Chapter 8 Nothing to Lose
Nothing to Lose
‘It’s been declined.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your card. It’s been declined.’
Louder this time. The other people in the queue at the local farm shop turned to stare. Standing at the checkout, Maggie felt her face flush with embarrassment.
It was Friday afternoon, and she’d cycled to the local farm shop to buy a few groceries. Stock up for the weekend. Treat herself to a bottle of wine. At least that was the idea.
‘Sorry, my mistake, it must have expired, let me try another one.’
Now, with all eyes upon her, she rummaged around in her bag. God, why did she carry all this crap around? Finally she located her purse and hastily pulled out another credit card.
‘Here, this should work.’
As she held out her card, the teenage cashier gave her a blank look.
‘Just tap the machine.’ She pointed to the contactless symbol as if Maggie was an idiot.
‘Sorry, yes, of course,’ said Maggie, feeling like one.
Obediently she tapped the machine. Beneath the flaps of her jacket, she crossed her fingers, willing for the familiar Card payment authorized, remove card message to pop up on the display.
Payment declined.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got cash!’ She forced an overly cheerful voice, whilst trying not to think about the appalling state of her finances, and swiftly dug out the emergency twenty she kept in her purse.
That should cover it. Worst case scenario, she could always put back the bottle of wine.
Actually, no, on second thoughts the wine was an essential item.
She’d put back the organic vegetables and locally sourced cheeses.
She zoned back to see the cashier looking at her with barely concealed contempt. ‘We don’t take cash.’
‘You don’t?’
Behind her, Maggie could feel the growing impatience of waiting customers. Meanwhile, the cashier, now clearly bored by this stupid middle-aged woman who was holding everyone up, pointed at the sign taped to the Perspex divider.
‘It says on the sign.’
‘Sorry, yes, of course . . . Sorry.’
Hearing herself say the word sorry for about the millionth time, Maggie wondered if she could sorry herself into nonexistence. Each apology like an eraser, rubbing herself out like a line drawing until she simply disappeared.
‘Right, well, um, that’s all I’ve got.’
Briefly the thought struck her that if she were in a movie, this would be the point a handsome stranger would sweep in and offer to pay for her groceries.
It would be the perfect meet cute. Swiping his credit card, the handsome stranger would disappear out of the shop before they even had a chance to swap names, and the rest of the film would be spent with her trying to find him and an opportunity to pay it forward.
But she was not in a movie. She was in a farm shop in the middle of nowhere. And this was definitely not a meet cute.
She locked eyes with the cashier, who was industriously chewing gum while staring her down.
‘Right, well, I’ll just put these things back . . .’
‘Just leave the basket.’
‘No, honestly I don’t mind—’
‘Will you get a frigging move on!’
A voice roared behind Maggie, causing her to jump. Turning around, she saw a huge queue had now formed behind her. An angry mob wielding organic produce and cartons of free-range eggs.
‘We haven’t got all day, there are people waiting!’ A furious cyclist clad in Lycra waved his cold-pressed green juice at her.
‘Sorry. I’m really sorry.’
Abandoning the basket on the counter, Maggie quickly skulked out of the shop.
She could hear muttering behind her and was reminded of the journalist’s visit yesterday; her saying how it was a small town and people talked.
Abruptly, she felt a flash of mutiny and paused in the doorway.
To hell with it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Give them something more to gossip about.
Turning back around, she marched up to the cyclist who, not expecting to be confronted, visibly paled.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she hissed, her face inches away from his rattish one. ‘Why don’t you stick that green juice up your Lycra arse?’
At least that’s what her old self would have done. But this new, broken version of Maggie simply took the abuse and didn’t answer back. Instead, she scuttled, shamefaced, out of the shop, the whispering ringing in her ears.
Twenty minutes later, back at the caravan, the state of her finances sank in. She’d known it was bad, but not this bad.
Logging into various banking apps on her phone, she checked the balances in her current account and on her credit cards.
Since losing both her business and her flat above the gallery, which she had to sell after she could no longer pay the mortgage, she’d spent the last six months living off what little she had left and doing what she called the Zero Per Cent Balance Transfer Dance.
Less fun than the jive but more difficult than the Charleston, this involved moving debt around on her credit cards. It took a lot of time, practice and effort – timing was everything – and she was now something of an expert. Maybe they should think about having it as a category on Strictly.
Joking. Well, kind of.
She’d also been making a little bit of money doing some dog-walking for a nearby boarding kennels. She’d replied to an online ad. It didn’t pay much but the only skills required were owning a pair of wellies, a pair of hands and liking dogs and she ticked all the boxes.
Which was quite something, as her life appeared to be ticking none of the boxes and there weren’t many jobs out there for a middle-aged woman who had gone bankrupt.
Correction. Almost gone bankrupt.
She’d done everything to narrowly avoid that.
When the bank had called in the business loan after she defaulted on the payments and the interest on her new, much bigger mortgage had sky-rocketed, she’d had no choice but to sell the gallery and her flat above it to pay off her creditors.
Running an art gallery meant she didn’t own any stock – what paintings she had were returned to the artists, all of whom were local and lovely and desperately sad to see her go – while the rest of the fixtures and fittings were sold off.
Luckily, she’d found a buyer quickly, but it was still a bitter blow. Last she’d heard the new owner had applied to the council to change the licence and open a coffee shop. It was as crushing as it was depressing. Like the world needed any more oat milk flat whites.
With what little she had left, she’d looked at renting, but everything was so expensive.
Her friend George had said she could stay on his sofa bed in London, while one of her neighbours had kindly offered their spare room, but she didn’t want to be a burden.
Plus, their teenage son would need it in a few weeks when he came home from university.
Instead, she’d bought an old caravan on eBay, borrowed an artist-friend’s Land Rover, and on a grey day in the middle of February, almost a year to the day since she first met the man she thought was the love of her life, she towed it two hundred and fifty miles up the M5 to the northern Pennines.
Oh, the irony. To where Ainsley, an old university friend of her brother’s who was now a local farmer and with whom she’d kept in touch, had a spare field she could rent.
It was supposed to be a temporary solution, just until she sorted herself out, got back on her feet.
Except, getting back on her feet seemed to be taking a lot longer than she thought.
Reaching for her phone, Maggie texted the owner of the boarding kennels.
Hi Emma, do you need me to do any dog walks next week?
She pressed send, then quickly added:
Just organizing my diary. Thanks, Maggie
Well, she didn’t want to look too desperate. Even though she was. She’d even added a smiley face.
A few seconds later, the ticks went blue and Maggie could see Emma was typing. Hopeful, she stared at the screen, waiting for the reply to appear. It was taking an awfully long time. And now Emma had stopped typing, as if she’d changed her mind.
Finally, after what felt like for ever, a message appeared.
Hi Maggie. Afraid next week’s a bit slow.
Will text you if we need you. Thanks, Emma
There was no smiley face.
Maggie stared at her phone, spirits sinking, before forcing herself to rally.
Still, at least she had her emergency twenty-pound note – though she wasn’t sure how much good that was to her if she couldn’t find anywhere to spend it in this new cashless society.
Getting up, she flicked on the kettle and checked the cupboards.
She had a few tins, some pasta, a pizza in the fridge.
There was enough food to last the weekend, but then what?
Anxiety bubbled, her mind flicking back.
When she lived in Bath she used to volunteer at the local food bank.
Before she started volunteering, she’d assumed the people who used them weren’t people like her.
That they were different somehow. It sounded snobbish.
Ignorant. Embarrassing, frankly, to even admit that she once thought that way, because she’d quickly realized how wrong she was.
Lone parents, struggling families, low-paid workers, professionals who’d lost their jobs, pensioners who couldn’t make ends meet, single men and women who’d suffered some unforeseen circumstance to push them over the edge.
People just like her who thought it would never happen to them either.
The kettle boiled and she made tea. Chamomile. To calm the nerves. She thought about the bottle of wine she’d had to leave behind at the farm shop and felt a pang. Sod the chamomile, she could kill for a glass of that right now.