Bookshop Girl Page 5
And below it, another hand has written ‘NO ONE WOULD BUY IT.’
He crouches down beside me to have a look. ‘Oh, that. That’s been here for ages. I don’t know who did the first bit …’ Then he smirks. ‘But I will take credit for the response.’
I crack up. ‘No way! It’s always the quiet ones!’
Lunchtime. I walk through the shopping centre. Right now some ancient eighties power ballad is ringing out of the tinny speakers. There are only about four tracks on a loop, echoing around the empty units and last few crappy shops that remain.
I printed out more of the #SaveBennetts petition bookmarks and am carrying them like a bouquet of flowers in my hand. Armed with some cute sparkly tape, I plan to stick these babies around the town centre for all to see. For all to hopefully see, since the black ink in the printer is obviously low and the letters look unintentionally stripy.
I spot the community noticeboard between Superdrug and the entrance to the bus station. I find some space among the ads for garden furniture for sale, childminders for hire, and an urgent appeal for donations to the food bank. I stick a few of our flyers on there, careful not to cover the poster for a missing cat. I’m not sure if anyone actually reads this, but it’s worth a try I guess.
I also need to find a present to take to Lucy’s party tonight. It’s her birthday. I don’t really know what to get her so I play it safe and follow my nose all the way to Lush. I figure I can kill two birds with one stone; surely the happy vegan babes would be sad to lose Bennett’s, maybe I can get them to sign the petition. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t approve of me killing any birds with a stone so scratch that. I’m going in.
I pick out a pink heart-shaped bath bomb and a bubble-gum lip scrub, and the frizzy-haired shop assistant wraps them up in spotty tissue paper.
I take the paper bag and the shop girl flashes her perfect teeth between two orange lips, painted in animal-friendly organic lipstick. I pluck up some courage. ‘I was just wondering if I could leave some of these here on the counter?’
She reads the slip and I continue, ‘I work at Bennett’s Bookshop on the high street, and it’s facing closure and then demolition in three week’s time.’
She pouts in sympathy.
‘It would be great if you and your friends could sign and share the petition to keep us open?’
I smile as she says, ‘Yes! Of course I will! Thanks … and good luck!’
It feels really good telling people about the campaign. People I don’t know, strangers, who are willing to help. I practically skip out of Lush and back through the shopping centre, passing flyers to shoppers and lunch-break shop assistants, who sip icy Pepsi from Burger King straws as they tap the petition address into their phones and sign up to support us.
Holly bursts through the staffroom door chanting a school-disco classic as I’m stuffing my bag back into my locker.
I sing right back at her. We’re so musical. Our talent is wasted in this town.
Nikki raises her eyebrows behind the latest issue of The Bookseller magazine and sighs. Insert Haters Gonna Hate meme here.
‘So, I wasn’t sure what to get Lucy so I just went to Lush …’ I’m already tearing the tissue paper open to show Holly.
I hold the bath bomb up to her nose. Too close. I accidentally bash her in the face and leave a pink chalky stain on her cheek.
‘Ow!’
The door swings open and Tony’s in the room. Why is it that he only ever catches me when I’m behaving like a complete weirdo?
He looks at his watch. Then at me. Then at the clock on the wall. Guess that’s my cue to get back to work. Yes, okay, I took an extra three minutes off the shop floor. He looks at me all expectant, so I tell him all about my lunchtime flyering sesh. He grunts. Unimpressed.
I have pink, glittery bath bomb residue all over my hands but I feel like if I spend any more time up here and not downstairs selling books, Tony will actually explode.
Back on the shop floor, things seem to have got a little trashed by the customers that have descended on our NOT NECESSARILY CLOSING-DOWN SALE. Adam stands behind the till with this :-/ expression on his face.
‘Paige, you’re not gonna like this.’ He holds up a can of polish and a yellow cleaning rag. ‘Tony asked if you could give the shelves a dust. I’d do it if it wasn’t for my allergies.’
I think Adam’s expecting me to moan. I’m battling with the urge. Instead I just take the cleaning products from him. It’s okay, I’ll dust, doesn’t mean I’ll do a good job at it. I’ll just dust near Adam so we can chat.
‘So, Adam, what are your plans for this eve?’
‘Well, I’m going to the pub with a couple of mates for a few drinks. Although I’m trying to cut down on drinking; it’s bad for my anxiety.’
Poor Adam is an anxious man. Don’t imagine that all this bookshop-closure-possible-unemployment chat has been doing him any good. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand and changes the subject. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to a birthday party.’
‘Aww, how sweet. I remember birthday parties when I was your age.’ He stares into the middle distance and his eyes mist over behind his glasses, like it was centuries ago when he was a young lad. I let him have these moments. It’s a lesson to myself that as I get older, I’ll make a conscious effort to never do the ‘when I was your age’ thing to other people.
I tiptoe to sweep a thick layer of dust off one of the higher shelves. It gets into my eyes and I rub it away but IT BURNS. I forgot I still had pink Lush product all over my fingers. Now it’s clogging up my left eye. The pink Lush bath bomb and the bookshelf dust. And the polish. My eye is streaming. It’s like there’s something huge and sharp in there. Like I’m being stabbed in the eyeball.
‘Are you okay, Paige?’ Adam is genuinely concerned. He should be. I’m going blind over here.
‘There’s something in my eye … It’s really sore.’ How embarrassing, now my nose is running too.
‘I’ll get Nikki, she’ll know what to do.’ She’s a trained first-aider. Brilliant.
I stand still and blink, all too aware that my black mascara and eyeliner are running into the cocktail of things destroying my vision.
Before I know it, she’s here shouting ‘Can you hear me, Paige?’ into my ear.
YES, I CAN HEAR YOU, NIKKI. LOUD AND CLEAR. I’M NOT DYING.
Or am I?!
‘Okay, let’s have a look then.’ She moves my hands away from my face and produces a torch. Really? Wow.
‘Yes, I see, you’ve got something nasty in your eye. Let’s go upstairs to the ladies and get your eye washed out.’
In the toilets she tends to my eyeball, as I pull the lid high and look up, down, left, right and up again until it feels clear.
‘You’re going to have to take your eye make-up off, Paige.’ Said just like a teacher who sticks to the school policy on nail varnish in food-tech classes.
I look in the mirror. My left eye is nearly completely closed and there’s black eyeliner all down my cheek. I look like a Tim Burton character. Happy Halloween.
Nikki watches my reflection in the glass. ‘Well, I’ve already signed. And I’ve handed plenty of those web address slips out …’
I sniff all the goo back up my nostrils and smile as I scrub my dirty cheek with balled-up toilet roll and water. ‘Great! Thanks, Nikki.’
She pauses in the doorway to offer some advice before heading back to the shop floor. ‘Chin up!’
Adam physically jumps when I reappear on the shop floor.
I know I look a mess but ouch.
He scuttles off for his break, which means I’ll actually have to interact with customers while he’s away.
Mr Barnes, the guy who likes to shove stolen books down the front of his trousers is here for his second visit of the day. I tell him about the petition to save Bennett’s. I figure he might like to know that we might not always be here for him to nick things from if he doesn’t suppo
rt the cause.
Ancient Bennett’s regular Mr Abbott is sitting in his usual spot by the window. He stares out onto the shop floor and smiles to himself. White beard and flat cap. I’ve already attempted to strike up a convo about the campaign but he responded in the only way he ever does. He frowned and asked if we have any books on the German navy.
It’s kind of apparent that he doesn’t actually want the books he asks for. It’s as if he can only find the same few words muddled in his head, and they’re the ones that come out. ‘Pig farming’ or ‘beard lore’ or ‘German navy’ or ‘cherryade’ every time. But props to him; he’s the only person so far to be completely unfazed by my Lushed-up appearance.
In the distance I see That Boy appear. The beautiful one from life drawing. Oh My God.
Oh, but my stupid eye! I can’t let him see me like this.
I crouch down and hide behind the promotional life-size Mary Berry cardboard cut-out, clutching the piece of loo roll that I’ve saved for any more eyeball leakage.
He glances around, like he’s looking to see if anyone’s about. Like he’s looking for me?! Maybe he has come here to see me again. Why does he have to be here now, when I’ve been bath-bombed?!
I watch him from my secret hideout.
He picks up a book of Victorian medical illustrations. I just shelved that today! I basically put it right there, in his hands. That’s it – we are meant to be!
I clench my fist into a silent yessssssssss, when all of a sudden somebody stands over me and totally blows my cover. ‘Excuse me?’
Eff Eff Ess.
I stand up and turn to the woman who’s asking for help; she recoils at the sight of my gammy eye. ‘Oh dear, is your eye all right there, love?’
I ignore her question and smile manically, clinging on to my cardboard wingwoman. ‘How can I help?’
She’s looking for a Spanish phrasebook, so I tiptoe her to the right shelf, pleased that The Boy still hasn’t clocked me creeping around.
Quick! I drop to the floor to crawl back to my hidden lookout.
I’m.
Too.
Slow.
‘Hello?’
I freeze. On all fours. In the middle of the shop floor.
I turn. It’s Him.
‘Hey!’ I try to say it dead casual, like it’s normal to come across a sixteen-year-old girl crawling on the carpet like she hasn’t grown out of playing ‘CATS’ just yet.
‘What are you doing?’ He laughs as he asks, and the dimple of his cheek nearly stops me from coming up with this corker.
‘Oh, I’m just here … just fetching this –’ I feel around the carpet, and pick up a lump of spat-out chewing gum in my bare hands.
Kill me.
I don’t know where this gum came from, I don’t know whose mouth it was chewed up in, but it’s still wet and it’s in my hand and I am talking to The Most Gorgeous Boy In The World and I ONLY HAVE ONE FLIPPING EYE.
‘Oh, right. Great.’ He must wonder how he’s stumbled onto the set of a particularly cringey episode of The Undateables. I jump up and flick the sticky gum off my hand and into the recycling bin behind the counter. Gross.
‘Sorry about that! Hey!’ I try to smile and feel the lid of my dodgy eye get stuck. Oh God. I think it just looked like I winked at him. Who winks?
‘Are you okay? Your eye … it looks … painful …’ he asks. Concerned. Oh, how sweet! And how embarrassing!
‘Yeah, thanks.’ That’s it? That’s all I’m saying? Apparently so. Fantastic.
The Boy picks up some of the Save Bennett’s flyers on the counter. He pouts and I die.
‘Is it okay if I take some of these?’
I nod uncontrollably like the Churchill car insurance dog.
‘It’s an online petition, right?’ His face is serious and looking right at me for answers.
I’m massively annoyed at myself for glossing over the campaign like its no biggie, just because I feel so awkward in front of him right now.
‘So you’re an activist?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows.
I laugh. Is he joking? What a funny question. ‘Um, well, yeah, I suppose this campaign makes me an activist …’ He isn’t laughing. ‘Are you an activist?’
More pouting. ‘Well, I’ve been to a few demos and protests in London. I’m an activist, yeah. I’d like to think of myself as an “anarchist”. I believe in absolute freedom of the individual.’
‘Cool!’ I gush. I can’t pretend that I’m not shamelessly impressed by everything he does. He’s a beautiful, arty, freedom fighter who’s been to protests in London.
‘So, yeah. I’d like to get involved,’ he offers.
This is so special. He’s supporting my campaign. He’s showing an interest in the most important thing in my life right now and the whole time I’m dying at the injustice of this magical moment happening when I look like a creation from a special ‘Swamp Creature’ themed episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I make an excuse to hide again. ‘I should really get back to work …’ I lie. Like I’m going to be able to do anything but obsess over this encounter.
‘Oh, okay. Well, count me in. With the petition. Or whatever.’
‘Cool. Thank you.’ And then I ask because I’ve been dying to know since I saw him locked in the display window. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Blaine Henderson.’
Wow.
A first and last name for me to fancy.
‘I’m Paige. Turner. Paige Turner.’
‘Well, I’ll see you later, Paige Turner.’ He untucks a freshly rolled cigarette from behind his ear and leaves.
Some old codger shuffles up to the desk and croaks, ‘Cheer up, love! It might never ’appen!’
Eugh! I hope Lucy enjoys her Life-Ruining Bath Bomb.
In a highly flammable cloud of perfume and hairspray, Holly and I find ourselves standing outside The Plough. It’s a pub. Lucy’s hired the function room at the back for her Super Sweet Sixteenth.
I’ve had most of my birthday parties at home. Caterpillar cake and party bags with mood rings and Smarties in them. As much as I loved those parties, and Holly’s birthday sleepover where we wore matching onesies and ate twice our body weight in Domino’s stuffed-crust pizza, there’s something exciting about getting ready to go out-out.
We wouldn’t get in to any of the clubs in town, so a private function room in a stuffy old-man pub may be kind of lame, but we’re treating it like we’re superstars, about to be papped on the red carpet. About to have ‘Who Wore It Best’ articles published about us. About to spark new trends and hashtags as the whole world hangs on our every move.
Hol pushes me to go in first, her freshly manicured hands flat on the back of my charity-shop gown.
That’s right. I said gown.
We’ve gone all out. Like it’s prom night at the end of one of those American high-school films.
I found this nineteen-sixties lurex number in Save the Children. I ran my fingers over the silvery pink floral pattern and (breathing through my mouth because we all know chazza shops can stink) clutched it close to my heart. It was love at first sight and hands down the best tenner I’ve ever spent. At Holly’s house we watched make-up tutorials online before gluing on false eyelashes and backcombing for eternity.
‘The Look’ is High Glamour (despite the fact that the location is more … High Cholesterol).
The stained-glass door swings behind us and we’re inside the main bar.
We stand momentarily, taking in the shimmer of fruit machines and the stale smell of soggy beer mats.
Below a hand-painted chalk board advertising ‘Fish Fridays’, a couple of crusty old blokes with about four teeth between them turn round on their barstools and leer at me and Holly.
I fold my arms across the top half of my body, all too aware that their bloodshot eyes are boring through the artificial fabric of my party dress.
‘’Ave a good night there, gels!’
Groan.
I have nothing against people genuinely being nice, but I do have a problem with the fact that they probably wouldn’t turn to a group of sixteen-year-old lads and say anything. We’re being treated in a certain way, just because we’re girls. The best thing to do is to ignore it, right? Avoid making a scene. Don’t make them feel uncomfortable, even though the way they look at us is pervy enough to make us squirm.
It’s a typical example of male privilege. The assumption that they can say whatever they like to girls. The assumption that women or girls are there for their entertainment.
Funnily enough, when I was doing my hair and squeezing into my outfit, I wasn’t doing it for their benefit.
Holly takes my hand as we follow the sound of ‘DJ Dave wishing Lucy a Happy Sixteenth Birthdaaaay!’ through the double doors in the back room.
DJ Dave is exactly as you’d expect him to look. He’s wearing one of those short-sleeve shirts with flames on it. He nods his balding head to the beat as he stands among the menagerie of pink helium balloons, cheese and pineapple sticks, sausage rolls and red velvet cupcakes.
The party hasn’t quite kicked off yet. It’s just the birthday girl’s family here so far.
‘Happy birthday, Luce!’ We greet her with hugs and I hand over that lethal bath bomb.
‘Thanks for coming! Hopefully it’ll get busier soon …’ She looks pretty nervous at the possibility that the party might not get busier soon. But it should; according to the event page on Facebook, pretty much everyone from our year group is coming tonight. ‘Help yourself to some non-alcoholic punch!’
While DJ Dave is playing some party bangers, we decide we’ll add a bit of the peach vodka Holly snuck in in her bag to the very, very sugary punch before we join Lucy’s granny on the dance floor.
It’s not long before the room is filled with girls from school. We take selfies in the toilets. We screech along to ‘The Grease Megamix’, portable disco lights flashing green, then pink, then yellow onto glittery plastic princess crowns and ironic transfer tattoos.