Like most of the staff, Chloe worked part-time. Full-time workers were entitled to overtime, plus additional leave and health benefits, so the company preferred not to employ them. Most of the other workers had plans. Either they were still at school, or they were saving up to do something different. Chloe had dropped out of school for no reason, really. (A modelling agency had liked her portfolio, but so far there had been no work.) She wanted to be a dancer, but that was like saying you wanted to be a singer, a poet or a movie star. One day, maybe. She wasn’t planning to spend the rest of her life as a checkout chick, of course, but right now there was no other job going.
She had worked as a nanny once, for a wealthy family on the other side of town. The house was a palace and the children were little angels. Chloe couldn’t believe it when she found out they’d had three different nannies in the past twelve months. The parents were polite and considerate, the pay was good and the hours were fine. She had a nice room with an ensuite bathroom. It was almost too good to be true. When Chloe asked why the previous nannies had all left, the children’s mother said she honestly had no idea.
‘We’ve just been very unlucky,’ she said.
Chloe felt her luck was beginning to turn.
Her next customer was a man in his early forties, maybe. One by one, Chloe scanned his groceries: 200 g smoked salmon, duck liver pâté, King Island brie. The guy was clearly loaded, but too old for her. Considering how income increased with a man’s age, but ‘marriability’ decreased, the optimum age for a husband, she had decided, was twenty-eight. Chloe had figured it out. A few more flings here and there, until she met Mr Right. Then it would be wedding bells and babies. If Mr Right was loaded, having babies was a good career move. Like being a nanny, except with an early retirement plan.
Who, or more importantly, what should Mr Right be? A doctor would be good for when the kids got sick, but doctors worked long hours and were probably a bit ‘diagnostic’ in bed. Marrying an accountant would be good for financial investments, but accountants were supposed to be a bit boring. An architect would design a stunning house for them to live in, but probably dress a bit pooncey. A lawyer would wear stylish suits and drive a flashy car, but the custody battle for the kids could get nasty if things didn’t work out. A CEO would be loaded. They could live in a mansion and holiday in five-star hotels. Where she had worked as a nanny, the children’s father had been the CEO of a big company. It was an important job, but he still had plenty of time for Chloe and the kids.
Chloe had been an excellent nanny: making bottles, changing nappies, singing songs, reading stories and playing peek-a-boo. There was a cupboard full of toys and a sandpit in the garden. There was a housekeeper who came daily, so Chloe never had to clean or cook. The children were affectionate and well-behaved. They called her ‘Lowie’ and asked her for cuddles. She made them laugh and they made her feel like Mary Poppins. And while they slept, she was free to do what she liked. Chloe had settled in well and soon felt like part of the family. The children’s father was charming and considerate. He brought home small gifts for Chloe and spoke to her more like a friend than an employee. After a month in the job, he told her about the family’s plans to holiday in Hawaii and asked her to come with them, all expenses paid.
Chloe could have kissed him.
Thinking about her time as a nanny, Chloe felt a pang in her tummy. Not a pain, exactly, just an odd feeling, somewhere inside of her. Maybe she’d overdone it at the gym that morning. Or perhaps she was just hungry.
She looked at the magazines on the shelf opposite her register. The glossy covers boasting their Hollywood scandals: divorcees, sex addicts, big spenders, bankrupts, stars falling in love, stars falling out, stars making up, stars without make-up. And there were magazines about health and beauty with headlines about anorexia, bulimia, HIV, drug scares, virus scares, bacteria scares, vitamin scares, cancer scares . . . and pregnancy scares.
Chloe felt strange, looking at those magazine covers. It was a light-headed feeling, putting her on the verge of tears. She placed her fingers against her tummy and breathed deeply in, then out again, to relax. Should she be doing fewer sit-ups? Was it something in her diet? Or had she pulled a muscle?
Surely she wasn’t . . . she wouldn’t be . . . because, after all, what were the chances . . . surely, she couldn’t be . . . pregnant?
Chloe placed both hands against her belly and tried to imagine a tiny embryo growing inside her. Being pregnant would be the end of everything. A death sentence. She would lose her job. She would be unemployable. At the gym, they would laugh at her. Instead of ‘Body Attack’ and ‘Kick Boxing’ classes, she would have to switch to ‘Yoga’ and ‘Water Aerobics’ with the older women. She would be tragically uncool. Her gym gear wouldn’t fit her any more. She would be a single mother. She would have cellulite! She would never get a job as a dancer, not in a million years. And how could she ever meet Mr Right if she already had a child? The Mr Rights of this world weren’t interested in other men’s babies.
If she was pregnant—if—then who was the father?
It wasn’t Gavin the night manager. She and Gavin had ‘dated’, if that’s what you wanted to call it, but things fizzled out before they got too serious. Because Gavin worked nights, their one and only date had been hard to arrange. In the end, they had a picnic brunch together, then walked in the gardens and fed crusts to the swans. They rolled around on the grass in a clumsy, embarrassed way. (He was clumsy. She was embarrassed.) After that, Chloe had started doing Pilates and Gavin had fallen asleep. Sitting there, stretching her hamstrings and listening to him snore like an old man, it didn’t feel like love. It felt like a marriage.
It wasn’t Cameron the fruit manager. She and Cameron had had something special. There was something between them that just clicked. They liked the same bands and the same movies. They ate the same food and agreed on almost everything. They talked. They laughed. They understood each other. Cameron told Chloe she was a special kind of girl—the kind you don’t meet too often, he said. Chloe had fallen for Cameron in a big way. Things had gotten pretty intimate. They had messed around in his flashy sports car with the auto-reclining red leather seats. (She accidentally kicked his gearstick into overdrive.) But they had been especially careful, because the car was still new and Cameron was recently engaged to be married. The lucky girl.
And it wasn’t Scott the trainee manager. Chloe and Scott had had a thing, at least that’s what Chloe thought it was. Scott had told her it was a thing, at least that’s what she thought he said. Although he never actually used those words, he said. (Or at least later he denied it.) Scott and Chloe had tried talking about it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he said. It wasn’t that he didn’t find her attractive. It was just that he wasn’t ready yet, to make such a big commitment. Chloe told Scott she appreciated him being so honest. She understood, she said. It was just bad timing. But the truth was, she didn’t understand it at all. It had certainly felt like a thing with Scott. Even though, in the end, it turned out to be nothing. Just like all the other times.
Guys were like lotto tickets, Chloe decided. They had Your Chance to Win written all over them. But when you scratched the surface, it always said Bad Luck. Try Again.
Chloe examined her fingernails as she replayed each date in detail. She thought about her workmates and wondered if she could talk to any of them. Louisa, who was training to be a nurse, and would be the right person, if only she wasn’t so busy all the time. Chloe liked Louisa, but wasn’t sure what would happen if she suddenly started pouring her heart out. Louisa was Employee of the Month, after all, and their tea breaks were only ten minutes long. There was Emma, on Register 5, the brainiac cowpoke who read big books and used intimidatingly big words. There was Rahel, on Register 6, who wore a headscarf and a dress down to her feet. Chats about unwanted pregnancy? Not likely. There was Tessa, on 8 Items or Less, who was very tall (not that it mattered) and slightly spooky (which definitely did). There were the gir
ls at Chloe’s gym, of course, but all Chloe knew about them was what they ate for breakfast, how much they weighed, what brand of gym shoes they wore and how many crunches they did. It was strange how many women she saw every day but never really talked to.
Guys were easy to talk to, but they really were like lotto tickets. (You had to be in it to win it.) If it wasn’t Gavin or Cameron or Scott, then who?
The flight to Hawaii was leaving early the next morning. The family’s bags were all packed and the children were asleep. It was late at night. The house was quiet. Chloe was taking a shower in her room. She was excited. She’d never been in an aeroplane before, and now here she was, flying first-class to the Waikiki Hilton. In the brochure it showed people lazing by the pool, and surfer boys in their knee-length boardshorts laughing with girls on the beach. Chloe had been to the tanning salon and forked out for a skimpy new bikini. She had done a double session at the gym that day to tone up her abs. Hawaii was so exotic and romantic. She could hardly believe she had been so lucky. She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Chloe was imagining herself at a luau feast, dancing the hula with flowers around her neck, when the bathroom door opened. Through the steam and frosted glass, she saw the children’s father standing there in his robe.
‘Got room for one more?’
He was a man who was used to getting his own way. It was his house and his shower. He was her boss. He had been very generous. Instead of destroying the dream, it would all be so much easier just to go along with it. But Chloe couldn’t.
‘Get out of here!’ she shouted.
The next morning, over breakfast, Chloe told them she was quitting. With the taxi still waiting outside, she sat quietly while the children cried and their mother screamed at her: ‘How could you do this? You’ve ruined our holiday! What about the children?’ But even though she started to cry, Chloe refused to give her reason for leaving. If the three nannies before her had kept quiet, she wasn’t going to be the one. She didn’t want to destroy the family. She wouldn’t do that to the kids.
Chloe looked up at the next customer in her queue. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and a small golden horn on a chain around his neck. He was grinning at her, too, in that way they sometimes did.
‘Hello, Chloe,’ he said, reading the nametag pinned above her breast. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
The man with the horn placed a packet of condoms on the counter.
‘What’s your favourite flavour?’ he asked.
Chloe looked him up and down. Late twenties. No muscle tone A try-hard. He wasn’t in her league.
‘Banana,’ she replied. ‘What’s yours?’
The man laughed but didn’t answer. Then his face began to turn red. Chloe scanned the condoms and dropped them into the open plastic bag while he fumbled in his pocket for the money.
‘Have a nice day,’ she said, as he took the bag and quickly disappeared.
Chloe adjusted her shoulder strap and flicked back her hair. What was it about her and men? she wondered.
CUSTOMER SERVICE
Louisa was working at the service counter. The sign above her head said: REFUNDS, ENQUIRIES, FILM PROCESSING, CIGARETTES, FRESH FLOWERS. Adam watched her from a safe distance—the charming way she listened to the customers, the alluring way she tucked her hair behind one ear as she filled out the paperwork, the entrancing way she opened the register to refund their money. He watched her rearrange the flowers, fill the shelves with cigarettes and empty out the rubbish bin. Every little thing she did was magic.
Adam waited until there was no one else around before he approached the counter. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. But when he tried to speak, no sound came out.
A pregnant woman pushed in with a trolley full of TV dinners, cans of soup, disposable nappies and large tins of formula milk. By the look of things, she was stockpiling for World War III.
‘Get us a carton of fags, will ya love.’
Louisa turned to the shelves of cigarettes behind her. The packets all had warning signs like: SMOKING KILLS, SMOKING CAUSES HEART DISEASE, SMOKING CAUSES LUNG CANCER, SMOKING IS ADDICTIVE. Adam noticed that Louisa went out of her way to find one that said SMOKING WHEN PREGNANT HARMS YOUR BABY.
‘Thanks, love.’
When the woman was gone, Louisa looked at Adam.
‘Hey there,’ she said.
Adam cleared his throat.
‘Did you want something?’ asked Louisa.
Adam nodded. There was something he wanted very much and he had put a lot of thought into how he should go about asking for it. For several days he had worked and reworked the wording of the one important question he needed to ask Louisa: I was just wondering if you wanted to / would you like to / go out for a drink / a coffee / some time? / some place? / somewhere? / to get a bite / to grab something to eat / a meal / some food / I’m feeling pretty hungry and I just thought / when do you get off? / what time does your shift end? / If you were at all interested / would you consider? / If it’s not too much to ask / I hope you don’t think I’m rushing into it / don’t take this the wrong way / would it be such a dumb idea if / what I’m saying is / do you? / would you like to go out with me?
‘I want you,’ he said.
‘Excuse me.’A nervous-looking man stepped up to the counter. ‘Do you sell bread?’
‘Aisle Eleven,’ said Louisa. ‘On your left.’
‘And butter?’
‘Aisle Seven, halfway down. You can’t miss it.’
Louisa looked back at Adam. Her face was so lovely, he could have cried.
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘I want you to go out with me.’
The phone rang as he said it.
‘Hang on,’ said Louisa as she picked it up. ‘Yes, we’re open 24 hours, every day . . . No, we never close . . . Yes, we’re open after midnight . . . Right through until the morning . . . Yes, we are open at seven a.m. because we never close . . .’
Louisa hung up the phone and looked at Adam.
‘Did you say you were going out?’
Adam was rattled now. He had lost his nerve. How could he say what he wanted to say? How could he and Louisa even have a conversation with all these interruptions?
‘To the carpark,’ he said hurriedly. ‘To bring in the trolleys.’
AISLE
four
SOFT DRINKS/CHOCOLATE/CONFECTIONERY
With lightning reflexes, Jared lifted the transparent plastic door of the lolly dispenser, allowed a single black jellybean to roll down the chute into his hand, and closed it again. He popped the jellybean into his mouth and quickly checked that no one was watching. The trick was to act normal and not draw any attention to yourself. After all, everyone stole lollies, even the managers.
Further along the aisle, Jared saw an elderly gentleman in a pin-striped suit take a lemonade bottle from the shelf. The man weighed the bottle in his hands. He looked at the label. Then, with a sudden twist of his bony wrist, he unscrewed the top.
Ffft!
The old man screwed the lid back on and carefully returned the bottle to the shelf. He took a step backwards, nodding to himself. The corner of his mouth slowly creased into a smile. With his index finger waving up and down, he counted along the row of bottles. Then he chose another one and did the same again.
Fffft!
Grinning like a naughty little kid, he counted again then took down a third bottle of lemonade. Holding it in both hands, he shook the bottle briefly, stopped, then shook it again. This time, he untwisted the top slowly to prevent it from spurting all over his suit.
FffffffShhhhhhh!
With a gurgle of pure delight, the old man returned the bottle to the shelf.
Jared stood watching in a kind of trance. It seemed so ridiculous, what the old guy was doing, you had to admire it. And there was something else that he couldn’t quite figure. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt for ages. Without waitin
g a moment longer, Jared took out his mobile phone and punched in an urgent message.
:) c u in #4 @$@p!!!!
Jared was an only child. As a baby, he had been constantly active and a very light sleeper. His mother saw it as a sign of his higher-than-average intelligence. His father said it was because she had spoilt him. Would you like a red balloon, or would you like another colour? Would you like icecream or jelly, or both? Would you like to turn off your light and go to sleep now, or would you like to stay up a bit longer? Jared’s life was a long list of multiple-choice questions: a) Yes, b) No, c) Maybe, or d) All of the above.
From an early age, he had shown no interest in learning or interacting with other children. He was unable to concentrate on even the simplest task. At the dinner table he regularly threw his meals on the floor and only ever ate dessert. He had fallen out of his highchair several times, trying to climb up onto the table to eat the sugar. His father had given up shouting at him, and his mother avoided seeking medical advice in case it confirmed her greatest fear—that her son was autistic. But when Jared ran into a brick wall and broke his arm, the doctor diagnosed him as having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and prescribed a mild amphetamine.
Jared took his medication twice daily with a lollipop. Gradually, he became quieter and less moody. At school, instead of crawling around under the desks, he sat in his seat and listened. Rather than fighting and throwing things at the other children, he began to make friends. Instead of ripping pages out of books, he was able to concentrate more on what he was doing. At the age of five, to his parents’ great joy, Jared was cured.
Limping as he walked, but grinning from ear to ear, Dylan arrived within fifteen seconds.
‘Hey, dude! What’s happening?’
Jared made a fake hip-hop gesture with his hands. ‘Check it out, dude.’
Dylan was Jared’s best mate. The ‘dude’ thing had started out as a joke but, like the hip-hop gesture, it was even funnier if no one laughed. According to Jared, only a real dude would say ‘dude’ all the time, unless he was fooling the other dudes.
Shelf Life Page 3