, duh.’ He rakes his hands through his messy hair. ‘How’s my absolute disaster of a sister?’
‘Dunno, she hasn’t arrived yet,’ I quip.
‘Touché.’ Charlie saunters over to the fridge and pulls out a beer. He’s looking a bit tubbier than when I last saw him, and he’s wearing tracksuit bottoms with a crumpled t-shirt.
Charlie and I have always had a close relationship, founded solely on banter. I actually think we’ve managed to get through the entirety of our lives without once having a serious conversation. He’s a doctor, and is so laid back I actually wonder how he’s done it. I can imagine him looking at a severely injured car crash victim and shrugging, ‘be all right.’
The way he’s knocking that beer back suggests something has him riled this evening, which is unusual. But asking him about it would involve talking about our feelings, and we must not even consider going there.
I watch as Dad rummages around in the ‘shit’ drawer, undoubtedly in search of a ‘bastard pen’, and Mum chastises Charlie for not putting his bottle cap ‘in the bin, where it lives’, because unfortunately there’s ‘no magic cleaning fairy under this roof’. This is good — it feels nice. I’m spending time with my family like a normal person; like Emma Penton. I already can’t wait to strike through number four.
Sudden barking erupts from the hallway. Ricardo flies through the kitchen door and skids across the tiles like a possessed mop, landing at my feet vibrating with excitement. I would kill for the energy of a dog. Ricardo is five now, which is, what, thirty-five in human years? I’m only twenty-seven and sometimes I can’t even be bothered to blink.
‘For god ’s sake, who left their shoes in the middle of the hallway? I’ve just nearly died. ’ Veri strides through the door with a face like a smacked arse. I actually don’t remember a time when I’ve seen her with anything but a face like a smacked arse, so maybe that’s just how she is. A sudden thought hits me: what if it’s a condition? What if she’s been trying to smile all these years and we’ve all just thought she’s a miserable cow?
‘Verity, darling.’ Mum scoops her into a hug, and her face smooths from rage to expressionless in one quick movement.
Nope, she’s a miserable cow.
‘Maggie.’ Veri nods at me across the kitchen and raises an eyebrow. ‘Nice to see you’ve showered. Still working for the pharma devils?’
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Straight off the bat. Now that she’s seen the list, she’s going to see straight through me if I lie. Ever since we were little she’d sniff me out of a fib in two seconds flat, even if it was something really insignificant, like whether I’d eaten the last Müller Corner, or whether it was actually my turn in the front seat because Charlie had smacked me with a water pistol and Mum said I could.
She truly knows absolutely everything. It’s a skill that has been of great use to her in life, and now she destroys people in a courtroom all day.
‘Maggie? Hello? Still working or what?’ Veri is plopping ice into a glass with her back to me.
‘Yup.’ I keep my answer short, hoping she’ll move on.
She turns slowly, her eyes narrowing, until she’s facing me head-on. My heart starts thudding. Seriously, if she looked at me like this during a trial I’d admit to anything, guilty or no. No wonder she’s so successful.
‘Just like her dad, this one!’ Dad claps Veri on the shoulder, breaking her gaze. ‘Always asking about work. It’s a sign of intelligence, that, you know.’
Veri smiles and leans her head on Dad’s shoulder. Actually, she can smile, I remember now. Only for Dad, though.
I knock my wine back and grab the bottle from the fridge, filling up my glass.
‘Right!’ Mum claps. ‘Dinner’s ready, go on through.’
We trundle through to the dining room, Veri still nestled in Dad’s armpit.
‘Don’t you think that’s weird ?’ I murmur to Charlie.
‘Of course it’s weird. She’s weird. They’re both weird.’
‘You know that’s your father and sister you’re talking about!’ Mum hisses, following behind with bowls of steaming food.
I take a roast potato and pop it in my mouth.
‘Margaret!’ Mum seethes.
‘Shit, that’s hot,’ I mumble, grabbing the bowls from Mum’s hands and taking them through into the dining room.
‘. . . and so I said, “Your Honour, has my colleague even heard of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861, section 36?” and the room just erupted , honestly it did, we had to break early for lunch.’
As thrilling as this story of Verity’s sounds, I decide to sit at the other end of the table.
‘Dig in, dig in!’ Mum places a steaming chicken in the middle of the table.
Ohhhh my god. That chicken smells like all my favourite childhood memories, all my hopes and dreams, every sunny Sunday. All that is good in the world.
‘Pass us your plate, Mags.’ Charlie holds up a moist strip of breast meat on the end of a fork.
‘No thanks, I’m not doing meat at the moment.’ I reach for the potatoes and shovel three heaped spoons onto my plate.
‘Steady on.’ Veri raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s no point being vegetarian if you’re only going to carb-load the weight on instead.’
‘Verity! Your sister is fine as she is.’ Mum passes me the broccoli.
‘Piss off,’ I mutter, feeling a pricking in my eyes and my appetite giving way to a sick feeling in my stomach. I hate myself for reacting like this. I hate the way she cuts through me every time. I look down at my stomach, sitting softly on the top of my thighs. She’s right, of course. I am overweight. But I don’t need to be reminded. I don’t need to be made to feel shittier than I already do.
I fork green beans into my mouth at record speed as the conversation goes on around the table. I fill my wine glass up once more before I’m mellowed enough to not to care and join back in.
‘Killed anyone this week?’ I nudge Charlie, who has eaten three platefuls and is on his sixth bottle of Becks.
‘Yup. Guy died while I had my hand down his throat.’ He smiles at my expression. ‘He had been stabbed forty-six times though, so I might not be entirely to blame.’ He reaches for another ball of stuffing.
‘Jesus, Charlie. Save some for the rest of us.’ Veri rolls her eyes.
‘What is this, Veri, a fat-shaming party?’ I snap across the table. ‘Don’t bother coming next time if you’re only here to judge everybody.’
‘Maggie,’ Mum murmurs.
‘Well, she does have a point.’ Dad puts his cutlery down. ‘You’ve put on a bit in the past few months, Charlie.’
‘And how many beers are we on now?’ Veri folds her arms. ‘That must be your seventh?’
Charlie scrapes his chair back. ‘Feel free to control your own life to the point of non-existence, Verity, but keep your critical fucking nose out of mine.’ He storms out of the room, beer in hand.
‘Oh, well done, Veri. Brilliant work.’ I smile.
‘Come on, that wasn’t Verity’s fault. He’s very sensitive at the moment.’ Dad pats Veri on the arm.
This is driving me insane. I open my mouth to inform the room that Veri is the biggest, squarest bore the world has ever seen, but my phone rings in my pocket.
‘One second.’ I go out into the hallway. Unknown number. I pick it up anyway. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is this Miss Gardiner?’ A local accent. Definitely a call centre.
‘Yes.’ I get ready to hang up.
‘Hi, this is Darren, from Frederick’s on Deansgate?’
Frederick’s? Frederick’s the bookshop? What are they calling me for?
Oh my god, what if they’ve finally checked the CCTV from 2006 and seen me running off with that pencil-end rubber shaped like a chicken? I didn’t want to nick it, but I’d used all my pocket money at McDonalds and—
Oh, shit, he’s still talking. I’ve missed half of it.
‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that, please?’ I try to keep my voice level.
‘I was saying, you applied for a sales assistant position?’
God, did I? I haven’t got a clue. I’m pretty sure I applied to be a senior accountant at RBS, too.
‘Er, yes, yes I did.’
‘Great. I’m really sorry for the late weekend call, we’ve had a manic week and we needed to get the interviews booked in before tomorrow morning. Can you make Thursday at 9a.m.?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I stammer. I don’t trust myself to speak any further, the wine is turning my S’s funny.
‘Fantastic. Just come into the shop and tell one of the guys behind the counter that you’re here for interview. They’ll tell you where to go.’
‘Great, thank you, Darren.’
I put the phone down. Bloody hell. A job interview. Working in a bookshop. I love the idea of working in a bookshop! The smell of books is my favourite smell ever. And they don’t know about the rubber! My criminal record will remain clean. This is exciting! I’d better put it in my phone calendar or I’ll forget by tomorrow.
‘Who was that?’
I jump. Charlie is sat at the bottom of the stairs in the dark.
‘Jesus Christ! What the hell are you doing there, you freak?’ I wander over and squeeze in next to him.
‘Escaping.’ He sighs. ‘I really need to get my own place.’
‘Yeah, you do. Scrounging off Mum and Dad at the age of twenty-nine. Not cool.’
‘I pay rent!’
‘Yeah, like a hundred quid a month. And no bills or food.’ I poke him.
‘Pfffft.’ He rakes his hands down his face.
‘What’s up with you, anyway?’ I try. It’s as close to a personal question as I can get. Something is wrong, I can tell, but we don’t want to get all serious about it.
‘I could ask the same of you.’ He stands up and steadies himself on the banister before turning back to me. ‘But I won’t.’