‘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.
