cooked-meats aisle, I see an official supermarket fleece slung over a crate. It’s green, with a logo, and no one seems to be using it right now. And as I stare at it, a fully formed idea lands, pow, in my brain. The kind of idea that makes you think, What? And then, Nooo, I can’t. And then, Yesss, I can!
I put on the fleece and at once feel invisible. I’m no longer Becky; I’m an anonymous, nameless store-worker. Abandoning my trolley, I walk past Damian to be sure—but he doesn’t flicker. Even though we’re fellow parents at school, he doesn’t recognize me. Of course he doesn’t. He’s one of those guys who live in the bubble of their own starring role, and everyone else is just chorus.
Which suits me fine.
I swiftly walk toward the stationery section and gather some props. Clipboard. Notepad. Reading glasses for extra disguise purposes. In my bag is an old lanyard that I keep for Minnie to play with. It’s from a play center, but I put it on and turn it round—and screw my hair into a bun, using an elastic band.
Then, before I can lose my nerve, I approach Damian with an ingratiating smile, my pen poised over my clipboard.
“Hello, sir,” I greet him in sweet, singsong tones. “Everything all right for you in store today?”
“Fine,” says Damian, barely looking round.
“I’m here to assess our facilities for the elderly,” I press on. “Are you managing all right today, sir, or are there any problems you’d like to highlight?”
“What?” Damian frowns at me, confused.
“We understand the challenges facing your age group,” I reply soothingly, “and we’re here to help with mobility, larger signs for the visually challenged, hearing aids….Are you finding everything you need?”
Ms. Pinchy Face suddenly gives a snort of laughter.
“I’m not elderly,” says Damian, looking livid.
“Of course you’re not! ‘Age-challenged,’ is what I meant to say.” I nod. “I understand, it’s a sensitive topic—”
“I’m fifty-four!” barks Damian. “Fifty-four!”
“As I say, we do want to help your generation have the most effective shopping experience for your needs.” I look at Ms. Pinchy Face and add brightly, “Oh, is this your caregiver? Did you have any comments or suggestions? He’s a lovely old gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Caregiver?” Damian appears apoplectic. “Caregiver? Can I talk to your superior? What’s your name?” He makes a swipe for my lanyard and I hastily back away.
“My apologies, sir. I can tell you don’t want to participate in our study, so I’ll leave you in peace. Just one more piece of information…” I add in my most helpful manner. “Incontinence aids are on special offer this week, if that’s of interest to you?”
Before he can draw breath, I hastily walk around the corner, rip off the fleece and glasses, and undo my hair—then sprint to where I left my trolley. By the time I glimpse Damian and Ms. Pinchy Face appearing from the aisle, I’m a shopper with a trolley again, looking firmly the other way.
“I mean, it was quite funny, babe,” Ms. Pinchy Face is saying in mollifying tones. “I think it was an honest mistake.” At once I feel an inward giggle. It wasn’t just funny, it was bloody hilarious, and I wish Steph had been there to see it.
I walk briskly round the whole store, but I can’t see any vegan turkeys and I don’t want to miss Steph. So as soon as I’m sure that Damian and Ms. Pinchy Face have left, I pay for my shopping, head for the café, and wave at her as I’m queuing for a cup of tea.
“Hi! Becky!” Her face lights up, and she waves back. “Come and join me.”
As I head to Steph’s table, I’m relieved to see that she looks a lot more cheerful than she did before.
“Christmas shopping?” I say, nodding at her bags, and she grimaces.
“Kind of. I mean, it’s only Harvey and me, and Harvey’s not wild about turkey. I’m definitely not cooking a whole turkey for myself, so…” She shrugs. “We’ll be having sausages.”
“Cool!” I say, although the picture of Steph and Harvey on Christmas Day, just the two of them, makes my heart contract. “You couldn’t get together with your family?” I venture.
“Too far. Mum’s in Leeds. And work’s manic at the moment. I’ve got to go in today, even though I’m supposed to have the day off.”
“On a Saturday?” I make a face.
“I know,” she says resignedly. “I nipped in here to stock up. Harvey’s at the babysitter’s for the