Chapter 9
‘I’ve had a rethink.’ After taking in a deep breath, I squeeze my hands together. ‘About my flat.’
Miranda is busy telling me where she bought her leopard-print dress and its eye-watering price tag. It takes her brain a few seconds to process what I have just said. She stops talking, and her face lights up.
‘I do need a flatmate and…’ I’m struggling to push the words out.
‘You’re going to flat share with Oliver,’ Miranda squeals, pulling me into an unwanted hug.
I try to resist her, but she’s stronger than I am.
We end up in a strange tussle that ends with us banging foreheads and my vision of Frank pushing a pram.
The sound of the bookshop disappears, and I shove a boiled sweet into my mouth.
Miranda is speaking while doing a strange celebratory dance.
When my ears start to work again, I rub my sore forehead. ‘I’ll need to meet Oliver before I confirm anything.’
Miranda smiles sweetly. ‘Of course. I’ll call Frank. He can tell Oliver the good news.’
I watch as the pound signs in her eyes make her half-walk and half-run across the bookshop towards the till. My heart is thudding, and I feel sick. What am I doing?
If Francesca the reality TV star, Steve the magician, or Paula the DIY enthusiast had been normal, I wouldn’t be in this position.
I begin to tidy the shelves behind the display table in the science fiction and fantasy section.
Aunt Polly’s face flashes in my mind. This is all for her.
Oliver’s money will pay for my weekly visits.
I will be able to hold her hand while she undergoes chemo.
He will move out once his flat in London sells.
This is not a long-term arrangement. It will just get me through this difficult time.
‘Can I collect my boyfriend’s book?’ a familiar voice says, making me whirl around. Marcus’s girlfriend is standing in front of me, clutching his receipt.
I nod and walk over to the till counter. She follows and lets out a heavy sigh. ‘He sent me as he’s terribly busy with his academic paper.’
‘Here it is,’ I say, taking out J.K. Fielding’s book, which is heavy and lands on the counter with a hefty thwack.
‘That’s a tome!’ she exclaims. ‘Gosh – I didn’t realise J.K. Fielding had done so much research.’
‘He got carried away,’ I say, casting her a sugary smile. ‘If you ask me, your boyfriend should conduct his own research.’
She stares at me. ‘Marcus is working on his PhD. I think he will be the judge of whether J.K. Fielding’s work meets academic standards.’ Her eyes travel up and down my body before resting on my face. ‘I hardly think he needs your input on a published scholar.’
I make sure our hands brush as I hand her the bag with Marcus’s book. The flash of white light clears, and I see her walking along a library and turning a corner to find Marcus passionately kissing a woman with short blonde hair in the ancient history section.
Her phone starts to vibrate. ‘Hello, my love,’ she coos, turning away from me. ‘What are you up to? Oh… you’re going to work in the library. See you later then.’
As she walks away, I let out a sigh and hope that today is not the day she discovers that her beloved Marcus is doing more than working on his PhD in that library.
‘Nelly – where are you?’ Miranda has spoken to Frank. Her voice is annoyingly shrill. ‘Oliver can meet you tonight. If you’re free?’
‘Doesn’t he have to travel up from London?’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s staying with us. Arrived yesterday.’
‘What? He’s staying with you?’
‘Frank couldn’t allow his boss’s son to stay in the Travelodge. Anyway, I knew you wouldn’t be able to say no. As I said to Frank, give Nelly a few days.’
I clench my fists by my side, and an angry red filter slips in front of my eyes. Why does it feel like she has masterminded this entire situation?
She twirls a strand of her brown hair around her finger. ‘That angry look you’re giving me doesn’t suit you.’
I remind myself she is my boss, and I need this job. ‘What is he like?’
‘Oliver is a bit rough around the edges. Not quite like his profile picture, but you could tidy him up.’ Grabbing my hand, she reluctantly leads me away from the till to the romance section.
I silently groan at the Frank pushing a pram vision as she surveys our shelves filled with sugary, pink-coloured books, the display table, and the two dusty pink armchairs, where readers eager to dive into a book feel as if they’re at home.
The world becomes muffled. I can’t hear what she’s saying, which is a blessing.
Miranda is still talking when the sound returns to my ears. ‘Forget my idea of dressing him in tight jeans and a white string vest. I would put Oliver in a tweed suit. I would also escort him to the nearest barber.’
‘He might not want to tidy himself up.’
She ignores my comment. ‘Oliver has got that brooding, tortured artist thing going on. Frank says he’s struggling with writer’s block.’
‘As long as Oliver stays in his room, we will be fine.’
Miranda gives me a bewildered look. ‘Nelly, the world needs Oliver’s romance books. You must do all you can to support and guide him through this dark, creative time.’
‘I would be his flatmate, not his therapist.’
She’s not listening to me. ‘When he does his book signing event…’ She pauses, pointing both index fingers at me. ‘We haven’t discussed this yet, but you can work on him about that… I think we will place his signing table here, so he has the pretty shelves as a backdrop. What do you think?’
Being in this section of the bookshop for too long makes me uncomfortable. After clawing at my itchy neck, I check my watch. To my relief, I see that it’s time for us to open. ‘I need to open the doors.’
She doesn’t hear me as she’s lost in her thoughts about Oliver’s book signing event.
A male customer excitedly enters, eager to grab the latest trending book from a well-known crime author, along with a stressed mother and her noisy little boy heading to the children’s section.
As she walks by, she grimaces and says, ‘This is the only place that will keep him quiet for more than five minutes.’
I keep myself busy by sorting out the online book orders and try not to think about Oliver James becoming my flatmate.
‘Is the free Wi-Fi working?’ A young boy approaches the counter with his iPad. I call Miranda, who hurries into the back room to fiddle with the control box. I smile at the boy. ‘It will be working again soon.’
‘Excuse me, do you work here?’ I look up from my online order list to see the woman with the little boy, smiling at me. His little hands try to grab the boxes of pens and glittery notebooks.
‘Yes. How can I help?’
She beams and lets go of her son’s hand. He races off, shrieking with delight. ‘Do you have this author’s debut book in stock? It was published a few years ago, but I can’t find it.’ To my horror, she waves Oliver James’s latest book at me.
A groan escapes my lips, causing the woman’s smile to evaporate.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to groan at you,’ I say quickly, before my behaviour leads to a complaint. I must think on my feet since she doesn’t want to hear that I don’t seem to be able to escape this author.
‘He’s the author everyone wants to read right now. I bet you’re deluged with requests like mine.’ She has provided me with a way out.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She gives me the details, and I check the laptop.
‘It should be in stock.’ I put on a fake smile, and we walk to the romance section, passing Miranda, who is back from fiddling with the Wi-Fi and is now busy taking photos of the display table piled high with Oliver’s latest romance.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort out the social media and watch the till, Nelly,’ Miranda sighs, with a dramatic hand to her brow. ‘I think I am doing too much.’
My irritation spikes. ‘Do you want to find this customer’s book? I can stay on the till and sort out Instagram.’
Miranda casts me a sugary smile. ‘Go ahead and look for the book. Once you’re finished, I might need a little nap.’
I mutter under my breath about the amount of time she needs recharging in the back office when she does very little in the shop. While I search the shelves for Oliver’s debut, the woman scrolls on her phone.
Behind me, I can hear the laughter of her boy and the sound of little feet thundering across the bookshop.
CRASH. Miranda’s scream follows the sound.
I turn around to see that the display table has toppled over, scattering books all over the floor.
To my surprise, the small boy squeals with laughter and races back to his mother, who is still engrossed in her phone and oblivious to the chaos he has caused.
‘My mother has just texted me to say she will have my son for the rest of the day,’ the woman says, holding her phone.
‘I need to get him to her house quickly before she changes her mind.’ She grabs her son’s hand and scans the mess.
‘Thanks for helping me search for the book. I’ll see if I can order it online. ’
She hurries away, telling her son he will have a great day with Nanna and leaving me with a floor full of Oliver James’s new novel.
Miranda comes over, dabbing her brow with a ball of tissues. ‘I’ll be in the back room if you need me. My nerves are in tatters after that incident. Can you put the display table back together, watch the till, restack the new fiction shelves, and can you also sort out Instagram?’
With a heavy sigh, I lift the table back up and begin to pick up the books as Miranda sashays away, complaining of exhaustion.
I am busy tidying up the mess when I hear Miranda’s dulcet tones behind me. ‘Oh, this is going to make a lovely shot,’ she says, making me jolt. I thought she had gone.
I turn around to find her holding up her phone and pointing the camera at me. I’m sweaty, pissed off, and clutching piles of books in both hands. This won’t be a good shot.
‘Oliver will love to see his new flatmate posing with his new novel.’
‘I am not posing,’ I say through gritted teeth.
She gives me a wink. ‘Photo is winging its way to Oliver. I need to rest.’
‘Miranda,’ I groan. It’s too late. She flashes her phone, and I can see the photo has gone to Oliver.
Oh well, Oliver James and I can both look rough around the edges. That’s one thing we will have in common.
There is a steady flow of customers for the rest of the day.
I try my best to avoid physical contact, but they seem to gravitate towards me with their bare limbs.
I found myself rewarding two customers with free bookmarks who accidentally bumped into me while wearing long-sleeved shirts and kept the end of their love stories to themselves.
I don’t see Miranda until there are ten minutes left before closing.
She saunters over to stand by me at the till. ‘He’ll be at your flat for six.’
I let out a groan as tiredness washes over me. Every part of me is aching. The last thing I want to do is rush home. ‘That gives me half an hour to get home, shower, sort out my hair and tidy up.’
She pats me on the shoulder. ‘Let him see the natural you, Nelly.’
‘I don’t want him to see the natural me.’
Her eyes are shining. ‘Frank used to love the natural me. Why don’t you go early, and I’ll close? Yes, I know I am a great boss.’ She giggles, and I hurry away.
On my way up to my flat, I see Gary walking down the stairs. His black wiry hair is slicked back with gel, and he smells of Lynx aftershave. He grins at me. ‘I’m off out on a date, Penelope.’
I feel the usual prickle of irritation. ‘It’s Nelly, Gary. Not Penelope.’
He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t got time for small talk, Penelope. My date is waiting for me.’
I recall how Gary accidentally knocked my arm the day Eva and I moved in.
At the time, he was living with his third wife.
My vision showed his wife catching him in bed with their cleaner.
A few weeks later, Gary informed Eva that he was single yet again because, in his words, his wife couldn’t handle the fact that other women couldn’t keep their hands off him.
With a happy whistle, he carries on down the stairs.
Oliver James’s face flashes up inside my mind. ‘Gary,’ I call out. He stops and looks up at me.
‘I might have a new flatmate. Will you need to do any checks or anything?’
He shrugs. ‘I trust your judgement, Penelope. Let me know their name and I will get the contract changed.’
‘It’s NELLY,’ I shout.
‘Penelope, I am going to be late. If you want to talk to me, my flat door is always open.’
The creepy look he gives sends me racing up the last few steps to my flat.
Once I’ve greeted Lenny, I take a quick shower, pile my hair up into a messy bun and change into a fresh pair of black jeans and a white T-shirt.
I’m poised to coat my lashes in mascara when there’s a knock at my door.
My stomach dives for the floor. It’s him. Oliver James is here.
Scooping up my cat, I whisper, ‘Stay loyal to me, Lenny. We need to stick together.’