feel – just for one day – like a fairy-tale princess in her Cinderella dress, a tiara glittering away in her hair as her very own Prince Charming promised to love her for ever.
Oh. My. God, sneered the little voice in her head. You don’t truly believe all that sexist rubbish, do you?
‘Excuse me–’
Do you think women burned their bras and fought for independence so that the likes of you could carry on playing the little woman? What century are you living in?
‘Hello? Er, I wonder if–’
Geez, Willow, if Charlie wore slippers, you’re the sort of idiotic female who’d have warmed them by the fire ready for him to step into when he was home from work. Man up, girl! Be indignant! Be strong! He turned you down. How DARE he!
‘Um, can you hear me–?’
If he doesn’t want to marry you, that’s his loss, BUT for heaven’s sake start having some respect for both yourself and the sisterhood and get HIM to iron YOUR stuff, occasionally walk the vacuum around the house, put a wash on, oversee the online shop, ask if he can run YOUR bath, and generally scamper after YOU! Do you hear me?
‘Can you hear me–?’
‘Oh give me a flipping break,’ Willow snapped.
‘O-Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–’
Willow turned scarlet as she realised that a little old lady had been trying to get her attention.
‘Omigod, I’m so sorry,’ she gabbled. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to–’
A pair of cloudy blue eyes bored into hers, waiting for an answer.
‘Myself,’ said Willow, nodding away. ‘I’m in… amateur dramatics. Just rehearsing my lines.’
‘You’re very believable,’ said the little old lady.
‘Good.’
Willow gave a shaky laugh. Thank goodness Jean was busy talking to Fiona and Theresa, the other two members of staff. If Jean had overheard Willow snapping at a library visitor, there would have been hell to pay.
‘How can I help?’
‘I want to give a talk about my latest book. I can do it now, if that’s okay.’
Ah. This must be the author Jean had mentioned.
‘Fantastic,’ said Willow, dredging up a smile. ‘What’s it called.’
‘Free Willy.’
‘Really? Hasn’t that already been done? I’m sure a guy wrote it. What was his name?’ – she clicked her fingers, waiting for the info to drop into her brain – ‘got it. Keith Walker.’
‘Oh no, dear’ – the little old lady shook her head – ‘that became a movie and was about a whale. My book is about how to have a successful and rewarding sex life in your eighties. Perhaps your partner can’t perform. Or you’re widowed and don’t have anyone to perform. Or you don’t have enough pension to pay for someone to perform. Free willy. Literally.’
Willow blinked. Was this conversation actually happening?
‘I self-published the book,’ said the little old lady proudly.
‘W-Wow. Amazing,’ said Willow faintly.
What the hell was Jean playing at not properly vetting an author promotion?
‘Where are your paperbacks?’
‘It’s one of those new-fangled e-books. My granddaughter sorted out the techie side, but I have plenty of visual props.’
She shook a grocery bag, and Willow caught a glimpse of cucumbers, courgettes and aubergines.
‘Um, could you wait here a minute? I need a word with my superior.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said the little old lady cosily.
Willow shot over to Jean who was manning the enquiries desk.
‘Jean, can I have a quick word? You know that author you were talk–?’
The phone rang. Like a traffic cop, Jean’s palm shot up.
‘A member of the public is ringing this library,’ she said reverently, for all the world as if it was Her Majesty on the line. ‘Therefore, that member of the public takes priority.’
She picked up the handset, chest swelling importantly.
‘Mosley Library, good morning. How can I help you?’
‘Excuse me?’ said a voice.
Willow turned to see a pleasant looking middle-aged woman standing next to her.
‘My name is Mary Rogers. I’m a writer and here to talk about my book.’
Willow looked at the woman blankly. How many authors had Jean booked?
‘Um, could you to take a seat over there,’ said Willow, pointing to a row of hard-backed chairs. ‘My colleague will be with you shortly.’
Willow turned back in time to see Jean’s face darkening with displeasure.
‘This call is for you. It’s Charlie.’
‘Oh,’ squeaked Willow, in both fear and delight.
‘One moment, please,’ said Jean to Charlie.
She put down the handset and turned to Willow.
‘Can I remind you’ – she hissed – ‘that personal calls are not permitted during working hours, especially on the library’s phone.