Page 2 of Love Will Save the Day
Chapter Two
I can not do this!
It’s one thirty pm. I’ve been pounding the mean streets of Notting Hill for four and a half hours, I have visited nine gyms, both public and private and I’ve had zero luck. Zero! One of the gyms was closed for renovations. I asked the construction foreperson if he knew about any potential job openings. He lifted his hammer into the air and said, ‘Do I look like Human Resources, darling?’
To which I replied ‘Fair point, darling.’
Desperation makes you dumb. A point further proven by the fact that the second ‘Gym’ I visited was actually not a gym at all, but a private members club called, for some reason, ‘The Gym’. Ugh. I went inside anyway on the slim chance that someone there, anyone, might have need for an upbeat and friendly personal trainer. The woman behind the front desk told me that I could join their weekly restorative yoga class if I bought a membership for three thousand pounds per year. I answered that I currently have approximately six pounds fifteen pence in my bank account, which made her gasp in horror.
The third, fourth and fifth gyms I visited were simply not looking for anyone new and asked me to leave my name with them in case they had an opening in the future but probably wouldn’t have an opening for at least a year. The manager of the sixth gym said he didn’t have any jobs but would like to take me out for a drink. To which I saidno thank you very muchbecause he had the neck of a super reliant steroid user, which I am SO not into. I like my men to have trapezius muscles they earned from their own barbell shrugs. The seventh gym receptionist told me to send a CV by email and the eighth place – a small independent gym – straight up said they were barely keeping afloat themselves, let alone making enough money to hire someone else. So yeah. A total disaster.
I stand on the corner of Lancaster Road, take a deep breath and try not to get upset about the state of my life. It’s fine. It’sfine. There are plenty of gyms in London. I just have to search them out and try my best to impress them.Someonewill want me. They have to! I cannot leave Notting Hill. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to live and I’m finally here. I think back to what my dad used to say to me when I was learning to ride my bike without stabilisers and kept falling off.Try again and try again. That’s what I need to do. I need to try again and try again. Something will come through.
‘Ooh, dearie, your lips are turning blue!’ an elegant older woman remarks as she passes me on the pavement. ‘Get yourself indoors. It’s far too cold to be daydreaming on the street!’
I press my hand to my lips. ‘Um, thanks,’ I say, noticing as I watch her go that my stomach is rumbling big time. I didn’t have breakfast because the only food stuff I have in my house is a tin of sweetcorn and a box of breadcrumbs and I’m not quite that desperate yet. Close, though.
I stamp my foot with intention and set off towards one of my favourite parts of Notting Hill – Portobello Road. There’s a café there that does a lovely leek and potato soup for a reasonable price. I could probably stretch to a coffee too. Extra caffeine to power up my afternoon job search seems like a good idea right about now.
Despite the awful weather, Portobello Road is as bustling as always, with shoppers, workers and market stall owners crowding up the narrow road. I dodge and weave like the dodging and weaving expert I’ve come to be during my time living here, making it to Mel’s Caff without having to say ‘excuse me’ or ‘sorry’ or bumping into anyone at all. I feel quite proud of that. Not that it’s of any real use. Not like I could put it on my CV: “Bess McKinley – Personal Trainer and expert crowd dodger and weaver”.
I sigh in relief as I open the door to the warm, steamy café. Ahhhh. Heat! I join the waiting line, pull off my gloves and shove them in my pockets. When it’s my turn to order I request the leek and potato soup and ask the server to please be generous with her portion sizing. I hungrily eye the fresh warm bread rolls in a basket by the soup terrine, but I don’t think I can afford one. I drag my eyes quickly away from the bread rolls and try not to be sad about it. Positive Can Do Attitude, remember? The server ladles the thick, hot liquid into a bowl before placing it onto the glass countertop along with my coffee. At her instruction I pop my debit card into the chip and pin machine and enter the pin.
PAYMENT NOT ACCEPTED
My stomach drops as the message blinks over and over on the payment card machine. I frown. The bill is five pounds twenty and I’m pretty sure I have six pounds fifteen in my account.
‘Let me try it again!’ I chirrup, trying to keep my voice steady.
The assistant smiles stiffly and waits as I enter my pin number once more.
The same thing happens again. Payment Not Accepted.
Nooooo. I’m sure I have enough in my account. I only checked it last night. My stomach grumbles extra loudly.
‘Um, I so sorry about this, but can I just check my bank account app on my phone?’ I ask the server, my forehead starting to sweat beneath my bobble hat. Ordinarily in this scenario, I would just run away and never return to Mel’s Caff for the rest of my life. But I’m so cold and so hungry and that lovely soup isright there. I can’t leave it behind. I need it! I need that soup!
I hear a some angry mumbling coming from the growing queue behind me.
‘Sorry. I’m really sorry!’ I say, turning around vaguely as I tap into the bank app on my phone. Oh no.Minuseleven pounds? Argh. How on earth did… Oh, I see. I forgot to cancel my Personal Trainer Today magazine subscription and they’ve taken the money. Stoopid Bess.
Tears spring to my eyes, blurring my vision, when I hear someone in the queue gasp in surprise. Then there’s a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, exasperated at these impatient café customers. ‘IsaidI’m sorry for making you wait, but…’ My voice dissolves into a whisper as I see that the man who has tapped me on the shoulder is a very very very attractive man indeed. Being a personal trainer means I see many attractive man every day, but this guy? Wowzer. He looks a heck of a lot like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill – my dream man. He’s tall and slim, his light brown hair shiny and flopping artfully over his forehead. I wonder what conditioner he uses… He has bright, flirtatious blue eyes and a dusting of perfect light stubble on his jaw. He’s dressed in a long dark grey woollen coat with a thick black cashmere scarf bundled around the neck.
He is gorgeous.
‘It… it’s you!’ The handsome man breathes, shaking his head in disbelief and gazing at me like I’m Beyonce offering him a lifetime supply of Kit Kats or something. ‘I – I can’t believe it’s you! This is incredible. I never thought I’d see you again. I’ve been trying to locate you for weeks and I was starting to give up! Wow. Hi!’
Uh, who the heck is this fella and how the heck does he know me?
