by Jo Watson
“She was letting me do all those things.”
“Didn’t you say she tried to talk you out of it?”
I grit my teeth. Is there anything this guy forgets? “Yes, but she didn’t exactly say ‘You’re wasting your time there, Megan, because I wrote that stuff and it’s all bullshit,’ did she?”
“Oh.” He slouches back in the booth. “And how would you have reacted if she had?”
“What does that matter?”
Liam shrugs. “Just wondering.”
I stare at our empty glasses. “Do you want another drink?”
“No, thanks.” He reaches for his leather jacket. “I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I’d completely forgotten that I’d bumped into him outside the car park and people don’t tend to be wandering the streets if they’re not going somewhere. Unless they’ve had a big fight with their flatmate, obviously.
“Look, Megan.” He tugs his jacket on. “I really think you ought to tell your friend how you feel.”
“What would I say to her?”
“Tell her what you’ve told me.”
“Okay.” I stand up and take our glasses back to the bar.
“Are you going home now?” Liam asks when we’re outside. “I’ll walk you back to the bus station.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“No, it’s fine. I can walk that way to Scarlett’s.”
I stop walking, my feet rooted to the icy pavement.
What did he just say? Why would he be going to see Scarlett?
“Are you okay?” he asks, noticing that I’m not moving.
I compose myself, blinking away the hot, itchy feeling at the back of my eyes. “Fine.” I smile.
Helen was right about Liam and Scarlett.
And I’m falling for him. Where does that leave me?
Chapter Twenty-One
I check my phone on the bus home. Just to see if there are any apologetic texts from Zara, or a message from Scarlett explaining the precise nature of her relationship with Liam.
Finding neither, I’m about to toss it back into my bag when I spot the voicemail icon.
I’d forgotten about that. It’s probably just my mum with some more gossip. Hopefully something funny about Bryony that will cheer me up.
I dial the number and the voicemail lady informs me that I have one new message. I yawn and wait for it to play.
“This is a message for Megan Riley.” A woman with a Scottish accent is speaking. Where have I heard that voice before? “It’s Sue Weaver here from Oxfam. I was wondering if you’re free to cover on Saturday? Carol’s got the day off. Call me back on this number if you’re available.” She recites a mobile number.
Oh, shit. Why didn’t I call her before and let her know I’m not interested anymore?
I can’t exactly ring her now and try to wrangle out of it, can I?
And voluntary work will look good on my CV when I have to start applying for other jobs after Liam and Scarlett reveal their office romance.
I call the number Sue gave me and tell her I’ll be there on Saturday.
Our flat is dark when I climb the steps and fumble putting the key in the lock. I suppose Zara went out, too.
Not that I was too keen on Liam’s idea of confronting her, anyway. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
“Where have you been?” says a voice the moment I step inside the dark living room.
I feel for the light switch on the wall. “Out for a drink,” I answer as the room’s single light bulb flickers on and I see Zara, sitting very still on the sofa.
“By yourself?”
I try to kick the misaligned doormat straight with my foot. “No, I met a friend from work.”
“I’m going to talk to my boss at the magazine tomorrow,” she says after a pause. “Tell her that I’m not interested in the full-time role.”
“What? Zara, it’s the job of your dreams! I mean, apart from getting a book published.”
“You were right. I’m a fraud.” She shifts her position on the sofa, swinging one leg over the other.
I sigh and flop down next to her. “If you take the job, will you still going to be writing fluffy bullshit for girls like me?”
She smiles. “The fluffiest.”
“Then go for it!” I encourage. “Just don’t embarrass me like you did.”
“Embarrass you?” She rubs her nose, shooting me a puzzled look.
“I was doing all those things, thinking they were actually going to work.”
“Even though I’d already told you that they wouldn’t?”
I rub my fingers over a coffee stain on the pink sofa cushion. “That’s different,” I mutter.
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. I thought they were based on something. I didn’t know they were completely made up points that were going to have zero effect on my life.”
Zara raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say the effects were zero. You got a pay rise, didn’t you? And we learnt that you should never cook unsupervised.”
“I didn’t do the rest of the steps,” I tell her, trying hard to repress the memory of the cinnamon chicken incident.
She stares at me. “What?”
“You must know what the last two points are, since you wrote them.”
“I know what they are. I just didn’t think…” she trails off.
“You didn’t think I could do them?”
She looks away. “Who were you going to ask out, then? Did you have your sights set on somebody?”
Now it’s my turn to look away. “Yes,” I admit. “But it was stupid and I’m not interested in him anymore.”
I can’t tell her about Scarlett. I just can’t.
“Okay. It’s not Tim, is it?”
“Of course it’s not Tim.” I give her a stern look.
I remember Tim’s face as I left him there in the car park outside work. I remember how blunt I was.
“I told Tim how I feel.”
Zara smiles encouragingly. “You did?”
“Yeah, he looked pretty crushed.”
“He’ll get over it,” she assures me. “See! That’s something positive to come out of this. Wouldn’t you normally be pretending you had some contagious disease to get out of a second date?”
She’s right. I know she is. It is a good thing that I felt confident enough to do what I did.
So why don’t I feel like that right now?
* * *
I arrive at Oxfam the next morning with my hair in a loose ponytail. I’m wearing my comfiest purple hoodie and an old pair of jeans.
Nobody important is going to see me, are they? Even if Liam and his nightmare mother make an appearance, it’s not like he’s important anymore.
Okay. So I have made emergency provisions for this. My hair is freshly washed and ready to be released from my ponytail into tousled curls, and I’ve brought my expensive lipstick with me.
I can see a skinny, dark-haired girl at the back of the shop when I walk in. She must be who was off last time when I worked with Carol.
“Hi.” I dump my bag behind the counter. “I’m Megan.”
The girl spins around and we stare at each other. I’d recognise her prominent cheekbones anywhere.
“You’re the occasional girl, are you?” Bryony asks, her over-plucked eyebrows rising.
“You volunteer, too,” I say, unnecessarily adding, “At Oxfam.”
She purses her lips. “Well, voluntary work is something I’m very passionate about,” she says, making me feel inferior.
“Have you worked here a long time?”
She swishes past me, and I catch a glimpse of her bare ring finger. “I’m one of the longest serving members of the team. Hasn’t your mum ever mentioned it?”
“No. Did she tell you about my voluntary work?”
So technically, my mother knows nothing about any voluntary work I’ve done. This is mostly because the Oxfam job is the
only one I’ve ever had, unless you count that time I helped run the tombola stall at my school gala.
Bryony shakes her head. “Have you got a lot of experience? Because I can’t stand those teenagers who come in on some school program and don’t have a clue how to operate the till.” She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, yes. That shouldn’t be a problem.” I’m smiling so tightly my whole face is hurting.
Shit. Why did I say that? Now she’s going to think I’m some sort of cashier wiz when the truth is I can barely remember any of the training Carol gave me.
The shop is empty of customers, and I’m desperate to get Bryony talking about the one subject that will keep me going today.
I’m just perfecting my shocked expression for when I ask her how her wedding plans are going (and she’ll respond by sobbing and telling me all the details of how she dumped Jeremy for her university lecturer), when a girl strolls through the door.
She’s a skinny teenager with a bad haircut wearing bright pink Dr. Martens.
Bryony rushes out from behind the counter. “Hi! Is there anything I can help you with?”
The girl removes one earphone and gives her a blank look. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“If you need anything, we’re just over here.” Bryony smiles.
She’s like the polar opposite of the romance-reading volunteer I met when I first enquired about working here.
Maybe that’s the grief or the guilt or whatever she’s feeling.
“Know who that is?” Bryony nods towards the girl.
I study her fair hair and pale complexion before shaking my head.
“She’s Jeremy’s cousin, or second cousin or something. Obviously here to spy on me.” Her eyes roll upwards.
Here it is! My perfect starter to the only conversion I’m interested in having with Bryony Hudson.
I swallow and clear my dry throat.
What do I say? Do I pretend not to know anything and go down the “Oh, how is Jeremy?” route?
“Spy on you?” I ask, my eyes narrowed and my lips pursed in my best imitation of a confused expression.
“You haven’t heard?” She raises her left hand and rotates her wrist like she’s Beyoncé in the video for “Single Ladies.”
Obviously my mock confusion worked. I should have got an A in GCSE drama.
“Your ring!” I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth a tad too enthusiastically.
Not that Bryony notices. “Such a cliché reaction. I think even my mother acted like that when she found out.”
I lean against the counter. “What happened?”
“I called off my engagement,” she says, inspecting her fingernails.
“You’re not getting married?”
She shakes her head. “Did you really think that I would? To Jeremy?”
Well, yes. Considering all anybody went on about was how bloody wonderful he is.
I shrug. She hasn’t mentioned the medical sciences lecturer yet, and it’s not like it would be normal in this situation to ask if she’s seeing anyone else.
“So, what about you?” she asks. “Finally succumbed to the charms of my big brother, I see.”
I hold a tight smile. “Actually, no. That’s not going to work out.”
Before Bryony can respond, a group of middle-aged women enter the shop.
“I’ll let you deal with them.” She waves me off with both hands.
I’m definitely going to call Sue Weaver after today and tell her I’ve decided to pursue other positions that will further benefit my local community.
* * *
Bryony allocates me enough time to scoff a soggy sandwich in the back room before disappearing for her own lunch.
My body is sagged against the counter when she walks in. Juliette Wiseman. All big hair and flawless makeup with her Burberry coat buttoned up to her neck.
My eyes follow her around the shop. But she’s alone.
I audibly exhale and go back to looking disinterested.
Why should I care about Liam Wiseman and what he’s doing?
The only thing I do care about right now is avoiding his nightmare mother.
And where the hell is Bryony?
Juliette’s standing with her back to me, examining a grey DKNY skirt.
“Sorry! Sorry I’m late.” Bryony hurries through the door looking harassed. She places a Costa Coffee cup down on the counter and frowns when she sees Juliette heading our way.
The door swings open again, and Bryony disappears to do her friendly sales assistant routine on the customer who’s just walked in.
I take a deep breath and turn to face Juliette’s angry glare. I’m ready to handle her with a gleaming smile when I hear a voice.
“No. No, thanks. I was just looking…Mum!”
Juliette and I both seek the owner of the voice.
And then I see him standing over by the door with Bryony, wearing his usual black leather jacket.
His eyes lock on mine for a moment. My heart is thumping against my chest, and I forget all about releasing my tied-back hair, or grabbing a moment in the storeroom to apply my lipstick.
“Hi, Megan.” Liam strides towards me wearing a wide grin.
“Liam,” I respond, a lump in my throat stopping me from saying much else.
Bryony follows him, her mouth slightly open. “Do you two know each other?”
“We work together,” Liam explains.
“Well, in that case, Megan, I think I’ll let you do this one.” Bryony nods towards Juliette.
Like she hadn’t already abandoned me to deal with her.
“Ready for lunch, Mum?” Liam touches her arm.
Juliette grips the fabric of the skirt she’s holding more tightly. “After I’ve sorted this out,” she replies without looking at her son.
I paint a smile back on my face. “What can I help you with?”
“Does this say size twelve?” She thrusts the cardboard price tag at me. “Because the label says it’s a ten.”
I blink at the two conflicting numbers. “Um…maybe it just fits a bigger size.”
“But I’m a twelve.” She tugs at the skirt’s waistband. “Will it fit?”
My eyes are searching the store for Bryony, who might as well be hiding under one of the clothing rails since she’s completely disappeared.
“Mother,” Liam says with an impatient sigh, “there’s a changing cubicle right there.”
Juliette’s wrinkles her nose in disgust. “I’m not going in there.”
“I’ll try it on,” I offer, taking the skirt from her.
“You?” She looks me up and down, and I rub my face as though that will stop the burning sensation in my cheeks.
“If it fits me, it should fit you.” I pull back the yellow curtain and try to ignore the fact that I’ve just revealed my dress size to the whole shop.
* * *
Oh, God. How long have I been in here? Why do I even agree to these things?
Well, not just agree. I volunteered my bloody services.
And now I’m stuck. Literally stuck with a grey pencil skirt halfway up my thighs.
No way is this a size twelve. More like age twelve.
“Megan, are you okay?” Bryony’s voice sounds from somewhere outside the curtain. “Juliette told me about the skirt. It was in the wrong section.”
Where was she when I needed this information?
“Has she gone?” I ask hopefully.
“She has. The guy’s still here, though. Liam. He says he wants to talk to you.”
“What?” I hobble closer to the curtain and try to see out of the gap at the edge of the fabric. “He can’t. I’m completely stuck in here.”
“You’re stuck?” Bryony echoes. “What do you mean you’re stuck?”
I tug the curtain back an inch and peer out at her bemused face. “I can’t get this skirt off.”
“Let’s have a look.” She pulls the curtain back farther. “Oh, I see.” She clicks her tongue. “You just ne
ed to give it a good tug.”
She says something else but I’m not listening to her. I’m looking at Liam standing near the counter. He’s glancing in my direction and smirking.
Oh, my God. He’s smirking at me, the skirt stuck on my chunky thighs and my polka-dot knickers that I’m now flashing to the whole shop.
Bryony bends down and grips the skirt’s hem, pulling so hard I can feel the fabric cutting into my legs. But it seems to be moving and, with one final tug, it slides down to my ankles.
And now I’m standing semi-naked in front of everyone. In front of Liam.
I practically shove Bryony out of the cubicle and hide behind the curtain again.
Deliberately, I spend a good five minutes faffing around getting dressed. By the time I emerge, I’m hoping Liam will have decided that whatever he wants to say to me isn’t important and will have gone to be with Scarlett or something.
But he’s still here.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I say as I approach him.
“Yeah…I…sorry about my mum.” He scratches his neck.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Is that all you wanted to say?”
“No. I wanted to ask you if you want to go out again. You know, for a drink.”
I stare at him.
Why is he asking me this? What about Scarlett?
“You want to go for a drink?” I ask. “With me?”
He nods. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
“But what about Scarlett?”
“Scarlett?” His brow wrinkles in confusion.
Have I got this all wrong?
My face is flushed but I ignore it. “I know that you’re seeing her.”
“Seeing her?” he repeats. “Where have you got this from?”
I blink a few times. “I…I thought last night…” I trail off.
Liam starts laughing, slapping his hand against the counter.
I can see Bryony in my peripheral vision. She’s pretending to write out some price tags, but her head is angled slightly in my direction.
“What’s funny?” I demand.
“Did you really think that Scarlett and I…that we’re together?” he asks, his shoulders still shaking.
“What else was I supposed to think?” I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans.
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head to one side. “Where did you get this impression from?”
“How you act with her!” I respond, glancing at Bryony, who is now not even bothering to hide the fact that she’s listening to our conversation. I suck in a deep breath. “Why were you going to see her last night?”