Chapter 5
I look up after handing a customer their purchase – a poetry book – only to see Miranda smiling at me and gesturing to her dress. I let out a silent groan.
Earlier, before we opened the shop, I was too busy worrying about Gary’s rent increase and forgot to notice Miranda’s latest outfit.
Last year, Miranda hired an online fashion stylist who has completely overhauled her wardrobe.
The stylist, a twenty-five-year-old fashion student who, Miranda claims, wears pyjamas, works from her bed and charges an eye-watering amount, was recommended by her best friend, Anna.
According to her, the stylist is costly but will perform miracles.
In Anna’s case, her wardrobe overhaul led to a steamy relationship with an airline pilot who, she claimed, looked like George Clooney and gave her discounted long-haul flights.
Miranda now expects me to give her daily feedback on her outfits.
The fact that she asks me for fashion feedback is still a surprise, given I only wear black long-sleeved T-shirts and grey jeans.
Today she’s in a pink floral tea dress with short sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline.
Her curly brown hair is piled high in a messy up-do.
‘You look good, Miranda,’ I tell her.
‘My fashion stylist says the theme for the week is cute pink dresses,’ she says, with a heavy sigh. ‘Before you ask, Frank didn’t notice.’
During Miranda’s first Zoom consultation with her stylist, she was asked about her fashion ambitions.
Miranda explained that her main aim was to capture her partner, Frank’s, attention.
After fifteen years together, she feels invisible to him and believes a new wardrobe might alter their relationship.
This serves as another poignant reminder of the complexities of love.
Once you have found your beloved, there’s no guarantee that the intense feelings that brought you together won’t fade away and compel you to spend thousands on reinventing yourself in the hope that those exhilarating sensations might someday return.
Miranda has not yet achieved her goal.
Nearly a year has passed, and Frank has not made a single comment about her outfits.
Some weeks, he doesn’t even look up from his granola when she comes downstairs looking as though she’s stepped out of a glossy fashion magazine.
It’s been painful to watch as Miranda has spent a considerable amount of money, had a new wardrobe fitted in her bedroom to accommodate her clothes, and her online fashion stylist has enjoyed several luxury holidays, which Miranda claimed were for research purposes.
‘He might mention it tonight,’ I say, trying to lift Miranda’s spirits.
She walks over to the till. ‘I don’t think he’ll say anything positive later after visiting his mother, Nelly. She’s still busy crocheting that doll, which Frank keeps saying looks like a voodoo doll and has an uncanny resemblance to me.’
I serve a customer who buys a book on carpentry. Once the woman has gone, Miranda leans over the desk. ‘Do you know someone who needs extra cash and wouldn’t mind a hot guy wandering around their home in boxer shorts?’
Miranda never fails to shock me. I blink a few times in surprise. ‘What?’
‘I know a guy who needs to rent a room.’ She gets distracted and beams at two older ladies hovering by the door.
‘Where are the crime books?’ one lady asks.
‘I like my crime novels to be grisly and dark,’ pipes up the other. ‘Just like my divorce.’
Miranda smiles and points them towards the crime section.
She turns back to me, already halfway into one of her fantasies.
‘If I were in my thirties again and not living with Frank, I would offer this hot guy a room and the keys to my heart. Or my bedroom.’ With a dreamy, faraway look, she murmurs, ‘Given who this hot guy is, I would offer all three.’
My fifty-five-year-old boss has a vivid imagination and tends to share it with others. I have learned that it’s best to shut her down quickly before the situation escalates.
‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone, Miranda.’
She stares at me. ‘You have a spare room, Nelly.’
‘I do, but I’m not looking for a flatmate.’
Miranda’s dark, beady eyes study my face. ‘In the back room earlier, you told me about your “crippling rent increase” and how you were living on beans on toast and black coffee.’
Why did I tell Miranda about Gary’s letter? My face is getting warm. ‘I did.’
‘Well, this is the perfect solution. You get help with your rent and a bare, muscular chest to gaze at while you eat your cornflakes.’
‘I don’t want to gaze at a—’
She interrupts me. ‘Nelly, you’re an attractive, single, young woman. I worry about you not dating. You also live like a hermit.’
‘I’m not interested in dating.’
‘When I was your age, I was wild. I had a string of fellas after me and a permanent dent in my mattress.’
She winks, and I die a little inside.
If there’s one thing I hate more, it’s listening to one of Miranda’s pep talks. When will she accept that I’m not like her?
‘If you’re worried about this chap being a weirdo or a potential serial killer with a doll collection, don’t be,’ Miranda says, tapping me on the arm.
There’s a flash of white light. When it clears, I see the same vision I’ve had for years: Frank pushing a pram and calling himself ‘Daddy’.
I’ve never told her about my curse or what I see for her and Frank.
Their future makes me uneasy. She’s always claimed that children were never on their radar.
The future, apparently, disagrees. I shove the vision into the darkest depths of my mind and pop a boiled sweet into my mouth.
Miranda is looking over at the romance section. She’s pointing and speaking but I can’t hear her.
The sound of the bookshop comes rushing back to my ears. Miranda is mid-sentence. ‘…he’s the son of Frank’s boss and…’ She enjoys dramatic pauses. ‘His books are in this shop.’
‘Who are you talking about? Books? What do you mean?’
She draws an imaginary heart shape in the air with her fingers. ‘The guy who needs a room – he’s a romance author.’
‘Really?’
She nods. ‘Oliver James.’
Ugh – that name rings a bell. I glance at the new romance book display table Miranda set up last week.
It’s currently dominated by Oliver James’s latest pastel-pink novel, Love Me Forever.
The cover features a lovestruck couple gazing into each other’s eyes.
His name is emblazoned across the top in swirly gold letters.
I can’t walk past the table without rolling my eyes or physically flinching.
Romance authors like Oliver James spend their lives writing books that convince readers that love conquers all and that soulmates can be found in idyllic settings, such as florists or bakeries.
They make me want to believe in love, but my curse always reminds me of the lies, the ghosting, the serial cheaters, the tragic accidents that take the good ones while they are cycling around town or those who can’t seem to forget their ex-partners.
Miranda tidies up the array of glittery pens, notebooks, and bookmarks by the till.
‘I only found out this the other day,’ she explains.
‘You’d think Frank would have told me sooner that his boss has a son who’s a bestselling romance author.
Frank knows the bookshop has been struggling financially.
Having direct access to the author everyone’s talking about right now would be a game-changer for me.
’ She sighs. ‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on inside his head.’
‘Oliver James is moving here?’
Miranda nods. ‘He’s selling his flat in London and wants to rent a room for six months.’
‘Why would someone like Oliver James come here?’ I murmur.
She shakes her head. ‘I have no idea. You’d think Oliver would go live with his father, who, I might add, lives in Cornwall in a large, flashy house, and each week, a new bikini-clad woman sits in his hot tub.
I’ve seen his Instagram photos. I bet Oliver’s late mother is rolling in her grave, watching her husband behave like a wealthy playboy.
Oliver should head for Cornwall and join his father. ’
This is a helpful reminder to me. Heartbreak still finds you in the afterlife.
‘Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to live with his father.’
Miranda ignores me and pulls out her phone. ‘I know I’m technically old enough to be Oliver’s aunt, but if he were interested in a fun, fifty-something woman with a lively personality, a pair of flexible hips, and a personal fashion stylist, I wouldn’t say no.’
‘Miranda, you have Frank!’ I exclaim.
She rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t think Frank knows I exist.’
I watch her take out her phone, scroll, then hold the screen in front of me.
I find myself staring at a photo of Oliver James.
He looks like he’s from a romance novel.
My heart skips a beat. He is annoyingly handsome, with perfectly tousled hair and dark eyes that evoke thoughts of a rich, dark coffee.
‘Do you like what you see?’
I blink at him and then at Miranda.
Her eyes twinkle. ‘Imagine bumping into him after he’s just had a shower.’
‘Miranda, I don’t want a flatmate.’
‘Oh, Nelly, come on,’ she groans. ‘This would also be a good career move for you.’
My eyebrows are almost touching my hairline. ‘A career move?’
‘Think of all the promotion we could do. You could sweet-talk him into doing some book signings or an event or two.’
My irritation levels have spiked. She only wants me to offer Oliver James a room because she thinks it will boost her business. I don’t think she ever intended to ask anyone else.
Before I tell Miranda where she can shove her idea on flat-sharing with Oliver James, a customer asks why the bookshop’s free Wi-Fi isn’t working. I leave Miranda by the till and assist them with their Wi-Fi issue.
The next few hours are filled with my attempts to ignore my hunger pangs and the image of Oliver James, which refuses to leave my mind.
I repeatedly tell myself that I don’t want a flatmate and certainly don’t want a male flatmate who writes romance novels. Money is tight, but I’m not desperate.