Page 107 of Postscript

There’s a chorus of yeses.

He looks at me. ‘Holly?’

‘No.’

‘Then let’s go through it, shall we?’

I’m so self-conscious that everybody’s eyes are on me that I can’t even think. And Gerry, he must be thinking I’m an absolute dunce.

‘OK, take the first part,’ Mr Murphy says, unpeeling the banana and slicing the tip. He never eats the tip, he hates the black pointy part. He cuts a thin slice of banana and eats it off the knife.

‘John has thirty-two chocolate bars,’ he says slowly, patronisingly, and a few people laugh. ‘He eats twenty-eight. What does he have now?’

‘Diabetes, sir!’ Gerry shouts out, and everybody cracks up laughing.

Even Mr Murphy laughs. ‘Thank you for that, Gerry.’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Since you think you’re so smart, finish this off for us.’

And he does. Easy as that. I’m saved. I’m grateful but too embarrassed to turn around. Something hits against my leg and lands at my feet. I look down and see a scrunched-up piece of paper. I pretend to be leaning down to get something from my bag and while Mr Murphy has his back turned and is writing on the board, I open the ball of paper and smooth it open on my lap.

It wasn’t a joke. Promise. Wanted to ask you for ages.

Glad you said yes.

Gerry

PS, see you later?

I grin, my heart pounding, my stomach alive with butterflies. I shove the letter into my bag and as I do, I sneak a glance behind me. Gerry is watching me, big blue eyes, kind of nervous. I smile, and he smiles. Like a private joke only the two of us are in on.

EPILOGUE

I’m in Magpie, at my favourite area with the trinkets and the chest of drawers, polishing and sorting, kind of playing, when Ciara interrupts my thoughts. She’s standing in the window dressing the mannequins.

‘I’m thinking of naming the mannequins. The longer I spend with them, the more I’m certain they each have a personality.’

I laugh.

‘If I listen to them, I can utilise them to their best advantage. Maybe sell more. For example, this here is Naomi.’ She turns the model around and waves her hand at me. ‘She’s a window girl. She likes being centre of attention. On stage. Unlike … Mags over there, who hates the attention.’ She jumps off the raised platform and makes her way to the mannequin in the accessory area. ‘Mags likes to hide. She likes wigs, sunglasses, hats, gloves, bags, scarves, you name it.’

‘That’s because Mags is on the run,’ I say.

‘Yes!’ Ciara’s eyes widen and she studies the mannequin. ‘You’re not shy at all, are you? You’re on the run.’

The bell rings as the door opens.

‘Who are you running from, Mags? Is it something you’ve seen or something you’ve done? Let me look you in the eye.’ Ciara lowers her glasses and stares at her. She gasps. ‘What have you done, you naughty thing?’

The customer clears their throat and we turn our attention to the door, where there’s a young man standing, with a half-filled black bin liner in his hand.

My heart pounds wildly. I hold on to the chest of drawers. Ciara looks at me in surprise and then back to the man. I know by her reaction that she sees it too; he’s the image of Gerry.

‘Hello,’ Ciara says. ‘I’m sorry … you’ve caught us … we’re talking to … my goodness, you look very like somebody we know. Used to know. Know.’ She tilts her head, and examines him.

‘How can I help you?’