The Mum Who Got Her Life Back. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
tried to choose her the non-glitter kind, but then there’d be secret glitter, lurking inside …’ I catch myself and laugh self-consciously. ‘That’s one thing you don’t miss when your kids leave home. The sparkly bath! Hours I’ve spent, picking it off myself …’ Stop ranting, idiot …
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he says, picking up a small brown nugget shaped like a Christmas pudding.
‘That’s a bubble bar,’ I explain, authoritatively, as Molly has had dozens of these too. ‘They’re more, er …’
‘Bubbly?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And glitter-free?’
‘Yep,’ I reply, hoping that’s correct. Whilst I’m managing to wing it so far, I’m dreading questions of a more complex nature. But of course, he’s a man – a terribly attractive man with his lovely, warm, slightly wonky smile – and he’s hardly going to quiz me about the nourishing properties of cocoa butter.
Realising my hand has gone numb, I extract it from the ice and surreptitiously wipe it on my jeans. Under my protective gaze, he starts to select various items from the display. ‘I’ll get you a basket,’ I announce, flitting off to fetch one and zooming back before he can get away.
‘Thanks.’ He piles everything in. ‘Oh, what do these do?’ He indicates some candy-pink boulders piled up on a slate.
I speed-read the explanatory label. ‘They’re jelly bombs. They’re, um, supposed to surprise and bewilder in the bathtub …’
He laughs. ‘Is that what people want?’
I smile. ‘Personally, I’d rather just relax in the bath.’ Preferably with you in it with me … As this scenario flits into my mind, I sense my cheeks blazing again, as if he might have read my lewd thoughts. ‘So, you mentioned skincare?’ I prompt him.
‘Yes, if you possibly could help me with that …’
‘Of course,’ I say, escorting him now to the cleansers and moisturisers where I manage to suggest several potions his daughter might like, simply by dredging my memory for Molly’s preferred products. As I blabber on about aloe vera and mallow extract, dropping in words like ‘brightening’ and ‘invigorating’, I realise I’m starting to enjoy myself. ‘Fresh dove orchid helps to plump up the cells,’ I explain, thinking, hang on: his daughter is only fourteen, so, presumably she doesn’t want her cells plumping …
‘Sounds ideal,’ he says, dropping a tub into his basket.
‘Could we talk about blackheads?’ I venture.
‘Sure!’
And so it goes on, this stranger amazing me with his willingness to purchase a toner, a purifying face mask and something called a ‘spritz’. I’d never realised it was so easy to flog beauty products. Perhaps I should apply for part-time work here, instead of supplementing my earnings by posing naked for the art class. At any rate, he seems impressed by my knowledge and passion for the brand, and obediently selects everything I recommend. Glancing down at his laden basket, I try to ignore a twinge of guilt as I wonder how much it’s going to cost him. Still, if I am outed as fake employee, at least I’ve boosted the day’s sales.
‘You’ve been so helpful,’ he says, eyes meeting mine. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem. Anything else I can help with?’
‘No, I think I’m all done.’
‘I’m sure your daughter will be pleased …’
‘Yeah, I hope so. Well, thanks again.’ He turns and navigates his way through the crowds towards the till. If I wasn’t afraid of my cover being blown, I’d accompany him, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost en route. Instead, I just dither about, feeling oddly light-headed, and make my way towards the door.
Outside, I inhale the crisp December air and stride along the busy shopping street. The sky is unblemished blue, the sun shining brightly. Veering off into a side road, I stop at a nondescript sandwich shop that I never go into normally. I emerge with my lunch, wondering now what possessed me to grab a cheese and onion sandwich, made with industrial white bread, like the ‘Toastie’ loaf Danny used to buy occasionally in an act of rebellion against my preferred granary. I’m clearly not thinking straight.
I walk briskly back to the studio and canter up the concrete stairs to the bright and airy top floor. ‘How’d you get on?’ Corinne asks, picking at a Danish pastry at her desk.
‘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