‘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?’
