Page 13 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
And I leave a space before moving again, a space for Annabelle to say she will come with me, to link my arm and say who cares about boys anyway? A space for my best friend to promise me the films and popcorn we were supposed to be having. But Annabelle leaves it empty, and I feel the crack in my heart grow a tiny bit wider.
Annabelle shrugs. ‘Go, then,’ she says.
And there’s nothing more to say after that. I turn and walk away, fighting back tears because I don’t want my mascara to run in inky streams down my face. At home, Granny Rose opens the door. Mum is working, like always.
‘Oh, love,’ Granny Rose says, knowing immediately that something is wrong but not asking what it is. She pulls me in close and we rock from side to side a bit. Then Granny Rose pulls away and puts her hands on my shoulders, assesses me at arm’s length. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ I say.
Granny Rose nods, quick and firm. ‘Go and get your pyjamas on, then, and we’ll see what’s on TV.’
It is just what I need, this kindness, this generosity. Ten minutes later, my face clear of makeup, my fleecy pyjamas on, I cuddle up next to Granny Rose on the sofa, and she flicks through the channels, looking for something to distract us.
9
NOW
I must have fallen asleep because I suddenly snap awake with Dee’s name on my lips. Angela said she’d been in a lot, but I’ve been awake for twenty-four hours now and I haven’t seen her.
I’ve known Dee for seven years. She was at the Horse and Wagon when I started there, and I eyed her from afar, all that gorgeous nut-brown hair, all glossy and looking like it had just been cut and blow-dried. She was tiny, with sort of elfin features, a slightly pointy chin and eyes that looked big in her small face. As girls, we’re taught to be suspicious of other girls, to feel threatened by them. And Dee was so achingly pretty that I wanted to hate her. I tried to hate her. But halfway through my second shift, I came out of a toilet cubicle to find her standing at the sinks, washing her hands. She smiled at me in the mirror and I found myself smiling back.
‘Watch out for Jim,’ she said.
‘Jim?’
‘Old guy, sits at the bar most nights. Actually, there are two of those. But the bald one is Derek and he’s a sweetheart. Jim’s the one with the bad toupee. He looks harmless and acts all butter-wouldn’t-melt, but I can guarantee that he’ll try to grope you before the week’s out.’
And with that, she fluffed her hair and swished out, back into the rowdy bar.
And sure enough, later that same night, I was walking past Jim with a tray of empty glasses when his hand darted out and brushed against my bum. I think if Dee hadn’t said anything, I would have thought it was accidental. Two days later, when he tried it again, I dodged out of his way. Back on my side of the bar, I motioned for him to come closer and I leaned in.
‘I think you and I might have a little problem,’ I said.
‘What?’ he asked, all innocence.
‘Well, I’m going to be spending my evenings walking around this pub for the foreseeable future and you seem quite fond of sitting on that barstool, all of which is fine, but if you touch – or even try to touch – any part of my body again, I’m going to make sure you never get served in this place for the rest of your sorry little life.’
I said it quietly, and there was music playing and groups of people talking. So I didn’t think anyone else would hear. But when I looked up, away from Jim, who was spluttering and trying to come up with something to say, I saw Derek smiling, and I saw Dee looking at me. She looked impressed. Later, when we’d locked the doors and were cashing up, she brought it up.
‘No one has ever put Jim in his place like that. You know, you should be a landlady with that kickass attitude.’
I knew right then that we’d be friends, but I didn’t know yet that I would go on to run a pub of my own.
Jim never touched me after that. He didn’t touch Dee either. He must have seen us together, laughing at something Rob, the landlord, had said, or passing glasses to each other from the dishwasher. He must have seen us getting close. Anyway, whatever it was, he still came in, he still sat there at the bar,still drank half pints of lager shandy, but he kept his hands to himself.
Meanwhile, what Dee had said started to take root and grow. I loved being a barmaid, but did I have it in me to run the show? Maybe I did. By the time David started coming in, it was a solid ambition. On one of our early dates, he asked me where I’d like to be in five years, and I said ‘running my own pub’. He sulked for hours because he’d expected me to say something that involved him, but he didn’t question it as a career goal. And that’s how ambitions become reality, at least sometimes. Someone believing you can leads to you believing you can. Two years ago, when I was twenty-eight, I went for the job as manager of the Pheasant. And I took Dee with me.
I look up and Fern is approaching the bed, all smiles. For a minute, I can’t remember what it is she does, and then my brain makes the connection. Physio Fern.
‘How are you doing today?’ she asks.
It’s such an innocuous question but I don’t know how to answer it right now. I’m so lost and confused. Automatically, I go to ask her one of my questions. When can I go home? Or why haven’t the police been? But they are getting me nowhere, so maybe I need to do things a different way.
‘I’m all right,’ I say.
She nods and takes hold of one of my hands, looking at me for silent permission to touch my body, and I give it. She works quietly, asking me whether anything hurts and whether I can stretch a tiny bit more. But there’s no chit-chat, and that’s fine with me. She’s brisk and efficient, and I appreciate it. When she’s finished, she smiles at me, and it feels like an invitation.
‘What’s the weather like?’ I ask her.
