Bookshop Girl Page 9

  It’s not that I’d forgotten she was going out with Jamie; after all, I’ve been privy to some in-depth discussions about what she should wear to their date. I did kind of forget that it was happening today, though. It really isn’t a good time.

  ‘Well, okay, where are you meeting him? Can’t you just help me out with this beforehand?’

  ‘Paige.’ She rests her hand on my shoulder, and looks me square in the eyes, like I’m thick or something. I know she’s just trying to reason with me but that doesn’t make it any less irritating. ‘I’m meeting Jamie at the cafe in the park, and I have to go home and get ready before then. Food shopping is sweaty work! I need a shower, babe! Have you seen the state of my hair?!’ She snorts.

  The cafe in the park is miles away from town, so there’s no way she’s going to be able to help me with this. I kick at the car park gravel and like a mind reader, Holly starts justifying her decision to meet him at the place where ‘You know they do the best iced latte! And! And I’ll show Jamie the albino peacock in the mini aviary.’

  ‘The albino peacock’s name is Lord Sparkle the Third.’ I pout. Disappointed that I’ll be here in town, Billy No Mates (and No Comrades Supporting The Cause), while Holly and Jamie enjoy a perfect day at the park with the world’s freakiest bird.

  Okay, Jamie seems like a nice guy.

  Okay, he’s so good-looking that it’s as if he has a permanent Instagram filter over his body.

  But –

  ‘I just can’t believe you’re breaking the Girl Code for some guy. That’s all.’ It comes out a lot whinier than I’d intended.

  She scowls at me. ‘What? You expect me to drop everything because you’ve suddenly had an idea? No, Paige. I already have plans and you knew that.’

  ‘Eugh, fine. Whatever.’

  It’s not fine. I can’t believe she’s picking a boy over the campaign. Over me.

  I walk away. I can’t be bothered with this. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

  Bigger, vegetarian, metaphorical fish to fry.

  ‘Paige!’ she calls after me. ‘There’s no need to be such a bitch about it.’

  It slices through me like a million tiny paper cuts. I stop in my tracks. ‘Oh my God! As if you just called me a bitch! Y’know what, Holly? I hope you choke on your poxy iced latte!’

  I storm through the market square fuming at Holly. The same old market where we paid over the odds for salty chips on rainy Saturday afternoons, huddled together by the warmth of the van. I push past rails and rails of granny knickers and nighties, past the blokes who sit surrounded by neon signs offering to UNLOCK PHONES HERE.

  I mutter every single nasty thing I can think about her to no one in particular.

  Eventually I end up at the door to Coleman’s Stationery Suppliers. If I’m going to do this alone, then I need a clipboard. To get people to support the cause and give me their details, I should look more official than I do right now: a sixteen-year-old loser with a wonky fringe who’s just been dumped by her best friend.

  Coleman’s has one of those old-fashioned doors that rings as you push it open.

  For a stationery addict like me, this place is an Aladdin’s cave. This place is the reason I’ve never dreaded the first day of term because it means new supplies and freshly sharpened pencils, which is enough to make me swoon. It’s pokey and quiet and the shelves are stacked so high that you can’t see over the top or round corners. It’s like you’re in a maze of Post-it notes and Pritt Sticks. Like one of those hedge mazes they have in stately homes on school trips. Like the one in The Shining. Well, kind of like the one in The Shining, without the snow, or the creepy kid, or the psychotic murderer (hopefully).

  I take my time finding my way through the aisles, constantly side-tracked by sketchbooks and highlighters and raffle ticket books (seriously, even raffle ticket books). They have everything here.

  Sharpeners. Fine liners. Novelty-shaped erasers. Label-makers. I desperately want a label-maker. How tragic is that? Pencil cases. You can never have too many pencil cases. I’m investigating a fluffy puppy-shaped zip-up when suddenly, somebody behind me says: ‘Paige.’

  Still clutching the pencil case, I turn round to see where that came from. As I do, my bag knocks a plastic jar of jumbo drawing pins all over the burgundy carpet. They scatter like confetti and before I can even bend to pick them up–

  Oh Em Gee, it’s Blaine.

  He’s down on the floor, clearing up the mess I’ve made.

  I’m so shocked to see him here that I’m squeezing the life out of this puppy pencil case. Even Lenny from Of Mice and Men would be like, ‘Time out, Paige. Put the poor creature down.’

  ‘I’m sorry! I just – You made me jump. Let me help.’ I kneel and collect a handful of prickly pins from the ground.

  ‘This is what I have to put up with: bookshop girls turning up and trashing the place.’ He’s cocky as. He smirks at me, his face centimetres from mine, and the tiny hoop earring he has through his ear shines in the florescent strip lights. It’s glorious.

  I feel like I have some kind of Looney-Toons-style jaw-drop going on right now, as he stands up straight. So tall. So, so, tall.

  ‘I had no idea you worked here,’ I confess, jumping to my feet and feeling the blood rush to my head. I relish the opportunity to appreciate his uniform.

  I have never seen an uglier uniform worn by such a beautiful human being. He is working it. Who knew a red polyester waistcoat could look so fit? He’s wearing a hideous tie with a paperclip pattern on it, and somehow he looks more handsome than ever. I flashback to the last time I saw him, when I made that fatal note-passing blunder at Posers, and shake it away, out of my mind.

  ‘Yeah. I work here. Part-time. Fit it around my course … So, how can I help?’

  ‘Oh …’ I try to remember exactly what it is I’m doing here. ‘Clipboards! I need a clipboard. Do you have those?’

  ‘Right this way …’ I follow him closely through aisles tightly packed with squared paper and gel pens and staplers. ‘What do you need a clipboard for anyway?’ He leans on a metal shelf, giving me space to check out the extensive selection of stationery on offer.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s for the petition actually. We need more signatures, and we need to get them by tomorrow. So, I’m hitting the high street!’ I fall silent when I think of Holly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Blaine asks.

  ‘Well, I wanted my best friend, Holly, to help me with it, but –’ she thinks I’m a bitch and she told me so ‘– but, she’s busy, so I’m doing this alone.’

  ‘Oh? Do you want a hand?’ He shrugs. ‘I finish my shift in, like, fifteen minutes, so if you want someone to help, I’d be up for it.’

  OMG! This is a staff announcement: please could a cleaner report to the clipboard aisle? There has been a serious spillage. A major Crush Gush.

  Yes. Oh God, yes. One million times, YES!

  ‘Cool. That would be great.’ The ma-hoo-siv-est understatement of the century.

  When I count out my change for the clipboard, it’s a bit awks because I’m 50p short.

  Crap. I rummage at the bottom of my bag in search of coins, desperate not to let the super-absorbent Bodyform pad flop out and on to the counter.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He puts my money in the till and says, ‘It’s only fifty p.’

  I guess Coleman’s is a pretty laid-back place to work; there’s no way I’d get away with discrepancies like that at Bennett’s.

  ‘I’ll meet you outside when I finish. Wait for me out there, yeah?’

  I skip out of the shop, nearly tripping over my happy feet and try so hard to look casual once I’m on the pavement outside.

  Discreetly pinching at my wrist for a reality check, I, Paige Turner, am waiting for Blaine Henderson to meet me.

  He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t like you. If he was really repulsed by the note you passed him at life drawing, then he wouldn’t choose to spend time with you right now.

 
‘Let’s start here,’ I suggest, attaching the home-made sign-up sheets to my brand-new, official clipboard. That familiar smell of market-square fried onions hangs over us.

  ‘Sure.’ I try to avoid staring directly at Blaine, but I defo catch him checking his reflection in the window of Costa. He plays with the dark floppy mass of hair on top of his head and exudes Sulky Arty Boy sex appeal. He’s replaced his polyester waistcoat with a leather jacket. I mean, jeez, if I was him, I’d check myself out in every reflective surface too.

  It’s busy around here this afternoon, and I’m determined to approach everybody we see. Quite a lot of people mistake us for charity workers, and do all they can to avoid being spoken to, suspicious that it might mean parting with their cash. But once we get chatting to the market traders, the support begins to show.

  I thought I’d be the one doing most of the talking, but when it comes to telling people about the campaign Blaine is so passionate about fighting The Cause. He expresses himself with clenched fists when describing The Injustice of Losing Bennett’s to ‘The Man’. I wonder if this is for my benefit. Y’know, if these monologues and rhetorical questions are supposed to impress me. It’s working. I am impressed. He is so dreamy.

  I think we make a good team.

  The clock outside the shopping centre strikes. We’ve already been out here for an hour and a half. One of the sign-up sheets is already filled with the names and emails of new Bennett’s supporters. We’re halfway there. Just another hour or so until it’ll die down here; I reckon we’ll be able to collect another fifty signatures.

  ‘Thanks. For helping me, I mean. I think we’ve done really well.’

  I’m massively playing my excitement down for the sake of seeming cool. I’m thrilled that we’ve got all these new names on the list of supporters. I’m overjoyed that the boy I fancy is here helping me do this.

  As I rummage in my bag for my ACTIVISM SHIZ folder, Blaine clocks the SAVE BENNETT’S T-shirt I brought along for Holly. ‘Is that a spare?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. We made a whole run of them with Sue from Posers.’

  ‘Can I have it?’

  Duh! Of course you can have it. Have everything. Take it all.

  This is all happening so fast. I chuck him the tee. He shrugs out of his jacket and passes it to me. ‘Hold this for me?’

  I’m holding his leather jacket in my hands.

  Oh God. He’s unbuttoning his shirt. Right here. In front of me. In the market square.

  ‘Oi! Are you perving on me, Paige Turner?’

  ‘No!’ I lie, my eyeballs suddenly glued to the fascinating cobbles beneath my feet.

  He stretches the T-shirt over his chest and ruffles his hair back into place.

  ‘How do I look?’

  Delicious.

  ‘Yeah. Great. Cool. Okay.’

  ‘SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSHOP!’ He grabs the attention of yet another group of old ladies, who immediately fall for his charms.

  While a road sweeper in a high-vis jacket adds his signature to our ever-growing list, Blaine leans in close and says, ‘I’ll be back in a sec – going to buy some fags.’

  I watch the tank of blue and red ice swirl around in the Slush Puppie machine while I wait for him to reappear from inside the corner shop. Bobby the Busker plays an atrocious rendition of a barely recognisable song. The sun is shining, and an audience of locals gather round to clap along (out of time).

  ‘I got you these.’ Blaine hands me a packet of Starburst. Just like that. Just like he knows chewy, fruity sweets are my faves and that plying me with them means I’ll love him forevs, no matter what.

  ‘Oh, wow, thanks!’ Unstoppable Cheshire Cat grin right now. ‘Do you want one?’ I offer, tearing at the outer wrapper.

  ‘Nah. I’m sweet enough.’ He air-kisses me and I die.

  The first sweet in the packet is pink. Pink! My favourite flavour!

  Could this day actually get any better?!

  As Blaine tucks an unlit cigarette behind his ear, and pulls me by the hand, I’m certain that, yes, this day is about to get even better.

  ‘What are you doing?!’ I squeal, too excited by this skin-to-skin contact.

  ‘Dance with me!’ I drop my bag and the clipboard on the pavement and follow him to the cobbles. He laces his fingers between mine and sings along to Bobby the Busker. I can’t stop laughing. Fried onions in the air and the taste of strawberry Starburst on my tongue.

  It all seems too good to be true. I’d seriously consider this all being a dream, but if it was one of my dreams, something freaky would have happened by now. Like that one where my whole body was covered in ingrown hairs.

  An even larger crowd gathers round to watch us and Blaine plays up to it. He pouts and shimmies and he even twirls me, like this is some low-budget Disney flick. I spin and spin and when I snap back to face him we are close. So close. I don’t think I’m moving any more. But I do think that his eyes are on my lips, and I wonder if my lips look as dry as they feel right now.

  I wonder if – Is he going to … kiss me, right here? In the market square? As we dance to Bobby the Busker?

  ‘OI!’ The old bloke in the mobility scooter shatters my Blaine-Snogging Dream World to pieces. ‘THIEF!’

  It takes a split second for me to catch up. Two lads rip past us on a push bike. The one on the back clutches my bag in his hands.

  ‘That’s mine!’ I cry.

  Why did I leave it there on the pavement?! How could I be so stupid?

  ‘OI!’ Blaine roars and sprints after them. ‘Get back here!’

  I chase behind, as fast as I can, a stitch already slowing me down.

  It almost happens in slow motion. Blaine catches up with them and the lads topple off the bike. Just as he grabs one of them by the collar, I see the other guy take my phone and chuck my bag and the rest of its contents into the fountain on the high street.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  They scramble back onto the bike and speed into the distance and Blaine howls expletives at them until they vanish.

  I crash into the side of the concrete water feature, where sanitary towels and spare hair ties bob along on the murky water. I whimper as I watch the sheets of petition signatures floating across the surface. Completely ruined.

  I scrunch my face into my pillow, which is already soaked by all the snot and tears.

  Yeah, it’s embarrassing, but I cried pretty much the whole way back. Like that little piggy. Wee wee wee all the way home.

  I didn’t make any attempt to dry myself when I got in and now I’m lying here shivering.

  Phoneless.

  Friendless.

  And pretty much jobless.

  It started raining as I trudged home. It wasn’t even just a little shower, but huge biblical raindrops. How ridiculous and dramatic. Miss Tomlinson told us one English lesson that it’s called ‘pathetic fallacy’ when the weather reflects a mood. She’s right about the ‘pathetic’ bit. That’s exactly how I felt, trudging home in the downpour, puddles in my soggy shoes.

  What was I thinking leaving my bag and the petition right there on the ground? So wrapped up in making an utter prat of myself, dancing with Blaine, that I let that come before the campaign?

  If I hadn’t been the living, breathing, human answer to the emoji with heart eyes, then I wouldn’t have screwed everything up.

  Blaine didn’t want to get his hair wet, so I ended up climbing into the fountain and fishing out my belongings.

  By the time I picked the clipboard and sign-up sheets out of the water, they were beyond repair. On the pieces of paper that were still intact, the ink had bled and was illegible.

  A couple of community support police officers with noisy walkie-talkies wandered by. They told me to get out of the fountain and said someone had seen Blaine punch a boy on a bike.

  I didn’t stick around to tell them what had happened; it was too late to change anything. I didn’t say goodbye to Blaine either. I was too e
mbarrassed and upset and wet.

  Now it’s dark, it’s pouring with rain, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to collect a hundred signatures before tomorrow.

  It’s over. Thanks to me.

  I wish I could go back in time to the moment I thought I could help or change any part of this hopeless situation. I wish I could go back to that point and tell myself to shut up, that I’m in no fit state to save the last bastion of a dying trade.

  I curl into a ball and pull the duvet cover round my wet shoulders. If only I could make myself really small.

  Make myself tiny. Tiny enough to live comfortably inside the Sylvanian Families Treehouse Nursery, which I can see gathering dust on top of my wardrobe. I’d like to sit on the tiny plastic chair. Play a tune on the miniature piano. Eat Sylvanian-scale baguettes from the Sylvanian Bakery. I bet everything’s fan-bloody-tabulous in Sylvania. I bet there aren’t any Sylvanian phone thieves, chucking Sylvanian hopes and dreams into the Sylvanian fountain.

  Eugh.

  Look at this place. Who do I even think I am trying to lead a revolution when my room is like some weird museum of childhood memorabilia that’s been attacked by a bra-flinging, hairspray-can hoarding … loser?

  Downstairs Mum watches the telly. She’s a hundred per cent with me when it comes to thinking I’m the Silliest Cow for wrecking the petition for the sake of dancing with a boy. The local news is on and the headline about a cow getting its head stuck in a plastic chair muffles through the walls. ‘It is not yet known how the chair or the cow came to be in the field … ’

  I groan in despair.

  Usually I’d call Holly.

  But after this morning’s fall-out what am I supposed to tell her? After guilt-tripping her for not helping me, and then royally effing it up myself.

  That book she lent me is here, right next to my bed. I’m a Murderer by Paula Williamson.

  I open it for the first time, blinking through my watery eyes.

  Wow. Holly’s annotated the entire book. She’s actually written her own notes in the margins. She’s circled and underlined bits, and even drawn love hearts next to ‘fave victims’. I can’t help but laugh. This is such a weird thing to do. It’s such a Holly thing to do.