Sadly I’m not a duck. I think being a duck might be fun. More fun than ambling through the crowded streets of a big city getting poked in the eye by other people’s umbrellas. It serves me right for being tall, and for ambling. You’re not allowed to amble in London. You have to dash around, looking all confident and busy, like you simply must get to NATO headquarters in time to avert a global crisis.
I make my way past gift shops with rain-battered awnings shielding their plastic statues of Big Ben, and pause outside a crowded bar. The windows are all steamed up, but I can see it’s packed. Couples, friends, fun. I vaguely remember those things.
The girls at the bus stop have got me thinking about Lucy, who I haven’t seen for a few years now. We started to lose touch when she had her kids, and I got married. Life got busy, and we drifted into being Facebook friends who communicate mainly through blue thumbs-up symbols.
It seems like a lot of my friendships ended up that way, after I was married. All wrapped up in our own lives. She might be the closest thing I have left to a friend.
On impulse, I get out my phone and dial her number, relieved when it goes to voicemail as I have no idea what I’d say. ‘Just met some hideous mean girls at a bus stop and it reminded me of us, even though we weren’t actually mean’?
Maybe she’ll call me back later, and we can arrange to go for a drink. I’d like that, I decide. I’d like to not be invisible, and maybe I need to make more effort to reconnect with people who will actuallyseeme.
I put my phone away, and see a homeless man who is sheltering in the doorway with his dog, a Staffie with a big smile on its face. I have £3.29 left in loose change, and I hand it over. ‘Sorry it’s not more,’ I say regretfully. ‘That’s my last.’
‘Then it counts for more, love,’ he replies, as I pat the dog. ‘Widow’s penny and all that.’
I move on, realising that my soaking feet are taking me towards Charing Cross Road without me even telling them to.
It’s changed a lot in the years since I was a kid and my grandmother used to bring me here to visit the bookshops. It always felt like a magical place, full of wonder and possibility – just like books themselves. These days I have a Kindle, because it’s more convenient and because it’s sometimes cheaper, but thecall of a good old-fashioned paperback is still there. I browse the window displays, smiling in particular at a place that sells children’s books. It’s full of unicorns and rainbows, so pretty and optimistic. The very opposite of me, I realise, catching my own reflection in the rain-streaked glass.
I’m not invisible after all, it seems. I’m a gloomy-looking woman approaching middle age. One who badly needs a haircut. Uggh. I move on. I have no children in my life to buy books for, and that is a wound always ready to reopen.
The shop next door looks warm and inviting, a lovely display of classics in the window.Jane Eyre,Pride and Prejudice,Little Women. I smile, remembering reading that one when I was young, how it swept me away into the world of Jo March and her sisters. I may not have any family left, and my budget might be non-existent, but I can’t resist going in anyway.
Inside, it’s dimly lit, and smells vaguely of incense and dust. I inhale as I lurk in the doorway, and let out an enormous sneeze that makes the assistant glance up in shock. She’s a well put-together lady in her sixties, long grey hair and a necklace with an evil-eye pendant.
‘Come in out of the rain!’ she says. ‘Nice weather for ducks, isn’t it?’
Weird. I was just thinking about that. My mum is long gone, but maybe this is a sign that I’ve come to the right place.
‘I… probably won’t be buying a book today,’ I tell her, thinking of my bank account and how I really can’t make any impulse purchases. I can’t bear the thought of being welcomed in under false pretences.
‘It’s quite all right to sit down and read one, though,’ she replies, gesturing to one of the sofas. Two people are already here, their noses buried in their pages.
I mutter my thanks, and see that there is a big coat stand in the corner. I peel my coat off, shivering slightly as the clammyfabric skims over my wrists, and hang it up. It’ll make a puddle on the floor, I know, and vow to clean it up before I leave. No idea how – maybe I’ll just mop it with my hair. It wouldn’t look much worse.
I’ve been neglecting myself since He Who Shall Not Be Named walked out on me. Or Shithead, as I sometimes affectionately call him. My ex-husband left me broken in so many different ways it’s hard to count them. After years of him chipping away at my self-esteem, making me feel useless and ever-so-slightly crazy, he finally announced that he’d had enough of my ‘glass half empty’ approach to life, and disappeared off into the sunset with a woman he met at a work conference. They now live happily ever after in Basildon. Or maybe not that happily, as he still occasionally drunk-messages me on a Friday night, looking for a booty call.
The divorce – possibly the marriage – left everything in my life so much smaller. My social circle, my bank balance, my home. More importantly, my heart, my soul, my spirit. It’s part of the reason I’ve become invisible, I’m sure. I’m just too scared to be noticed, even by myself. I have made some progress, though, I remind myself. I no longer dream of getting him back, and his random texts don’t give me hope – they make me feel like I’m a kebab. Part of his Friday night ritual after an evening in the pub.
I chase away the bitter thoughts, and tell myself to live in the moment. I’ve been watching YouTube videos about mindfulness recently, though it’s always slightly disconcerting when the new-agey presenter breaks off from their spiritual meanderings to tell me to like and subscribe.
I browse the shelves, seeing that most of the books in here are fiction, everything from spy stories through to old romance novels, their bright covers showing musclebound men andswooning women. They make me smile, and I consider getting one down to read on one of the squishy-looking sofas.
I glance over, see that the people already sitting there are reading far more highbrow stuff. I catch a glimpse of a Thomas Hardy, and the cover ofTo Kill a Mockingbird. Do I have the nerve to waltz over there and plonk myself down, and feel no shame at all about actually choosing a story about a Regency duke seducing his daughter’s governess?
I giggle a little to myself, but ultimately decide against it. I know I need to stop feeling embarrassed by every single thing I do, that I need to break free from the way my ex made me see myself, but I’ve already fronted up a teenaged gang, called my old friend, and come in here. Maybe that’s enough self-development for one day.
I move along, and find a section of non-fiction books that are inspired by novels. It’s a lovely idea, and they’re all arranged so beautifully on the shelves. Agatha Christie’sMurder on the Orient Expressis surrounded by books about the famous train, a biography of the author, and guides to places featured in the story, like Istanbul and Croatia. Julia Quinn’sBridgertonbooks are accompanied by history texts and colourful picture books about the fashion of the nineteenth century, and a selection of Jilly Coopers comes with an Aga recipe collection, a photography hardback about rural England, and an amusing set of cartoon dogs.
It’s quirky and appealing and I love the idea of putting all of these wonderful books into context like that, making them seem even more rich and special. I still can’t decide what to sit down with though, my eyes skittering from one amazing book to another, wishing I could just move in here and spend the rest of my life curled up on a sofa reading.
In the end, I suppose a book chooses me. At least that’s a positive way to view it when a massive hardback slips off one ofthe shelves above, and lands with a thud on my head. The corner digs painfully into my scalp, then it bounces off, ricochets from a pile ofBridget Jones’s Diary, and slams down onto the ground at my feet. I stare at it for a moment, horrified. Is it broken? Will I have to pay for it? Does it cost, like, a million pounds? I glance up, wondering where it came from – a display about Diana Gabaldon’sOutlanderbooks turns out to be the culprit.
I rub my sore skull for a few moments, and the shop assistant magically appears at my side. She crouches down, and picks the hardback up.
‘Ah,’ she says, not sounding too upset, so maybe not a million pounds after all. ‘I always liked this one. It’s a guide to the stone circles of Scotland, thought it tied in perfectly with those delicious time-travel stories. Is that something you’re interested in?’
‘Time travel?’
