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.
‘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.’
