Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who Got Her Life Back

‘The shops are rammed,’ I reply.

‘That’s a surprise!’ Gus chuckles, tweaking his neatly trimmed beard.

‘I’ll have to go out again tomorrow,’ I add, perching on the chair at my own desk.

‘Why didn’t you do it all online?’ Gus asks. ‘It’s the modern way, you know—’

‘Yes,’ I cut in, a swirl of excitement starting up again in my stomach, ‘but there are benefits to going to the real shops.’

‘Such as?’

I’m smiling ridiculously, and now there’s no way I can resist filling them in on my impersonation of a Lush employee.

‘ You should try that,’ Gus tells Corinne as they convulse with laughter. ‘Running to the aid of a confused and helpless male in a soap emporium—’

‘But did you get his number?’ she asks, looking at me.

‘No, of course not!’

Gus turns back to Corinne and smirks. ‘Yet she was absolutely fine, flogging him bubble bath under false pretences.’

‘Why didn’t you just give him yours?’ Corinne wants to know.

‘Because I was serving him. It would have been unprofessional …’ This sets them off again.

Okay, I decide, as I start to tuck into my unlovely Eighties-style sandwich: so I’ll probably never see that man again. However, something important happened today, in that I discovered I am still capable of fancying someone, after all. I am Nadia Watkins, a fully functioning woman with a working libido and everything. Which makes me think: maybe I will try to meet someone, and perhaps even find myself naked in the presence of another person, and not just the students at the life drawing class.

Well, I messed up there all right. I completely forgot that Lori had asked for ‘that squidgy bath stuff’ and not bubble bars or face wash or any of the other stuff I ended up buying. It was just, the woman who’d helped me … I’d been so mesmerised. I’d completely forgotten what I’d gone in for. How could I focus on shopping efficiently when I was transfixed by the golden flecks in her greenish eyes? She’d been so patient and friendly, I’d just grabbed everything she suggested.

I know she’d only been doing her job, but … had she been flirting a tiny bit?

No, that’s just called ‘being friendly to customers’, you fool. They probably have training days about it, with role-play and everything. Still, it had worked a treat. On my way out, I’d noticed a soap the size of a dustbin lid propped up on a shelf. I’d have bought that, too, if she’d recommended it.

Back at work now – I’m the manager of a charity shop a few streets away – I realise I forgot to pick up any lunch. But no matter. Iain, one of our volunteers, offers to grab something for me while he’s out. I ask for a chicken sandwich; he returns with a duck wrap and an enormous cheese scone.

‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asks, ever eager to please.

‘Yeah, it’s fine, thanks,’ I say quickly, sensing a ‘situation’ brewing now as Mags, another volunteer, has emerged from the back room where donations are sorted, and is now slotting paperbacks onto the bookshelf.

‘Leave the books alone,’ shouts Iain, a keen reader of dated how-to manuals, who regards the book section as ‘his’.

‘I’m just putting new stuff out,’ Mags retorts, pink hair clip askew, lipsticked mouth pulled tight. Although it’s hard to put an age on her – our volunteer application forms don’t require a date of birth – I would guess mid-forties. She favours stonewashed jeans and floaty tops, usually made from cheesecloth, encrusted with beading around the neck. ‘You’re not the boss round here,’ she adds, glaring at Iain.

‘I’m deputy manager,’ he announces.

‘Says who?’

‘Says everyone, actually. Says Jack!’ He turns to me for confirmation, and I shrug. Although no such position exists, I – along with most of the volunteers – am happy to go along with his self-appointed elevated status, just as we willingly accept Iain’s instant coffees made with water from the hot tap. He works hard, coming in virtually every day, with utter disregard for the rota; he was visibly unsettled when I reminded him that we’d be closed for the days between Christmas and New Year.

During the couple of years he’s been volunteering for us, I’ve been to his flat several times. The last time involved escorting him home when he’d had ‘a turn’ whilst steam-cleaning some trousers in the shop’s tiny back room. As far as I’ve been able to gather, his only regular visitor is Una, the elderly lady upstairs who helps with his dog and tricky matters he struggles to deal with, like filling in forms and making calls on his behalf (Iain doesn’t like using the phone). Like with Mags, it’s hard to guess at his age, although I’ve surmised early thirties. He lives with his ageing mongrel, Pancake (‘’cause he likes to lie flat’), and has a liking for what he calls ‘found furniture’: i.e. the stuff people have left out on the pavement to be taken away by the council. Bookshelves, occasional tables and a wooden coat stand: Iain has dragged them all home, given them what he calls ‘a good sanding down’ (he means a perfunctory wipe) and then puzzled over where to put them.

The last time I was at his place, several shabby, mismatched dining chairs were lined up against a living room wall; it looked as if some kind of support group meeting was about to happen. ‘I’m going to sell them,’ he explained, with enviable confidence.

‘Piss off, Iain!’ Mags snaps now, swiping at him with a Galloping Gourmet cookbook. I stride over and suggest that she reorganises the plundered shoe section. ‘C’mon, Mags,’ I say. ‘You’ve got a real eye for it. No one makes it look as good as you do.’ As she beams with pride, Iain ‘straightens’ the books unnecessarily in order to re-establish his territory.

All afternoon, I keep thinking of the beautiful woman in Lush and wishing I’d asked her name or something. Christ, though – I don’t know what made me behave like some idiot male who’d never heard of a bath bomb. Lori’s been demanding the things every Christmas and birthday since she was about eight. I could probably sketch an accurate floor plan of that shop, the amount of times she’s dragged me in there. I’d never seen the woman who helped me, though. Maybe she’s new.

As closing time rolls around, I lock up and step out into the street, making my way through the revellers, many who’ve tumbled straight from all-afternoon Christmas lunches, by the look of it. We had our own last week, at an old-fashioned Italian in Merchant City. Mags demanded that the balloons be removed from the vicinity (she fears balloons). Iain shunned all offerings from the dessert menu and was finally appeased with a slice of Madeira cake adorned with squirty cream.

As Lush comes into view – happily, it’s still open – I decide, what the hell, I could just nip in buy the squidgy stuff Lori asked for, which I forgot all about. I clear my throat, smooth back my hair as if about to go in for a job interview, and stride in.

The heady scent engulfs me as I scan the store for the gorgeous dark-haired woman. But there’s no sign of her now. With the help of a shiny-faced teenage girl, I locate the product. It’s called ‘Fun’ and, as the girl explains its many uses, I put on a fine show of listening whilst conducting one final scan of the shop.

Nope, she’s definitely not here. And anyway, I reflect as I travel home on the packed subway, what would I have done if I’d seen her again? Lurched over to thank her one more time, when she’d probably attended to fifty more customers after me and would have assumed I was just some random nutter? Hello again! You probably don’t remember me, but a few hours ago you patiently explained the purposes of Tea Tree Gel … I imagine her at home now, with her attractive, fully functioning family: handsome husband, delightful kids, wrapping presents and putting the final touches to the Christmas tree …