Million Love Songs(103)
In the evenings, I relax in my room and read more than I’ve ever done in my life. I’d like to tell you that it’s French literature, but it’s not. I download cheap, chick-lit ebooks for my phone and find that I love them. I FaceTime Charlie every night before I go to sleep and tell her about my day.
I feel that I might be tempted to stay here for ever, but then, of course, my money does start to run out. I could look for a job in the gig economy but my heart’s not really in it. I want to be a tourist here, not an employee. Then, even worse, my dear Charlie begins to nag me to come home. She reminds me that I have Take That tickets waiting for me and I can’t miss that. I might even pine for my family a bit – although Mum has also FaceTimed me nearly every day too. Finally, when my landlord calls to tell me that he has a friend who’s looking for a place to rent if I’m not going to return to my granny annexe any time soon, I book a ticket on the Eurostar, pack up my things, say goodbye to Paris and head back to Costa del Keynes.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
I need to fast forward a bit. Another year, another new me. We’re in the grip of winter now. The mornings are freezing, the nights getting longer. My granny annexe is proving a bugger to heat. My car is even more reluctant to start. Nevertheless, I’m glad to be home.
When I came back from Paris, I dumped my stuff in the flat and cardboard cut-out Gary Barlow was still standing patiently in my bedroom. It was like I’ve never been away.
Except it sort of was, too. I’d changed. Something subtle inside me had shifted while I was giving the Paris pavements a good pounding. For the first time in a long while, it was just me in charge of my own destiny. Out there, I had no one to distract me or influence my thoughts. I think sitting at a pavement café for an hour or more every day watching the world go by with a glass of red and your own quiet thoughts is as good as any anti-depressant tablet you care to name. I thought about what I wanted from life and decided that, actually, I didn’t really want all that much. You might have assumed, not unreasonably, that I’d have a blinding flash of brilliance and come up with some cunning business plan that would make me a millionaire before next year. No such thing. Instead, I realised that I have no interest in opening a café on a canal boat or a funky florist’s shop or becoming an events planner. I’m glad that one successful fairy and unicorn party didn’t turn my head on that score. It was such bloody hard work and too much stress.
No, I came to appreciate that I’m pretty much happy where I am in life. My dreams don’t involve becoming an entrepreneur or emigrating and I’m kind of relieved. There’s so much pressure on everyone to achieve now – to get a bigger house, car, designer handbag. What this has all taught me is that I’m an OK person and, when it comes down to it, I’m quite content where I am. It would be nice to have a partner to share all that, but not at any cost. I look at where I am and I think that I appreciate it more. I’ve got a great family, some wonderful friends and Gary Barlow. What more can you want in life?
So now I’m working in a café in Stony Stratford, a nice little market town on the very edge of the urban sprawl of Costa del Keynes. It’s called Sweet Things and is very genteel here. I really enjoy it. The hours are much more civilised as we’re only open from eight until five, so I have all my evenings free. Not that I do very much with them, but I could if I wanted to. The boss is really nice, an older lady called Florence who’s never likely to try to put her hands down my pants – so that’s all good as well.
Smoothing down my apron printed with pink cupcakes, I clear the tables. The café’s all pink and gingham and flowery bunting with a bit of kitsch retro thrown in. The atmosphere is bright and sunny, as is my outlook on life. We serve fabulous homemade food to the good folk of Stony – fresh sandwiches, fantastic cakes. Being the antithesis of Mary Berry, I have nothing to do with baking the cakes we serve, obvs, but I do a lot of eating them and our good reputation is well deserved.
It’s Saturday and, as usual, we’ve been busy all morning and I haven’t really had time to turn round. Fortunately for me, I got the job the week I came back from Paris so my finances didn’t suffer too much. There’s not much – nothing – left for emergencies, but I’m slowing building my savings up again.
I haven’t heard from Mason at all and I haven’t ventured near the Butcher’s Arms or his club. They’re strictly out of bounds now. I heard through the grapevine that his father had sold off his chain of pubs and clubs for an absolute fortune and I did think about calling Mason to see how that had affected him. A second later, I thought better of it. Then I bumped into Ben the barman and he told me that he’d heard that Mason had bought a beach bar in Antigua. I wonder if that’s Mason trying to fulfil his dreams too. I don’t know. If it is, there was a time I would have been quite happy to go with him. Fool that I was.
Still, the other good news is that Charlie is working here too. She rushed from the Butcher’s Arms as soon as another vacancy came up here and it’s nice that we’ve still got each other for company. We miss our bench at the pub, but nothing much else about it. Here, as soon as our boss goes out, we change her choice of mellow music featuring Jack Johnson and Lana Del Rey to Take That. It’s the only vaguely rebellious thing we do and our customers never seem to mind.