As I got into the guest bed all alone, hugging the cashmere jumper, I couldn’t keep from crying. My life as I knew it was over and tomorrow I’d have to start unpicking myself from Richard, one bill and kitchen appliance at a time.
Chapter 7
The hangover was notworth it.
My mouth was like flypaper – complete with rancid insects – as I stumbled out of the bedroom and flung the crumpled cashmere jumper at the rubbish bags. I was done being pathetic and done crying. I just wanted to take some paracetamol, drink a pint of orange juice and try to make my head stop banging.
While I was nursing myself through a cup of tea and a slice of dry toast, Emma texted me.I can handle things today – have a rest and let me know if you need anything xXx.
I was tempted, sorely tempted, to slink back to bed and emerge six hours from now for a Tesco meal deal and a few episodes ofBake Off. But I wasn’t an employee any more. I was a business owner. That meant dragging myself out of the flat and off to my place of business to… do business.
I’d get a coffee on the way. I needed it.
God, what if Maeve asked me about Richard? That thought stopped me dead. I shook it off – without actually shaking, because that would have been a mistake in my condition. I couldn’t just hide away forever to avoid talking about him. I loved Leaford but that meant sooner or later everyone in town was going to know about the break-up. I just had to live with that.
Wrangling the bulging black sacks of crochet into the lift nearly made me cry. The weight of them only reminded me of how much I’d given to someone who didn’t care about me at all. To top it off, my hangover was making everything seem so much harder than it needed to be.
Downstairs I hefted one bag over each shoulder like an old-timey farm worker and wobbled down to the one charity shop in town – Lilac Lawn Hospice Shop. A tiny, warren-like space full of chipped Cadbury Creme Egg mugs and yellowed paperbacks. The stock was in constant rotation but always seemed to be exactly the same – the sort of things you only ever see in charity shops, like ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs and books by Jeremy Clarkson.
The bell jingled as I backed in through the door, catching a waft of vodka from my own pores. I looked up and saw Margaret, the only shop assistant, standing by the till. God, I hoped she wouldn’t smell the booze on me. I hadn’t woken up with time for a shower and my body spray wasn’t doing much to help me out.
‘Morning, just a few bits for you,’ I felt the need to say as I flopped the bags down by the counter.
Margaret offered me a pursed-lipped smile. A long time ago she’d been the young, mean receptionist at my primary school, before sweet-shop Sally took over. She’d shushed me aggressively when I was babbling away to her, as kids do, and she’d been my nemesis ever since. She probably didn’t know she was my nemesis. I’d never been anything but polite to her, but I’d once seen her slip on a dog poo and privately cheered.
‘You still running your little shop?’ she asked, as she nudged open the top of one bag and frowned at the contents so aggressively that, for a moment, I feared I’d grabbed a bag of recycling by mistake.
‘Yup… it’s only been a few weeks.’
‘Hmm… well, I suppose it takes all sorts. Those don’t look very practical for shop work.’ She was pointing a frosted pink talon at my shoes. A pair of Irregular Choice cowboy boots inspired by My Little Pony – pastel rainbows and silver glitter all over. I’d needed some of that energy in my life today. Something a little bit fun to make me feel less like smacking my head into a wall.
‘They’re very comfy actually,’ I said – which was a lie, as they were new and I was already regretting not putting pre-emptive blister plasters on my little toes – and turned on my heel to leave.
I walked straight into a tower ofInbetweenersDVDs and had to scramble to stop them cascading to the floor. I left the shop red-faced and burning up under my ‘Be Happy’ yellow jumper. Perhaps I’d gone a bit hard on the whole ‘dressing to cheer myself up’ thing. I caught sight of myself in the window as I was passing and winced. I looked like aBlue Peterpresenter having a nervous breakdown. I popped into the bakery and ordered two coffees, thankful that Maeve wasn’t working. I didn’t have it in me to chat today and the part-time teenager on the till didn’t say a word to me.
‘Tabitha!’ Emma huffed as I walked into the shop. ‘I said to take the day off. You look wretched.’
‘Cheers,’ I sighed and dragged myself to the counter to sit down on a stool, handing her coffee over. ‘I feel it. But I can’t just sit at home being sad all day in the flat.’
The little surge of vindictive joy at calling the ‘apartment’ by that name pushed the hangover misery back a little. A tiny placebo but I’d take it.
‘I suppose it was sort of the scene of the crime,’ Emma said, chewing on her lip. ‘Okay, but hand over that muck – the last thing you need is caffeine. Let me make you some mint tea. That’ll sort your hangover out.’
I didn’t have the energy to fight her as she took my coffee, even though mint tea was like drinking unsweetened toothpaste spit. My stomach flipped over. Ugh, that was not a safe thought.
For the first time I was glad we didn’t have any customers in. I leant on the counter and tried to sip the disgusting tea while Emma worked around me. She, I noted somewhat resentfully, had claimed my coffee as well as hers. I didn’t have the energy to do anything, and for the first time I didn’t even feel like flicking through a pattern book or checking the wholesaler’s website for new yarn. I just felt empty, scraped out and numb.
At eleven, normally the time we’d take a little tea break, Emma nudged me out of my seat. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk and get some fresh air?’
‘And something from the bakery?’ I said, seeing through her ploy.
‘If you like.’ Emma patted my shoulder. ‘But the walk might do you some good.’
A strong coffee and a muffin would probably help more. I’d just have to finish the coffee before I came back to the shop. Emma could be rather militant about her herbal cures.
Annoyingly, the fresh air was quite nice. Now that I wasn’t weighed down with bags of crochet or Margaret’s stare, the autumnal breeze was refreshing. My little toes had lost all feeling and it was actually quite a nice walk, all told. The sound of my heels on the cobbles never failed to make me feel whimsical and light.
I went to the bakery and bought some muffins and a coffee from the mercifully silent teenager, then wandered down a side street and peered into the window of Gilly’s Gallery. All the pictures were of woodland animals in party hats. She couldn’t be selling a lot of those, surely? Though, as I eyed a trio of hedgehogs in Christmas-cracker crowns, I had to admit they were sort of cute. As far as I knew, all the art in there was done by Gilly and the shop hadn’t turned a profit, ever. She was keeping it afloat, though, and no one knew how. I wondered which picture she’d put in the harvest-festival display this year.
