The Little Bookshop of Love Stories. Jaimie Admans

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       Chapter 1

      It is a truth universally acknowledged that today is the Mondayest Monday ever.

      I’ve been fired. Again.

      I trudge home through the afternoon drizzle that’s so well timed it’s like it waited for me to leave work. I’d left my umbrella behind and was in such disgrace that I wasn’t bold enough to go back in and get it. My boss was one angry step away from fire spurting out of his ears. I think the sight of me again would’ve tipped him over the edge.

      The job had been going well too. I’d been there almost a year, and apart from a few warnings about my clumsiness and the odd wage deduction for breakages, being a waitress at a dog-friendly pub within walking distance of my flat wasn’t too bad.

      That was before this afternoon.

      A family out for a walk had come in for an afternoon meal, and as I carried the tray of desserts to their table, the little boy dropped his monkey directly into my path. I stumbled over the plastic toy, instantly decapitating it with my shoe, and the tray slipped in my hands, and like a moment from a cartoon where an unseen crowd in the background do a slow-motion gasp of horror, the child’s ice-cream sundae flipped over, doing such an impressive mid-air somersault that if gymnastics judges had been watching, it would’ve scored a perfect ten. The ice-cream bowl was deposited upside down on the head of its chosen victim like some missile-based hat.

      As the child burst into screaming tears – unsure if caused by ice cream on head debacle, murdered monkey toy, or a fair mix of both – the ice-cream bowl continued its pursuit for gymnastic glory by cartwheeling from the child’s head to the floor, at which point the family dog leapt from beneath the table and devoured it. As the dad yelled, the mum cried, and the child wailed while ice cream dripped slowly down his neck, the dog clattered the empty metal bowl around the floor, careening into tables, doors, and other diners, dodging any attempt to intercept him with a speed Mo Farah would envy.

      When the bowl was eventually wrestled from the dog with only a few teeth marks to show for its adventure, the family were offered their meal on the house and a complimentary voucher, while they bundled their ice-cream-covered child and now somewhat pukey-looking dog into their car to rush it to the vet’s, lest it had consumed an errant chocolate chip lurking in the ice cream. We watched in horror as they squealed a three-point-turn, the mum in the back seat, trying to haul the dog away from licking the ice-cream-covered child. The dog got so annoyed that he barfed in her lap to show his appreciation. This created a domino effect of vomiting as the child then turned to puke out of the window, and the dad hit the brakes, causing the mum to lean forward and throw up all over the front seat.

      And all before they’d even left the car park.

      The upshot is that I was on my final warning for clumsiness so I lost my job, and I’m now responsible for the cost of the family’s meal, their dry cleaning, car cleaning, the vet’s bills, and the vouchers they took despite swearing they wouldn’t come back even if every other restaurant in the country was situated in a stagnant swamp and run by zombies. I also got to spend my last half an hour of the job shovelling vomit out of the car park.

      Really, it could’ve happened to anyone. And at least it gave the other diners some amusement as they ate. I did appreciate the little old woman who patted my arm as I collected my things from behind the bar and said, ‘Your luck has to change sometime.’

      I wouldn’t bet on it. Bad luck seems to have been with me my entire life. Everyone has ‘one of those days’ occasionally, but I seem to have them every day. It’s a rare event worth marking on the calendar when something doesn’t go catastrophically wrong.

      At least my flatmate’s out. I’m grateful for the small mercies as I let myself into the cramped two-bedroom space I share with a twenty-two-year-old student whose only hobbies seem to be eating my food, sleeping during daylight hours, and humping a string of scantily clad girls who could do so much better. Him not being here to mock me for losing yet another job is the only bit of luck I’m going to have today.

      I shrug my damp jacket off and shiver, cold and wet through to my skin from the persistent drizzle that somehow makes you even wetter than heavy rain. I need to go and change, but first – chocolate. I go into the kitchen, open the cupboard that’s supposed to be mine, only to find he’s eaten my last chocolate bar. I was saving that Wispa for an emergency and it’s gone. My fingers curl like claws and I shake them at the ceiling. ‘Argh!’ I shout to myself, grateful for the empty house.

      I start belting out ‘Chandelier’ in an attempt to cheer myself up as I open the fridge and peer inside, on the hunt for any morsel of food he hasn’t eaten, thoroughly enjoying the uninhibited singsong despite the fact I have a voice that would make honking geese jealous and can’t hit any of the high notes. It doesn’t stop me trying though.

      It doesn’t make any food magically appear in the fridge either.

      I’m just hitting the last and highest ‘chandelier’ in the chorus – the one capable of shattering glass chandeliers even when sung by someone who can actually sing – when I close the fridge door and let out a scream of shock, because my flatmate is not out. He’s standing behind the fridge door, laughing silently, with his harem of gorgeous twenty-something women gathered around him looking like they’ve just stepped out of Love Island.

      ‘Is your mum drunk?’ I overhear one of them say as they walk away sniggering.

      I’m not drunk. I’m also not his mum. I’m nowhere near old enough to have birthed that food-stealing Lynx addict. I might have to agree with her on the singing though. And start doing my hair more often.

      My hair elastic chooses that moment to snap, pinging the back of my head and causing my wet hair to drop around my shoulders. No doubt I’ve walked home looking like I’ve been lying on my back at the bottom of a bottle of gin too. I should possibly start checking my hair before being seen in public. I sigh and gather it up in one hand, pulling my long hair out from where it’s already got tangled around my shoulders, pick up my bag and coat from where I dumped them and trudge upstairs, thinking about facing the drizzle again to go to the shop and get some food in. And some alcohol. Definitely some alcohol.

      I unlock my bedroom door and go in, closing it behind me and wanting nothing more than to collapse on the bed and pretend this day didn’t happen. I dump my stuff and go to flop on the inviting duvet, but I catch my foot on a power lead and trip over, the movement yanking my laptop, which is plugged into it. I yelp and try to catch it as it starts to fall from the bedside table. I leap forward and thank every lucky star in the universe when it lands on the pillow and I manage to get hold of it before it crashes to the floor.

      Maybe I was due some luck today after all. My flatmate hammers on the wall from his room next door at the sound of my yelp, telling me to keep it down.

      I roll my eyes and set the laptop back on the bedside table, push its lead in right underneath the bed so no one can trip on it and switch it on to make sure it’s not damaged.

      I’ve just lost my job, I cannot afford a computer repair bill as well, and I’m going to need it to start job-hunting tomorrow.

      I get changed out of my work clothes while it starts up and sigh in relief СКАЧАТЬ