Page 1 of Love Will Save the Day
Chapter One
My name is Bess McKinley and I am having a Very Bad Morning. I mean, frankly it’s a Very Bad Week, but this morning is really taking the cake (a stale, dry Battenberg – the worst of all cakes). I’m currently sitting in my bed in my tiny studio flat wearing pyjamas, two pairs of socks and my favourite mustard coloured woolly hat with a neon pink bobble on the top and I’m still colder than a brass toilet seat in January. On top of all the other crap that’s happened this week, the fritzy heating system in this flat finally gave up the ghost and chose 3.17 a.m. to shuffle off this mortal plane with one last pathetic clunk. I only realised when I woke up wondering why my nose had gone completely numb. I‘ve asked my landlord to replace the boiler, but he doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing it because I’m already two months behind on my rent and grumpy Mr Hemmings is really starting to lose his temper with me. Not that he had much temper to begin with – he once gave me a red faced, spittle filled fifteen-minute lecture on his electricity bills because I left the communal hall light on by mistake one night. I don’t dare ask him for anything. And even if I did ask him for anything, it’s unlikely he’d sort it out anyway. For example, one of the floorboards in my flat is completely loose and he won’t fix it. I have nightmares sometimes that one day I’m going to step on it, it will collapse and I’ll drop through the floor and squish old Mrs Mularkey who lives in the flat below.
Sadly, I was already struggling with money as it was – living in a ‘charming Notting Hill studio flat with original features’ is a very dreamy notion but not exactly cheap, not even when the flat is the size of a wardrobe. Plus handling finances has never been my strong suit.
And then, as if things weren’t already going down the pan at an alarmingly zippy speed, I recently lost my job as a personal trainer at the local fancy people gym, Temple, because, and I quote, ‘I wasn’t supportive enough’. Apparently a couple of the clients had complained!
What? I am plenty supportive. I say ‘Good going, Felicity!’ and ‘Wow, you are so strong, Percy!’ and things like that all the time. What am I supposed to do? Hold a freakin’ parade every time Mrs Blythe-Warrington successfully engages her core? I love my job, I take it seriously, and everyone I’ve trained outside of Temple tells me I’m the best trainer they ever had. The truth is, I think the clients just didn’t like me because I actually made them do some work. I heard the last trainer there just used to have them do lovely serene stretches and complimented their form, whereas I wouldn’t let up. If you’re in a session with me I’m going to make you sweat til’ you can’t sweat no more. I think that, coupled with my pure council estate Bristolian accent, made me a pretty bad fit for what, let’s face it, is a vanity gym. Somewhere for people to mingle and drink ten quid smoothies from Temple’s exclusive smoothie bar. Pah.
I immediately called everyone I knew in the London PT world to see if they had any insider intel on upcoming job openings. All three of those people came back with a resounding nope.
So yes. I am jobless, at serious risk of having nowhere to live unless I can get a new jobtoday, and I am so very cold that each time I breathe, a little cloud puffs out of my mouth, like in a movie when there’s a ghost in the room.
I wrap my duvet snugly around my shoulders and try my best to stop shivering. Yikes. If Dad could see me now he’d say ‘Well, I did tell you so, Bess.’
He said that moving to London to become a top personal trainer was a daft idea. That I’d spend all of my money on extortionate rent and Frappuccino's and probably be lonely because it’s hard to make friends as an adult woman – something he saw on aThis Morningsegment. I mean he’s not exactly wrong. I thought I’d have a cool circle of friends by now, or at the very least a boyfriend. But when you’re working all the time, it’s tough to get things going with new friends. And all the guys who ask me out are just not my type. Which is to say they’re not Hugh Grant inNotting Hill. Yep, I am ridiculous and I know it.
Dad was certain that I should stay in Bristol and work at the family carpet superstore – Festival of Carpets – like my brothers Ian and John. But I am just not passionate about carpets like the rest of my family are. I mean, I quite like carpets and find them to be useful. But I’m not, like, super into them. Iamsuper into personal training, though. I love helping people to feel strong. Even if they are rich old people who don’t like your accent and just want to sit on the bike and pedal extra slowly while listening to podcasts about, I don’t know, diamonds or swans or whatever rich people are in to.
Blimey. I would cry, but I’m afraid the tears would turn into little icicles and glue my eyes shut or something. All bets are off this morning, frankly. I know that if I called my dad he would send me some money, fix things for me. But I’m a grown, independent woman. I do not want to be rescued. Not by anybody. Besides, he would just tell me to come back home and I can’t. Ever since I watchedNotting Hillwith Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts I’ve wanted nothing more than to to live here. Totally basic, I know. But the heart desires what it does and while my cupboard sized studio flat is not the massive mews house I always fantasised about living in, there’s still time, right? The dream is not over yet.
Blowing some air into my hands to warm them up, I climb out of the bed and do some star jumps in an effort to defrost. I head over to full length mirror propped against the wall and look myself firmly in the eye.
‘Okay, Bess,’ I say. ‘You have to make a vow here and now. You arenotgoing back to Bristol to work at Festival of Carpets. Never ever. You are going to do whatever it takes to stay in your beloved Notting Hill. You are going to find another, even better job and you are going to be a success. Dad is wrong. Youcanmake a life for yourself in London. You’ve made it one year already, which is much longer than anyone expected. Dad only thought you’d be back within a month because he is a worrisome naysayer and all worrisome naysayers can just bog off!
I immediately apologise out loud because I love my dad very much and it’s not his fault that he has a propensity to worrisome naysaying. His parents were worrisome naysayers too, and probably their parents before that. Well,Iam going to break the chain with a can-do positive attitude, despite my recent string of terrible luck.
I do some boxing motions in the mirror to pump myself up. Hmmm. I look like the very cold, very fed-up lovechild of Rocky and the pigeon lady from Home Alone 2.
This day seriously needs to improve.
Right. I’ve dressed myself in layers upon layers of clothes. Jeans, knee high boots, an undershirt, a t-shirt, a woolly jumper and my big navy winter coat. My beloved mustard hat with the pink bobble remains on my head, tugged down over my ears. If I had a pair of long johns I would be wearing those too, but, sadly, it is not 1884 and I do not possess a lovely pair of long johns.
Leaving my flat, I creep down the five flights of stairs, avoiding all of the creaky bits, lest I alert Mr Hemmings to my movements and he comes out from his own flat on the bottom floor to give me a lecture on the importance of paying rent on time.
Stepping out onto Kensington Park Road, my heart flips happily, as it always does, at the prettiness of the street with its little independent bookshops, cafés and the most delightfully comforting smell from the French patisserie next door but one.
I clap my hands together. My plan is to head to all of the gyms in the borough and convince one of them to hire me. Failing that I will tube it around the rest of London and do the same thing. I haven’t got the time to send emails out and wait for responses. This is a literal job emergency and I feel like if I do it in person then the gym managers will be able to see that I am very enthusiastic and passionate about personal training and that I would surely be an asset to their company. I willnotneed to be rescued by my dad, Iwillpay Mr Hemmings the rent, Iwillbe able to stay in Notting Hill and live out my dreams.
I can do this!
