Bookshop Girl Page 7

  ‘Of course we want you in it, Tony!’ Holly sings. ‘You’re the shop manager! You are Bennett’s!’

  ‘Okay, all right, well …’ He pulls at the hem of his untucked shirt anxiously. ‘I don’t have to do it right away, do I?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  Tony blinks at her.

  ‘We don’t have all the time in the world. I’ve got to get as many clips as poss, then edit them all together, then upload it to YouTube. The sooner we do this the better! The revolutionary clock is ticking! We don’t have a lot of time left to reach our target and then wait for a response from the council, do we?’

  She’s right.

  ‘Let’s do this thing!’ I chant.

  ‘Okay, Paige, you can go first so that, Tony, you have some time to think about what you want to say on cam.’

  I make Holly record me three times. On the first attempt I make a weird twitchy smile halfway through, and on the second Mr Abbott, who is sitting a few paces away, farts very loudly, and I’m no way near professional enough to not dissolve into laughter on camera.

  I hold a copy of my girl Pippi Longstocking up to the lens as I explain that my mum bought it for me, from Bennett’s, when I was a kid. It’s been one of my favourite books growing up, and I can’t help but see it on my shelf and feel a connection to this place. Then I bang on about how books should be available to everybody, and that with the local cuts to library opening times, if Bennett’s was to close, it would mean a whole town would be left behind without easy access to literature. And that really the people of Greysworth deserve better than that.

  ‘And cut!’ Holly gives me a thumbs up as she watches the screen on her mini camcorder.

  Tony hovers with a thick paperback in his hands.

  ‘Ready when you are, Tony.’ Holly motions him forward.

  ‘My name is Tony Humphreys. I’m the manager of Bennett’s, Greysworth. I’ve picked this book. It’s one of my favourites,’ he flashes a nervous smile at the camera, ‘The Crimson Kingdom by Hilary Mackintosh. Now, back in ninety-nine, when this was first published, I was lucky enough to be invited to the launch in London, and was able to meet Hilary, who I believe is one of the best authors of our time … and, um, well, that was thanks to Bennett’s really …’

  The way Tony goes on to talk about this book shows a completely different side to him. He’s almost like the rest of us who work here. Excited and enthusiastic about his favourite writer. Not his normal stressy, stink-eye-shooting self.

  I get behind the cash desk, tear a bit of receipt paper from the till and make a note of that name. Hilary Mackintosh.

  Tuesday. And for once, I’m not the one who’s running late.

  I text Holly to tell her I’m here. I can hear the muffled steps of someone running down the stairs inside and then her sister flings the front door open.

  ‘Hey, Paige.’ She says this looking down at her feet. Christmas slippers in the height of summer.

  ‘Hi, Danielle. You all right?’

  ‘Erm. No. Well, not really. My mum ran over Blossom. She’s dead. Holly’s really upset but she said you can go up to her room.’ She bites her nails and focuses on her wiggling festive toes.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Poor Blossom.’

  ‘It was a hit ’n’ run. Mum knew she’d killed her but she was running late for Pilates, so she waited till she was back from the gym to move the body and tell us.’

  What the hell do you say to that?

  ‘Oh …’ Danielle never makes eye contact so this isn’t as awkward as it could be I guess. ‘I’ll go up and see how Holly’s doing.’

  When I knock on the bedroom door: ‘If it’s Paige or Dani, you can come in, but if it’s you, Mum, leave me alone, you murderer!’

  I push the door and find Holly, rolled into a ball of bedding. Nose running. Wow.

  I’ve never had any pets. Oh, okay, I’ve had one pet. A goldfish. Called Sam. He was named after a nurse on Holby City. Sadly goldfish Sam died the day after my eighth birthday party. And if I’m perfectly honest, I think that Ollie, the kid from up the road, had something to do with it. I’m not pointing any fingers but he kept asking what fish felt like. To be fair to Holly (who is a mess) I was devo’d, and being the family drama queen I milked the heartache and mourning process. I drew detailed pictures of Sam. And wrote a short poem to read at his funeral. I resented my brother’s fish Slinky (what was that name all about?) for the fact that he would outlive Sam. There are photos of the funeral. I’m sporting a very wonky fringe and a purple leopard-print belly top. (Just a quick note on belly tops: they were obvs not designed to be worn by kids with actual bellies. However, I spent most of the early noughties dressed like Winnie-the-Pooh.) My five-year-old brother can be seen standing next to me, his eyes closed and hands together in prayer. RIP Sam.

  So I do get it, even though I can’t fully relate to Holly’s pain. I’ve never been much of a cat person. I sit on the edge of her bed and muster a ‘Sorry to hear about Blossom, Hol.’

  ‘Did Danielle tell you that Mum did it?!’ Her eyes bulge out of her head, all bloodshot and watery.

  I nod. She passes me an old photo of Blossom. Like, a printed photograph. Retro. Blossom was old. They’d had her for a long time. Since Holly was about seven.

  ‘She was my cat. I chose her name,’ she sobs. ‘She was my best friend. I told her everything.’

  I can’t help but feel a temporary rush of jealousy towards this dead cat when she says that.

  So how do I ask snotty, grieving Holly if she’s coming with me to Posers, without sounding like I don’t care about dead Blossom and just want to go and draw naked Sue while sitting next to heart-melt gorgeous art school Blaine? Tough one.

  ‘Hol? D’you think getting out of the house might make you feel better?’ Wow, way to go, Paige. Real convincing.

  She sticks out her bottom lip and looks down at the soggy tissue in her hands. ‘I’m really pissed off at my mum. I don’t want to be here but I can’t be arsed to go life drawing now.’ Small voice.

  Here’s the thing – I desperately want to go.

  ‘Come on, Hol! Please. We’re a double act. If you don’t come now, it would be like Spongebob going to life drawing without Patrick …’

  ‘Which one am I?’ She looks at me quizzically.

  ‘You can be Spongebob if you like; I’ll be Patrick.’ We both laugh at the thought. Gotcha.

  She stands to check her reflection in the IKEA mirror. ‘I look more like Squidward right now.’

  Then she’s up, twisting her hair into a bun on top of her head. Trying to cover up her blotchy cheeks with powder and collecting her art materials from the IKEA storage solutions strategically dotted around her room.

  Her mum appears at the door. ‘Look, Hol, I’m really sorry about Blossom.’

  Holly juts her chin up in the air like she’s five, as she throws pens and inks into her bag.

  ‘Are you two off out to your class?’ She looks at me since Holly’s not talking and I confirm that yes, we are. Awk.

  ‘Do you want a lift down there, Hol?’

  ‘Probs best if you don’t, Mum. Wouldn’t want you to kill Danielle as you reverse out of the garage and leave her to bleed to death until you come home. We’ll walk. C’mon, Paige.’

  I try really hard not to laugh. Really hard. But it doesn’t work.

  On the way to the uni, we go into a corner shop called Happy Times. It’s fair to say that those Happy Times have been and gone. It is the saddest shop I’ve ever seen. We slide the lid on the freezer box and pick out two white-choc Magnums. Outside on the pavement we clink our ice creams together like Made In Chelsea champagne glasses.

  ‘To Blossom!’

  Clive’s here. Still Beige. This must be some kind of lifestyle choice. He welcomes us with a wide grin and open arms.

  Elspeth is in her corduroy like before and she nods as we pick seats next to her, nearer the front than we were last time. The room is quiet and still.

  No
sign of Blaine yet. He did say he’d be here. To be fair, he said that just before I chose Bennett’s shop floor as the place to declare my undying love to him, so, y’know, it could possibly have scared him away from sitting next to me in Posers for life.

  I don’t see Sue either. But there’s some guy I don’t recognise from last week. He’s short and round with multiple piercings in and around his face. He’s wearing trackie bottoms and a vest. He’s stretching by the mattress and avoiding eye contact.

  I lean over to Holly and whisper in her ear. ‘My money’s on him being our Poser for the night.’ I wiggle my eyebrows like a pest on a bar stool.

  It comes out much louder than I’d anticipated. As per usual. I’m always getting told off for whispering too loud. Or rolling my eyes. Another habit I’ve tried very hard to kick, but I roll so often that it becomes a physical strain to keep them from doing it.

  Poser man looks up at me and says, ‘Correctum!’

  Did he actually just say Correctum? As in rectum? When he’s preparing to drop his pants for us to sit around and draw his actual arse? Jesus.

  Okay, so I won’t whisper any more. Like a mind reader, Holly passes me a note on a torn piece of paper from her sketchbook. I unfold it to reveal her accurate observation, scrawled in 6B pencil. ‘RECTUM’.

  In walks boy-band-handsome Jamie. No hat this time. His hair is longer than I thought it would be. Pushed back off his face, maximising serious boy-band potential. He says a general ‘All right’ to the room as he takes up a seat behind me and Holly at the back of the room.

  I write vintage One Direction lyrics on the back of the Rectum note and pass it to her. I LOL internally. And a tiny bit externally.

  Clive’s looking at his watch. ‘We’re still waiting on a few people to turn up so I’m just going to nip out for a fag, amigos.’

  There’s a bit of laughter and commotion in the corridor and in walks Sue. Fully clothed, sketchbook in hand. She’s one of us tonight!

  Holly’s writing frantically and laughing under her breath. She slips me the paper. ‘SUE, I DIDN’T RECOGNISE YOU WITH YOUR CLOTHES ON.’

  Sue’s the life and soul of the party. She’s wearing these kind of dungaree things with paint smeared all over the knees and her wild hair is held up by a metal clip in the shape of a fish.

  ‘All right, Martin, how are you, love?’ She sets up an easel as she chats to Correctum, who’s doing hamstring stretches like he’s about to run a marathon.

  I hope Blaine turns up. What if he doesn’t? What if I never see him again? Flash forward sixty years and I’ll be sitting at a bus stop, stroking an old glove like it’s an animal and telling strangers about the boy I never saw again.

  ‘Hello gorgeous, bookshop girls!’ Sue winks at us as she unpacks her materials. ‘Have you got a petition for me to sign yet?’

  I nod, too eager to have her on board. ‘Yes we do!’

  ‘Fantastic! Don’t leave without showing us the link!’

  ‘We won’t let you leave before signing it!’ Holly semi-jokes as Sue takes a swig of tea from a huge picnic flask.

  I hear voices echoing in the hallway outside, the door swings open and – cue the choral music – it’s him. Dreamy Blaine Henderson. Laughing with Clive as he strides into the room.

  I feel winded when he makes a beeline for the chair next to me and says, ‘Good evening, Paige Turner, saviour of the high-street bookshop.’

  Before I know it Clive’s introducing the class and Correctum is wiggling out of his grey trackies. Oh God. The reality of it hits home; this will be the first naked man I see in real life. I blush. Stop the blush. If someone could please invent some kind of anti-blush remedy and Dragon’s Den that stuff, it would really help my day-to-day struggle.

  He poses with his arms up above his balding head, with his belly and his genitals out towards us. No offence to the bloke, there’s not much to see. Mostly just belly and tattoos and hair. Like I said, not being at all experienced with boys, or men, the only male nudity references I’m familiar with are Magic Mike XXL and the hunky blokes they have on packets on M&S pants. Irrelevant.

  I’m on the felt-tips today. ‘Experimenting with a range of materials’ to tick off that criteria box for my coursework. What a loser. I bet real artists don’t think like that. Bet Blaine couldn’t care less about getting good marks at college. The true anarchist that he is. Concentrate on the drawing, Paige. Focus.

  I spend a lot of time detailing the hairs on the chest and the Celtic band Correctum has tattooed round his forearm, but I’m not really sure how to begin tackling his, ahem, tackle. So far there’s just a blank space above his legs on my drawing. The Most Beautiful Boy In The Universe looks over at my paper and smirks. Does he know? Can he tell that I’m totally freaking out about drawing Correctum’s shrivelly bits? Oh God, I bet it’s so obvious. So blatant that I’m completely clueless. Look natch, Paige, just go for it. I do. Get right into it. Think of Sue. Think of Sue. About how it’s just like the GCSE wax fruit. Keep it together, Paige.

  Really, it’s just shapes and shadows. And when I think about it like that, rather than crude (anatomically incorrect) genitals scribbled inside hand-me-down French textbooks, it’s a lot easier to concentrate.

  ‘Thank you.’ Clive breaks the silence and asks Correctum for ‘another pose when you’re ready’. He lies down for this one. Like Rose in Titanic, if Kate Winslet was a balding Brummie who liked to make bum jokes.

  I get more into drawing and try really hard not to think too hard about what I’m drawing, but every now and then I feel feverish when thoughts of sketching the Total Fittie next to me creep into my mind. I bet Blaine doesn’t have any crappy tattoos like the bloke who’s splayed out on the mattress in front of us. I wonder what his body looks like. I imagine telling him to ‘draw me like one of your French girls’. How progressive of me. My mind wanders. Jesus, Paige, keep it together.

  After another pose, which results in a detailed portrait of Correctum’s hairy buttocks, it’s break time. I look at Holly’s work and it’s easily one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen. She’s drawn cat heads on all of her sketches. Purple Blossom faces instead of Martin heads on every pair of shoulders.

  ‘Wow, Holly. It’s … Blossom …’

  ‘It’s my tribute to her. Now she is immortalised in my work.’ Her bottom lip wobbles and for a second I’m worried she’s ready for Crying Sesh Part Two, until we both burst into laughter.

  Boy-band Jamie appears from his seat behind us and pipes up.

  ‘That’s sick.’ Yes, because in this town people still say ‘sick’ meaning cool. Does that happen elsewhere? Did it ever? I don’t know.

  ‘Is it yours?’ He raises his eyebrows and points to Holly.

  ‘Erm, yeah.’ She steadies her giggles. ‘My mum killed my cat today.’

  ‘Mate. That’s rough.’

  Holly and Jamie look at each other and smile. In my peripheral vision I see The Love Of My Life roll a cigarette and get out of his seat. My heart sinks when he leaves the room.

  ‘Do you go to uni here then?’ Holly to Jamie. Smooth.

  ‘Nah. I’m still at college but my mum’s a cleaner here. She’s never killed any of our pets.’ Holly nods and smiles sweetly. Like she’s been reading up on flirting tips in the crappy magazines we usually laugh at. It’s working, though. He’s still talking to her. ‘But, yeah, she saw the posters for this and told me. I just get a lift in with her.’

  I can actually hear Holly’s heart melt like a blue ice pop. I love the blue-flavour ice pops.

  Suddenly dying of thirst, and feeling like a third wheel while Holly and Jamie fall madly in love, I wander out of the studio to the vending machine in the corridor.

  I press the buttons and watch a bottle of water crash at the bottom for me to collect.

  ‘Hey.’ It’s him. Blaine. Coming back along the hallway to class. ‘I saw your video by the way.’ He means the one Holly made. ‘You’re pretty much famous now. A local cel
eb.’ He teases. ‘It’s cute.’

  I scoff uncontrollably when he says ‘cute’. I mean, the video wasn’t meant to be cute. It was meant to be thought-provoking and informative. It’s a real issue. Our livelihoods are at stake after all.

  But.

  If he meant to say he thinks I’m ‘cute’, then …

  We walk along side by side, and I try not to choke as I sip from my icy water bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ I eventually muster. ‘As for being famous … I’ll try not to let it get to my head.’

  He laughs, all floppy hair and cheekbones, and holds the studio door open as I walk in ahead of him.

  ‘And, it’s not “cute”, by the way.’ I narrow my eyes at him and he slumps in his chair.

  ‘Whatever you say, Paige Turner.’

  Holly leans on the back of her plastic chair as she recites the petition address to Jamie who punches it into the screen on his phone. That reminds me.

  ‘Here, Sue, can I give you one of these?’ I pull a load of the #SaveBennetts bookmarks from my bag.

  ‘Excellent! Count me in! I’ll make everyone I know sign it!’

  Clive appears and I pass him a bookmark. ‘Hmmmm … interesting use of glitter,’ he mutters sarcastically. Bit of a bitchy thing for a grown man in his fifties to say if you ask me, but then he adds: ‘Wow, yes, we’ll help you save Bennett’s, of course.’ His tone is suddenly more serious once he’s read the info. ‘Have you put any of these on the noticeboard or in the library? I know it’s not as busy here as it is in term time, but it’s the degree show next week so this place will fill up …’

  As Clive gives me beige directions to the campus library and canteen, I try to focus on the conversation without getting completely distracted by the Art School Boy Beauty sitting next to me.

  ‘Thank you. And solidarity!’ Clive shoves the bookmark into the back pocket of his trousers and I can’t help but feel like all that excess glitter is exactly what his outfit needed. ‘Okay then, Posers, take two.’