Читать книгу A Part of Me and You - Emma Heatherington - Страница 10

Shelley

‘I’ve been calling you all morning, darling,’ says Eliza, my mother-in-law, when I answer my phone on the way into the village after lunch. ‘Are you driving? Can you talk?’

‘I am driving but you’re on loudspeaker,’ I tell her. I’ve been avoiding her calls all morning but now that I hear her familiar voice I wish I’d answered earlier. Maybe I’d have avoided the meltdown that has caused me to be thirty minutes late to take over from Betty, my assistant, at Lily Loves.

‘It’s okay to cry today,’ she tells me and I nod as I drive, feeling tears prick my eyes again. ‘Cry every day if you feel like it. It’s all part of your healing process. The colour blue is good for you today, darling, that’s what I am feeling. Look out for it today. It will be good for you. Look out for someone connected to the colour blue who crosses your path.’

‘I’m on my way to work,’ I tell her. ‘Did Matt tell you to call me? Please Eliza, I don’t want any fuss today. I need to just try and get on with things and keep busy. It’s the only way I can cope.’

I pass no remarks on the colour blue she refers to. Some of Eliza’s mystic words of wisdom are of great comfort, but some can’t get past the cynic in me and I push them away to the back of my mind.

‘Do whatever you have to do,’ says Eliza and she pauses for a few seconds. ‘You’re going to be okay, Shell. It’s all going to be okay. I am praying for you every day and I am sending light and healing. Positive energy is coming your way and don’t ever forget that.’

I roll my eyes and try not to give her a smart answer, but I don’t feel like it’s going to be okay no matter how much Eliza prays every day. No matter how many chakras she tries to clear or clean, no matter how much energy she sends, and no matter how many candles she lights for me, I don’t think I will ever be okay again. Apart from Matt, I have no one and nothing in my life to live for and I sometimes worry that even he isn’t enough.

‘Thanks for the call,’ I tell Eliza, wanting to end our conversation now as I approach the village. ‘I really do appreciate it.’

‘There are good things coming for you real soon,’ she says and I take a deep breath.

‘Do you really think so?’ I ask her, before she can hang up. ‘I hope there are, Eliza because I don’t think I can cope with living like this anymore. I need some hope. I think I’m ready for some hope if I could only get a sign.’

‘The colour blue, I tell you,’ she says to me. ‘You’ll see the signs when you are ready, Shelley. Look, would you like me to pop by later? We could go to the Beach House for dinner?’

I know she means well and I know Matt means well but how many times do I have to tell them that I can’t bear to face the world? I want to go to dinner, I want to walk with my head held high, but today I can just about manage to go to work, maybe visit the grocery store afterwards and go home, in that order.

‘I don’t think so, Eliza,’ I reply, not wanting to sound ungrateful but I know she will understand. ‘I’m not really up to much today but I do appreciate the offer, you know I do and I will keep looking for those signs. I’m ready to grasp any glimmer of hope that comes my way.’

‘Okay, well when you’re ready you know where I am,’ she says. ‘Now, keep those positive thoughts to the forefront. You’ve come such a long way, whether you feel like it or not. Your light will return soon, I just know it will. Your mother is close today. She is sending angels your way. And blue.’

‘I’ll try and stay positive,’ I tell her. ‘Have a nice day, Eliza. Goodbye.’

I hang up and sigh, but despite my nonchalance, I really do appreciate her call. Eliza may just be telling me what I need to hear when I need to hear it, but it all helps and at this stage of my deep grief I would try anything. Anything, that is, that doesn’t involve leaving my shop or my home, which doesn’t give me too many options, does it?

I park the car alongside the edge of the pier and the sight of the fishing boats all lined up in their usual places makes me smile a little inside. I like familiarity and after thirteen years in this little place, I can finally call it home – though a part of me will always long for my mother’s embrace back north where I grew up, but that’s no longer within my reach. I never meant to settle here, or to stay any longer than a summer break but then I met Matt and the rest is history.

I make my way to my shop, my safe place where I can distract my mind with idle small chat to customers and sorting out new stock and choosing items from flea markets and online distributors to meet the fashion demands of my colourful clients. Again, the smell of its interior – a faint hint of coffee mixed with frankincense (recommended by Eliza for its healing powers) – fills me up and gives me the strength to keep taking one day at a time.

Terence, my delivery man is running a day late which never happens but it only serves to distract me. Soon, I’m on my third coffee of the afternoon and I’m trying with all my might to concentrate on a celebrity magazine to take my mind off this day which is dragging despite my attempts to keep busy. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened up this afternoon after all. I should have gone away for the day, somewhere new for a change of scenery, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I ventured any further than where I am standing right now in my shop.

The bell rings as a customer enters and I bolt up and try to smile a hello at the lady who’s just entered. She browses around the rails near the door like most people do when they come in to Lily Loves. It’s a real treasure trove of colourful, retro pieces and I treat every item of clothing like it’s made of gold. My customers are the only contact with the outside world I choose to have these days, apart from Matt.

This isn’t a local though. She is a tourist for sure and I need to make sure she feels welcome.

‘Hello there,’ she says in a very distinctive brummie accent. ‘What a day!’

‘Is it still raining out there?’ I ask her. She is my only customer of the afternoon so far and I’m glad to see her, but I’ll stick to my small talk as usual. I feel safe talking about the weather, clothes and jewellery but I’d die if she struck up a real conversation outside of that.

She nods and shivers in reply and then gets on with her browsing, much to my relief, so I go back to my magazine where I’m now reading about a woman who shed nine stone, only for her husband to dump her. Nice.

‘Do you have this dress in any other sizes?’ the lady asks eventually and I spring back into business mode, eager to talk about what I know best. ‘I seem to have forgotten how changeable the weather is here in Ireland and I packed all wrong.’

I can see that, I want to say, but of course it isn’t my place to comment on her outfit.

She is around my age, maybe a little bit older, and has the most beautiful warm smile. I feel bad that I have to tell her that the dress she has chosen, made of a pale green, light wool with a high neck and long sleeves, is the last of only three sizes I took in for the summer collection. She doesn’t seem as disappointed as I am though and goes back to the rail and continues to search.

‘I’d really have loved that one but just my luck …’ she mumbles to herself as she flicks through the rows of dresses on the rails at the far end of the shop. ‘Red is my colour, I’m told, yet I always choose green.’

‘I have a similar one in yellow if that’s any good?’ I suggest, but then we both giggle as she points at her hair which is a few shades lighter than yellow. She shrugs.

‘I’d look like Big Bird,’ she says. ‘I should’ve packed a different wig for my trip instead of trying to pretend I’m a sexy blonde. I’ve never been blonde in my life! In fact I’ve dyed my hair so many times down the years I don’t even remember what my natural colour is now.’

I nod nervously when she tells me it’s a wig, and go back to my stool and my magazine by the till, my out-of-practice social skills tripping me up at the idea of discussing anything other than my safe topics with this stranger.

Thankfully though, she isn’t bothered by my non-answer but I turn up the background music in the shop just in case, and try and focus on the reality TV stars who now look up at me from my magazine.

My eyes dart across to her every now and then though as she browses. She is holding a favourite of mine, a royal blue wrap-over jersey dress that skims the knee and I want to tell her that it would suit her very well, but I’m afraid of her indulging me with her own sad story. I need positive thinking today. I daren’t open the flood gates and talk about Lily and I know that is exactly what would happen.

‘Can I try this on?’ asks the lady. ‘I need something to wear that isn’t shorts and a t-shirt or a floaty skirt that you could spit through. What on earth was I thinking? That’s what I get for coming here in a hurry.’

I point her to the changing rooms and just as I’d predicted, the dress fits her like a glove and brightens up her pale face no end.

‘It suits you. It really does.’

‘I suppose it does,’ she says, admiring her reflection in the mirror. ‘How much is it?’

‘Sixty euro,’ I tell her. ‘But I can do it for fifty-five?’

She is just about to reply when Terence arrives at the door, pushing it open with his backside like he always does, his hands laden with cardboard boxes full of delights that I can’t wait to get my hands on.

‘Sorry Shelley! Better late than never, love,’ he says. ‘I got stuck at the hospital yesterday. Did you get my text?’

I glance back at my customer but instead of responding to the price, she has disappeared back into the changing room so I focus on Terence and the delivery while I wait for her return.

‘I didn’t get your text, but not to worry,’ I say to him. ‘I thought you’d traded me in for the big game today.’

Terence sets the box of goodies on the floor and wipes his hands, damp from the drizzle outside, on his trusty black jacket.

‘I’m going to try and catch some of the second half from my armchair at home,’ he tells me, handing over the delivery receipt and pointing out where I need to sign. ‘You’re my last delivery. I always save the best to last.’

I look up and he gives me a wink and a knowing smile.

‘I’m doing okay,’ I say to him, wincing as I write the date on his copy of the receipt. ‘Just don’t talk to me too much about it. Talk about the football match. Or the weather. Horrible weather for July, isn’t it? Where on earth is our summer?’

The lady with the blonde wig is out of the changing rooms now and without looking my way, she hangs the dress back where she got it, gives a casual wave in my direction and slips off out through the door. Strange. I was sure she was going to take it.

‘Awful weather altogether,’ says Terence. ‘I have a bet on that Galway will do the business, but I think that’s my heart more than my head talking. What do you think?’

‘Eh?’

I look past him out on to the street where I see her scuttle away in the light drizzle, her handbag her only shelter from the rain.

‘The match?’ says Terence.

‘Oh yeah. The match. Let’s hope we can do it,’ I mumble back at him.

‘Look after yourself today, missy,’ he tells me and since he knows me so well by now he leaves it at that. I walk him to the door, unable to resist a peep outside into the damp, drizzly day. I see the woman with the wig shuffling past a few diehard fans in Galway football jerseys out for their half-time smoke before she makes her way down the road past Brannigan’s.

I see tourists every day, all year round here in this town but there’s something about her that has caught me, in a good way and I wish I had engaged with her more. I wish I had the courage to talk to people, especially other women, properly. You know, make friends again. Socialise. But I always get stuck. I get too afraid of opening up to people who would rather not hear of my troubles. Everyone has troubles of their own, I suppose, and who would want to hear about mine?