I enter the Daily Discount Store in the city centre and spot a heaving queue at the checkout, with Sally, one of the cashiers, struggling to keep up. I glance at Till 3, which is temporarily out of use.
‘Isn’t Laura meant to be on the tills today?’ I ask Sally, recalling the weekly work rota.
‘She is. She went to the toilets ages ago and seems to have gone AWOL,’ she huffs, scanning a multipack of Coke from a sullen-looking teenage girl with heavily kohl-rimmed eyes.
‘Mike, can you jump on Till Two?’ I plead to one of our new recruits, a gangly eighteen-year-old college student, who’s stacking boxes of teabags in a nearby aisle.
‘Er, yeah, sure. I’ve only been shown how to use the till once though.’ He shrugs.
‘You’ll be fine. Sally’s on the next till if you have any problems.’
Sally plasters a fake smile on her face, while muttering something under her breath about only having one pair of hands.
It’s mid June and there’s a summer sale on with a lot of already low-priced goods now reduced even further, with paddling pools, glow-in-the-dark Prosecco glasses and unicorn lifesavers flying out of the door at a rate of knots. Store owner Harry, who’s also my husband, likes to keep the shop packed to the rafters with bargain goods. He’s always one to spot a deal and the storeroom is already piled high with merchandise for the winter season, including Halloween and Christmas. With Mike seemingly handling the till OK, I go in search of Harry.
‘Hi, Maisie,’ says Jane, one of the staff, her blonde ponytail swinging as she carries a box of glittery bags to the gift-wrapping aisle. ‘I thought it was your day off today.’
‘It is. I just need to talk to Harry. He’s not answering his mobile. Is he about?’
‘Umm… not sure. I saw him earlier but I think he might have nipped out.’
I make my way along the store to the offices at the back. He’s probably on the phone, trying to secure a deal for a job lot of something or other. He’s a master of negotiation, which is why the shop is usually overflowing with stock. Some of it’s easier to shift than others, even with a thirty per cent discount. There isn’t much demand for neon-coloured false eyelashes around here, unless you’re going on one of those 1980s revival weekends.
I walk into his office but he’s nowhere to be seen. There’s a half-full mug of coffee on his desk, so I figure he can’t be far. I smile at a framed photo on his desk, which shows us both laughing and wearing party hats, Harry blowing a hooter at last year’s Christmas party.
Turning left, out of the office, I notice a light on in the stockroom. I twist the handle, but find the door locked. Luckily, I’m a keyholder, so I let myself inside. I think I can hear a faint noise so I walk round the corner, passing cardboard boxes full to the brim of stock, until I am face to face with a pair of giant inflatable Santas. I don’t think the noise is coming from them. Not unless I’m losing my mind. I tentatively creep forward, before parting the smiling six-foot Santas and almost passing out.
Because Laura from Till 3 is there with Harry. And it definitely isn’t the stock that they are checking out. The colour drains out of my face and my legs turn to jelly. I want to throw up. As my heart cracks in two, I realise that my life is over.
‘So you think I’m depressed then?’
I’m sitting in my local doctor’s surgery facing Dr Jazeera, a pleasant, round-faced man with a charming smile and a set of alarmingly white teeth. The surgery is decorated with Zen posters and wooden Hindi sculptures. Let your soul shine with happiness screams the large purple poster on the cream wall.
‘It would seem so.’ Dr Jazeera nods.
‘But I don’t feel depressed.’ I have felt a little anxious about everything lately though, which is why I made the doctor’s appointment in the first place. The anxiety can sometimes be the beginning of a dark phase – and I really don’t want to go there…
‘What do you think depression feels like?’ Dr Jazeera is trying not to smile, but he just has one of those naturally jolly faces. I imagine it must be quite difficult for him to deliver bad news to a patient without appearing joyful.
I shrug.
‘The thing is, Maisie,’ he says gently. ‘From the answers you have given on the questionnaire I gave you to fill in, it seems that you don’t have much enthusiasm for life at the moment.’
‘Probably just recent circumstances.’ I sigh, thinking about what I’ve been through in the last two years.
‘I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re not quite yourself. I’ve witnessed your bouts of depression over the years, remember?’ Doc smiles gently. ‘There’s a misconception about depression. It doesn’t always involve sitting around in your nightclothes in floods of tears.’
I’ve done that too, I think to myself.
‘It can present as anxiety and a feeling of being a bit detached from the world. Sustained bouts of stress can indeed lead to depression, so you’ve done the right thing by coming to see me now before things really take hold.’
So it seems I was sensible to make the appointment. My mother died two years ago, eighteen months before my marriage folded. It was the bleakest of times. In a way I was pleased that she hadn’t been around to see the breakdown of my marriage as she would have worried about me. She was happy when I married Harry and thought he would ‘look after me’, taken in by his charming, self-assured exterior. If only she’d seen what really lay behind it. If only I had…
I barely slept after Mum died. I went to stay in my family home with Dad in the nights following her death, and was able to glean some comfort from sleeping in my old bedroom, the sights and smells of my old home so familiar. I couldn’t stay there forever though. I was a married woman.
When I returned to my house in Crosby, I felt as though everything was unravelling. Dr Jazeera prescribed some sleeping tablets for me at the time, with a warning that they could only be used on a temporary basis. True to his word I was never given a repeat prescription and that’s when I bought a dream catcher. Sounds silly, I know, but when strands of sunlight flickered through the window in the morning it brought me some comfort. It was as if Mum was watching over me.
I pulled my thoughts back to the present. ‘So, can you do anything to help me, Doctor?’
‘Hopefully, yes. If I could write prescriptions to give all my patients a month’s holiday in the sun, that’s what I would do. Sunshine has healing properties as well as a healthy amount of Vitamin D. But, as I can’t prescribe a sun-drenched holiday for you, I suggest you try some antidepressants for a while.’
‘Surely depression can’t be cured by a holiday in the sun?’
‘Well, of course it depends on the circumstances, but if the depression is stress-related then it could certainly help. A long holiday in the sun can be quite therapeutic. But, as your questionnaire seems to indicate high levels of anxiety as well as a general apathy, I certainly think a prescription for some medication is the way forward. Modern antidepressants can help a lot.’ Dr Jazeera clicks a printer that whirrs and spits out a green prescription slip. ‘And try to find something you enjoy,’ he says. ‘All work and no play isn’t good for anyone.’
Maybe I should emigrate to Australia. There’s plenty of sunshine there, although I’m not sure that I could cope with the spiders. And don’t they have the highest incidence of skin cancer in the world? There’s always a downside.
I think about Dr Jazeera’s comments. Could my anxiety be stress-related? I don’t particularly feel stressed, although perhaps those close to me would disagree. These days I can’t seem to tolerate noisy eaters, barking dogs, people loudly blowing their nose, and a plethora of other everyday nuances that ordinarily I would ignore. I went shopping with my friend Emma last week and while I normally find her dithering over which dress to buy amusing, this time it grated on my nerves somewhat. Not that I’d ever let on how I was feeling. I’ve become very good at plastering a smile on my face and never revealing my innermost thoughts.
‘Thanks, Doctor,’ I say, as I place the prescription in my bag.
I don’t want everyone knowing I’m on medication, so I decide that I’ll call in at the chemist’s in the town centre tomorrow, rather than at the chemist’s in the local shopping parade, where the assistant behind the counter is not exactly the soul of discretion. Last time I was in there she was discussing with a colleague, in a not-so-quiet voice, how a methadone programme had worked wonders on a former addict who had just left the shop.
I don’t know why I should feel embarrassed about people knowing I’m taking anti- depressants. Everyone’s supposed to talk about how they’re feeling these days, aren’t they? People are positively encouraged to share their innermost thoughts. No one will judge you… If only that were true. Definitely best to keep things to myself for the moment.
After a hard shift at work, I climb the metal staircase to my flat and flop down onto the sofa. I never expected to be renting a tiny one-bedroomed flat above a sandwich shop, which is all I can afford these days. But I didn’t have much choice after Harry and I split up and we ended up losing the house. Apparently the shops had been losing money for a long time and massive rent increases in the city certainly hadn’t helped.
My new job is really handy for work as I am employed by Our Daily Bread, the most popular sandwich shop in the area. It’s hard to believe that less than a year ago I was living in a fashionable area of Crosby, a mile up the road, in a smart three-bedroomed house. When I looked out of my bedroom window I could glimpse the sparkling sea and the outline of Antony Gormley’s iron men on the beach, a set of mysterious-looking bronze sculptures that sit in the water gazing out across the Irish Sea.
These days my window gives a view of Supersavers across the road or ‘the ten-o’clock shop’ as it’s known locally. Even though it’s open until 10 p.m., I would never venture out at that time of night as it’s the hangout for local teenagers, usually asking older shoppers if they will buy them some beer or cigarettes.
I sigh as I look round the sparsely furnished lounge. I was married to Harry Knight, who at ten years older than me I thought I would be with for the rest of my life. My ‘Knight’ in shining armour, as I thought of him. He was a self-made businessman, tall, fair-haired and well-groomed, in a slightly flash sort of way. He has twinkling blue eyes à la Paul Hollywood and a cosmetically enhanced smile that can light up a room.
I met him when I was at university in Liverpool and worked part-time in one of his shops, of which he had several dotted around the city. He was charming, witty and attentive and when he offered me a job as shop manager in one of his larger stores, all thoughts of finishing university flew out of the window – I was so excited to get on the career ladder.
Plus I was struggling a little with university life, if I’m completely honest. I found myself unable to switch off, thoughts of coursework swirling around my head at bedtime preventing me from sleeping. As the winter progressed and sleep still didn’t come, I became a neurotic mess. One bleak January day, sitting on a bench at the Pier Head overlooking the River Mersey, I began to question everything in life. Strange thoughts enveloped me as I began to wonder what it would feel like to slide under the foamy waves of the river and disappear into another world. When I returned home freezing cold later that afternoon, my mother took one look at me and chaperoned me to the doctor’s. Dr Jazeera prescribed some medication, just as he had done five years previously, when a surge of teenage hormones left me unable to cope and spending days on end in my bedroom crying. And that’s how it is for me. I can tread water for months, even years, before the lurking beast decides it’s time to drag me under for a while.
I felt a sense of relief when I left university and started working in the Daily Discount Store. I worked there for six years and loved every minute of it. You never knew what you would be selling as, alongside the usual toys, toiletries and tinned food, new lines of whacky stock would arrive almost daily. With Harry’s marketing skills (i.e. literally going out onto the pavement to charm customers inside), people soon parted with their money. Old ladies responded particularly well to Harry’s flattery, as did mothers and daughters who he would tell, ‘You two must be sisters.’ Cheesy as anything, I know, but Harry had the charm to pull it off. Once inside, shoppers bought countless things they didn’t need. Heated foot warmers, flashing Santas at Christmas, that sort of thing. He even managed to shift thousands of colour-changing toilet seats.
Just under a year ago, Harry invested nearly all of his capital in a toy that was going to be the ‘next big thing’. People would be desperate to get their hands on Demon Dragon, a flying, fire-breathing beast with flashing eyes. Forget Furbies, Hatchimals or every other craze you can think of. Demon Dragon would be the must-have Christmas toy. I had visions of it being like Turbo Man in the Christmas move Jingle All the Way when Arnold Schwarzenegger would stop at nothing to get his son the must-have toy.
Except the toy never really caught on and Harry lost every single penny. Customers who did buy the toy returned it in their droves. Apparently, it didn’t fly properly, the lights failed to flash and the supposed roaring sound sounded more like ‘a squeaking mouse’ according to consumer reviews. Harry was furious. He insisted it was a design fault and couldn’t accept that Demon Dragon, along with most of his other stock, was a load of old tat.
Not long after that our marriage went down the pan quicker than the ‘Heaven Scent’ pink lavatory cleaner that he flogged in his discount shops. Although of course it wasn’t purely because of our dire financial situation… I still can’t bear to think of the day I walked in on him in the storeroom. Especially as I’d been so looking forward to seeing him in person and delivering the good news that I’d managed to get a couple of tickets to see Bryan Adams at the Echo Arena. After discovering Harry cheating, I took my friend Emma with me instead, crying through the second half of the concert when Bryan played some slow songs and loved-up couples gazed adoringly at each other…
I thought about the last time I had really laughed. It was when Harry had fallen down the stairs in our home, having slipped on a Demon Dragon left there by his nephew Jack. He’s always been a bit accident-prone, but his fall down the stairs was such a metaphor for the failed business venture that I laughed about it for days afterwards. I was unaware at the time that the shops were haemorrhaging money, so our financial demise came as something of a shock.
Of course, losing the shops wasn’t the only reason for our marriage breakdown. That horrendous chance encounter at the store definitely had a lot to do with it. If Harry would have answered his mobile phone that day I may never have known of his little indiscretion. Having chatted to Jane in the store (the nice blonde with the swingy ponytail) it transpired that most of the women who worked in Harry’s shops had to tolerate his relentless flirting. And, of course, Laura from Till Three had actually slept with him. Turns out my loving, successful husband was a two-timing cheat.
I keep thinking of Dr Jazeera’s diagnosis. I’m not sure pills will help my current situation. Nothing will. Actually, that sounds really defeatist, doesn’t it? Maybe I am depressed. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like I had a handle on things and perhaps ending up on skid row and not being able to afford a place of my own has had an impact, especially after losing Mum. She was the person I would always turn to when I felt a bit wobbly.
‘It’s looking nice here already, isn’t it?’ said Emma, a few days after I’d moved into my flat. She’d brought some pretty multicoloured cushions to go on my stone-coloured sofa and a pair of bright red mugs from TK Maxx. ‘You’ll soon have this place like a little palace.’ She winked as she bustled off to the small kitchen to make coffee.
Emma is the most positive person you will ever meet. She always looks on the bright side of life, glass half-full and every other cliché you can think of to describe an upbeat personality. I met her – a pretty, petite brunette – at Liverpool University when we were both studying for a business degree. She was horrified when I left in my second year, but eventually conceded that as I was a shop manager I was still carving out a decent career for myself. Emma went on to finish her degree and now has a well-paid job as a business manager at a local high school. It’s a pity she couldn’t have given Harry some business advice, as he lived life by the seat of his pants and would have preferred a ‘cash only’ shop, had he not lived in fear of someone dobbing him in to the taxman.
Harry’s currently living with his poor mother, seventy-year-old Gladys, who must be thinking that Del Boy has moved in, as her front room is filled with boxes of bootleg booty for Harry to sell at the market. Apparently things are going pretty well for him. I’ve heard that people travel for miles to grab a bargain at his stall at Great Homer Street Market.
It’s Friday night and I’ve just finished an eight-hour shift at Tesco Express in Liverpool city centre, which I combine with my job downstairs in the sandwich shop. Emma is staying over tonight as her lorry-driver husband is away on a European trip.
‘How was your day?’ she asks once I’ve returned to the lounge after having nipped to the bedroom and done a quick change out of my Tesco overalls into a long white T-shirt and black leggings.
‘Not too bad,’ I say, flopping down onto the sofa again. ‘I spotted a shoplifter nicking a box of coffee pods.’
‘I don’t blame them,’ Emma says, laughing. ‘The price of those things is extortionate.’
‘Are you condoning shoplifting, Emma? You’re one of the most upright pillars of the community.’
‘Since when?!’
I take a large glug of white wine. ‘Mmm, that’s nice,’ I say, looking at the label on the bottle. ‘That’s not one of ours, is it?’
‘Co-op. Three quid off the original price, so I bought two bottles,’ she says with a grin.
‘This is why you are my best friend,’ I reply, curling my feet up onto the sofa and savouring the delicious apple and floral flavours of the wine.
A few minutes later there’s a knock at the front door as our Chinese takeaway is delivered.
‘I’m not sure I should be drinking this really, while I’m on medication,’ I say, holding my wine glass up and peering at the straw-coloured liquid.
‘What medication?’ asks Emma, in surprise.
‘Antidepressants. I’ve been on them for three weeks.’ I put down my wine glass and pick up my fork. I wrap some noodles from an aromatic chicken chow mein around it and eat them hungrily.
‘I didn’t know you were depressed,’ she says, a look of concern on her face.
‘Well, that’s just it, I don’t think I am. A bit lacking in patience maybe, even a little stressed, but not particularly depressed. I’m still managing to function. The doc was concerned that my anxiety could develop into a low mood, so he prescribed some tablets. He knows my history, so I have to trust him.’
‘I wish you’d said something to me,’ says Emma, looking slightly hurt.
There was a reason I hadn’t told Emma. As I’ve already mentioned, she is the world’s most upbeat person, who would probably have decided to make it her life’s mission to restore my happiness, whereas I just wanted to carry on as usual and talk a. . .
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