Page 13 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Just tap the machine.’ She pointed to the contactless symbol as if Maggie was an idiot.

‘Sorry, yes, of course,’ said Maggie, feeling like one.

Obediently she tapped the machine. Beneath the flaps of her jacket, she crossed her fingers, willing for the familiar Card payment authorized, remove card message to pop up on the display.

Payment declined.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got cash!’ She forced an overly cheerful voice, whilst trying not to think about the appalling state of her finances, and swiftly dug out the emergency twenty she kept in her purse. That should cover it. Worst case scenario, she could always put back the bottle of wine. Actually, no, on second thoughts the wine was an essential item. She’d put back the organic vegetables and locally sourced cheeses.

She zoned back to see the cashier looking at her with barely concealed contempt. ‘We don’t take cash.’

‘You don’t?’

Behind her, Maggie could feel the growing impatience of waiting customers. Meanwhile, the cashier, now clearly bored by this stupid middle-aged woman who was holding everyone up, pointed at the sign taped to the Perspex divider.

‘It says on the sign.’

‘Sorry, yes, of course . . . Sorry.’

Hearing herself say the word sorry for about the millionth time, Maggie wondered if she could sorry herself into nonexistence. Each apology like an eraser, rubbing herself out like a line drawing until she simply disappeared.

‘Right, well, um, that’s all I’ve got.’

Briefly the thought struck her that if she were in a movie, this would be the point a handsome stranger would sweep in and offer to pay for her groceries. It would be the perfect meet cute. Swiping his credit card, the handsome stranger would disappear out of the shop before they even had a chance to swap names, and the rest of the film would be spent with her trying to find him and an opportunity to pay it forward.

But she was not in a movie. She was in a farm shop in the middle of nowhere. And this was definitely not a meet cute.

She locked eyes with the cashier, who was industriously chewing gum while staring her down.

‘Right, well, I’ll just put these things back . . .’

‘Just leave the basket.’

‘No, honestly I don’t mind—’

‘Will you get a frigging move on!’

A voice roared behind Maggie, causing her to jump. Turning around, she saw a huge queue had now formed behind her. An angry mob wielding organic produce and cartons of free-range eggs.

‘We haven’t got all day, there are people waiting!’ A furious cyclist clad in Lycra waved his cold-pressed green juice at her.

‘Sorry. I’m really sorry.’

Abandoning the basket on the counter, Maggie quickly skulked out of the shop. She could hear muttering behind her and was reminded of the journalist’s visit yesterday; her saying how it was a small town and people talked. Abruptly, she felt a flash of mutiny and paused in the doorway. To hell with it. In for a penny, in for a pound. Give them something more to gossip about.

Turning back around, she marched up to the cyclist who, not expecting to be confronted, visibly paled.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she hissed, her face inches away from his rattish one. ‘Why don’t you stick that green juice up your Lycra arse?’

At least that’s what her old self would have done. But this new, broken version of Maggie simply took the abuse and didn’t answer back. Instead, she scuttled, shamefaced, out of the shop, the whispering ringing in her ears.

Twenty minutes later, back at the caravan, the state of her finances sank in. She’d known it was bad, but not this bad.

Logging into various banking apps on her phone, she checked the balances in her current account and on her credit cards. Since losing both her business and her flat above the gallery, which she had to sell after she could no longer pay the mortgage, she’d spent the last six months living off what little she had left and doing what she called the Zero Per Cent Balance Transfer Dance.

Less fun than the jive but more difficult than the Charleston, this involved moving debt around on her credit cards. It took a lot of time, practice and effort – timing was everything – and she was now something of an expert. Maybe they should think about having it as a category on Strictly.

Joking. Well, kind of.