Gary is never sorry.
My name, Penelope Blake, is scrawled across the front in his distinctive, messy handwriting, which always gives me serial killer vibes.
I rip open the envelope in front of him. My heart is pounding. The rent is already extortionate on my bookshop wage. Once the numbers stop dancing, my mind begins to process the increase. The extra amount I will need to find makes my stomach drop.
‘I know it’s an increase, but times are hard.’
Tears rush to my eyes. I blink furiously to stop them from rolling down my cheeks.
‘Tell you what,’ says Gary. ‘If you have a friend who wants to share, I am happy for you to split the pain.’ Something flickers across his face. ‘There were two of you when you moved in. You and… Eva.’
The way he softly pronounces my ex-flatmate’s name is tinged with creepiness and turns my stomach.
Gary had a soft spot for Eva. When Eva and I were flatmates, the rent never increased. Any issue, no matter how small, was resolved seconds after Eva complained. Gary couldn’t do enough for her, and the flat practically glowed.
Waves of guilt still crash over me when I think about how my friendship with Eva ended. She was one of my few friends, and I ruined it. I want to blame my curse, but honestly, it was me.
‘Would Eva come back?’ Gary’s beady, dark eyes have grown wide. ‘I miss seeing her smiling face.’
I don’t want to discuss Eva with Gary, and I don’t want a new flatmate either.
Feeling gloomy, I return to my flat and rest Gary’s letter against Mum’s vase on my hallway table. The slender white vase always lifts my spirits. I stare at it for a few moments, and a smile spreads across my face. It’s one of the few keepsakes that remind me of my parents. Dad used to come home with flowers, and Mum would laugh about not having a lovely enough vase for them – especially when they were tulips, her favourites. One evening, he brought home both a colourful bunch and this slender white vase. We had a lot of fun arranging them.
I will deal with the rent increase later. Grabbing my bag, I spot a flash of silvery, grey fur out of the corner of my eye. My heart sinks, and I get ready to stop Lenny, my cat, from escaping. He’s been doing this a lot lately. I’ve told him repeatedly that he’s an indoor cat, but he thinks he knows best. If only he could understand that I don’t have many people in my life, mainly because of my curse, and that if he ever escaped, my heart would break.
I am quicker than him, and I win the battle. Holding him in my arms, I bury my face in his fur as he emits engine-like purrs. ‘Mummy needs you, Lenny Spartapuss.’
Later at work, while wrapping up book purchases and trying to get the temperamental card machine to work, I think about how I can manage financially with the upcoming rent increase.
The sensible option would be to find somewhere cheaper, but I love my flat too much. It’s part of a Georgian terrace house, which has been converted into flats. Gary’s rich elderly aunt left him the house in her will. He told me he struggled to maintain the property, so he started renting out the flats to cover costs. The building is constructed of honey-coloured limestone and is three storeys high.
My flat is on the top floor, sitting beneath the roofline where the walls slant inward and the ceilings press down. It was once the servants’ quarters and has been carved out of a maze of small rooms connected by a narrow hallway. In the living room, there’s a small sash window overlooking a cobbled street lined with shops and cafés. The ceilings are low and sloping, the floorboards are uneven, and there are two bedrooms tucked under the eaves. Although it is costly, has a leaky bedroom ceiling and a creepy landlord, I am still fond of my little flat. I love how it crouches beneath the roof and makes me feel safe.
It gives me sweeping views from the windows, and at night, my flat comes alive with sounds of birds nesting in the roof, creaking pipes, and footsteps across wooden floors below. I love its hidden history and often drift to sleep thinking about the servants who once slept under this roof and the lives they must have led.
If I moved out, I don’t think I could afford anything in the town centre. I live and work in a picturesque, historic town that boasts a highly sought-after high street lined with characterful buildings, boutique shops, and stylish cafés. Leading off the high street are charming cobbled streets, always busy with tourists and shoppers. Rent prices are rising rapidly, and even though Gary has just increased the rent, I know it’s still a bargain compared to other places. I would be forced to rent a shabby studio flat on the outskirts of town. I wouldn’t be able to walk to work, and I would miss my flat terribly. Additionally, I have Lenny and finding landlords who don’t mind pets can be challenging. I can’t move out.
The bookshop wage is abysmal, and Miranda, my boss, is a nightmare. Every day feels like a private diary entry, as she overshares her relationship issues, the clothes she’s wearing, and the male customers she fantasises about. Her one saving grace is that she owns Once Upon a Spine. Books are my lifebuoys; they keep me afloat when my curse tries to pull me under.
My stomach growls. Perhaps the only way to handle my rent increase is to reduce my food expenses. I’m already down to beans on toast most nights, and lying awake in the small hours with hunger pains is becoming a regular occurrence. If I cut down further, I’ll be reduced to a pile of bones and still cursed.
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.
