The robber looked at him incredulously. “I don’t think you know how this works.”
“Right,” said Mr. Patel, nodding furiously.
I was in the process of moving away, crawling backwards towards the end of the aisle, but I could see Mr. Patel was panicking. I called out, “Scan the cigarettes.”
Mr. Patel took his eyes off the knife and looked at me.
“The cigarettes—scan them,” I said. “The register will open.”
That solved the problem and the drawer opened. Mr. Patel gave him the cash.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all.”
The knifeman pointed to the drawer below the register. It’s where Mr. Patel keeps the daily cash float and any large bills. It’s also where he has a loaded gun, which he shows to all the new employees—particularly the college girls who work weekends and he hopes might be impressed.
Great plan, I thought. He’ll make a citizen’s arrest, or shoot the guy if necessary. But Mr. Patel didn’t go for the gun. He handed over the cash float and said to the knifeman, “Can I get you anything else?”
Why not join our loyalty program? How about some lotto tickets?
Later Mr. Patel told the police he was trying to protect me, which was bollocks because I saved his arse. We both had to give statements and look at mug shots on a computer, but I’m terrible at remembering faces. The knife I could have picked out of any lineup.
The police wanted to have a doctor examine me because of my pregnancy but I told them I was fine and just wanted to go home. They gave me a taxi voucher and said I should take tomorrow off work, which didn’t impress Mr. Patel.
The cab drops me outside my flat and I step over junk mail as I shoulder open the large front door. I’m tired now that the adrenaline has evaporated, and the stairs seem steeper than before.
My flat is on the second floor. Mrs. Brindle, my landlady, lives downstairs with her two sons, Gary and Dave, who are both forty-something and in no hurry to leave home. Gary, the older one, is on a disability pension, while Dave drives a minicab. I suspect half the reason Mrs. Brindle charges me so little rent is because she’s hoping I might take one of them off her hands.
A door opens behind me.
“Hello, princess.”
“Go away, Dave.”
“Need a hand?”
“No.”
He positions himself at the bottom of the stairs so he can look up my dress. I move closer to the wall.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “You have great legs, Agatha, what time do they open?”
“Drop dead.”
I keep climbing. He shouts after me. “Just remember, I’ve got a condom with your name on it.”
“What? Durex Extra Small?”
“That’s a good one,” he says with a laugh, “but I’ll be gentle with you.”
Flopping onto the sofa, I kick off my shoes and rub my feet, which ache from standing up all day. The buttons on my blouse are stretched so tightly across my belly they could pop and take out an eye. I loosen them and glance at the mess around me, wishing I had cleaned up last night, or yesterday. Unwashed dishes are piled up in the sink and the dining table is covered in brochures and catalogues for baby clothes.
Farther along the hallway is a bathroom with a tub, and my bedroom, which is really nice because I can make it dark and sleep until noon when I don’t have work. My double bed is a rickety affair with a varnished headboard and a boggy soft mattress. At night I like turning off the lights and listening to the trains pulling into Putney Bridge station.
My best friend, Jules, lives upstairs with her husband, Kevin, and their little boy, Leo, who is four and a real cutie. I sometimes babysit Leo when Jules nips out to the shops or the Laundromat or to get her hair done.
Jules is pregnant again and we’ve been inseparable these past months, shopping and having manicures and treating ourselves to chocolate milkshakes, which are the best cure for morning sickness ever invented.
Having caught my breath, I retrieve three envelopes from the doormat: a gas bill, a telephone bill, and a letter from my mother. I recognize her handwriting and the Spanish stamps.
What does she want? I should throw it away. Something makes me tear at the flap and unfold the single perfumed page.
Dear Agatha,
Please don’t be angry with me for writing to you again. I’m not even sure I have the right address. I tried to call, but you must have changed your number.
I miss you. I’ve been dreadfully lonely and you’re the last family I have left. I know a lot has happened between us but I’m hoping that you can forgive me.
Marbella is sunny, but not as warm as it was last year. I’m renting the same apartment, which is next door to Mr. and Mrs. Hopgood (I mentioned them in my past letters). He’s a bit of a bore, but Maggie is nice. We play bingo together and have cocktails at the yacht club.
You should come and visit. I could send you money for the airfare. We could spend Christmas together. They do a lovely spread at the yacht club—with roast turkey and a free bottle of wine on every table.
Please write back to me.
With all my love,
Mum
xxoo
I tear the letter into little pieces and put them in the kitchen bin, which is so full of rubbish that the scraps fall on the floor. My mother doesn’t know I’m pregnant. She’d only mess things up.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Piss off, Dave,” I shout.
“It’s me,” answers Jules.
Shit!
“OK. Give me a minute.”
I straighten my clothes and button my blouse, checking myself in the mirror before unlocking the door.
“What took you so long?” asks Jules. She waddles past me and throws herself onto the sofa with a grunt. “You left me waiting out there forever.”
Half German and half Scottish with an explosion of steel-wool hair and legs like tree stumps, Jules is a striking-looking woman and I envy her clear skin and doe-brown eyes. Big even before she got pregnant, she loves to flaunt her size because Kevin likes her that way. He’s not a “feeder” or a “fatty lover” but he definitely plumps for the plump.
I tell her about the robbery and she hangs on every word, wanting to know if I was frightened.
“He was probably an ice addict,” she says. “Those guys are mega-scary. They eat people’s faces.”
“Really?”
She nods. “That stuff causes holes in your brain and makes your teeth fall out.”
“This robber had all his teeth.”
“For now.”
Suddenly she remembers why she’s come downstairs. “Hey, do you want to come with me to an acupuncturist? I got a two-for-one offer.”
“Nobody is sticking needles in my baby,” I say.
“They don’t stick needles in the baby,” she replies, waving a brochure. “This says acupuncture helps pregnant women get over nausea, fluid retention, tiredness, cramps, and heartburn.”
“Even so.”
“What about a bikini wax?”
“I’m not bothering at the moment.”
“Lucky for some,” she sniffs. “I got a full seventies triangle growing down there. Kevin needs a machete to find my grotto.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“At least I’m getting some,” says Jules. “Upon which subject—have you heard from Sailor Boy?”