Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

‘How was the first day? Fixed any broken hearts yet?’ Mel leaned forward to slurp from an over-full martini glass, eyes peeping up at me under her thick blunt fringe.

I snorted. Yeah, right. I’d need to be a miracle worker to rectify some of the tales of woe I’d read earlier. Melancholy still rested on me like a weight, so I threw Mel a bright grin – and took a big sip of wine – to cheer myself up. Thank goodness my friend had been free tonight. If I’d had to go back to just Beano, well . . . it might have taken more than my favourite film to see the bright side of life. A whole bottle of Tesco’s Finest red, probably.

‘As first days go, it was quite good. It’s nice to be in charge of something, you know?’ I remembered Heath’s words about going back to the City eventually, and a glimmer of hope shot through me.

‘What about this boss of yours? Sounds like he’s going to be a slave driver.’ I’d told Mel about the fast-approaching opening deadline and how busy I was going to be up until mid-December.

‘Well, he’s . . .’ My cheeks flushed as I pictured Heath’s dark eyes and the way he filled out the blue sweater. ‘He’s nice,’ I finished lamely.

‘Nice?’ Mel quirked an eyebrow. ‘Right-o. Nice. You know, judging by the way you’re blushing, I reckon someone’s got a little crush on Mr Bossman.’

‘Mel! Of course not. He’s, like, some kind of City lawyer.’ I knew what Mel thought of people who worked in the City. Filthy money-grubbing heartless swines, or something along those lines. ‘Anyway, you know I’m in love with Gareth. Did I tell you about his postcard? He even put four x’s.’ I met her eyes triumphantly. And here she was saying he’d never come back to me.

Mel rolled her eyes. ‘He’s probably had enough of poverty and sees you as a free ride to come home to. Once he has his life set up again, I reckon you’ll see the back of him faster than he can say konichiwa.’

Stung by my friend’s harsh words, I dropped my head to examine my wine. There was no point arguing; she’d see the truth when Gareth stuck. ‘I think konichiwa is Japanese. Gareth’s in Vietnam.’ I pushed back my chair. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got to make an early start tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Mel looked repentant. ‘It’s just, I don’t want to see you hurt again.’

I sighed as a wave of exhaustion swept over me. The cold and the endless shifting of heavy boxes packed with detritus from people’s pasts were making my body, head, and soul ache. ‘I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

I shuffled out into the street, thankful it was just a ten-minute walk home. The misty night had turned into one of those rainy, chilly evenings where everything smelled of wet wool, and my knuckles turned ruddy red from the cold as I clutched the umbrella.

As people pushed past, I wondered if they all had stories of heartache and woe similar to what I’d read today. Well, sure, probably, I told myself. Everyone had some trouble in their life. But that didn’t mean it had to define you, or colour your future. The most important bit was keeping your head up and staying positive.

When I got back to the flat, I was going to do just that. Finish watching An Affair to Remember, pour myself another large red, curl up with Beano, and dream of the moment when Gareth would walk through my door.