A Penny For My Thoughts

Chapter 1: Oh, God

May 27, 1978.

Location: Emma's.

Stress level: Very high

How can one person handle so much stress? On top of everything else, I'm baby-sitting for my friend Emma. She has a three-year-old and a two-year-old--Isabella, who's always got some demand, and Sophia, the baby, who constantly rearranges and breaks her mother's knickknacks.

Presently, Isabella--or Bella, as most everyone calls her--is trying to convince me that a chocolate muffin is a suitable substitute for her dinner.

“But I don't like chicken nuggets,” she whined. “I want a big piece of that yummy muffin.”

“Sorry, kid,” I said distractedly while snatching a pen from Sophia's hand; she'd nearly colored on Em's antique wooden chair. “No muffin until you finish your real dinner. Your mum said so, remember?”

Sophia climbed into my lap and began playing with my hair.

“Why do you get a muffin and not me?” protested Bella again. “That's not fair.”

“I ate my dinner,” I pointed out. “Besides, I'm grown up. I'm my own boss.”

“I'm my own boss too,” decided Bella with a smile. “So can I have some muffin now?”

We stared at each other for a second or two. She looked so determined.

“Nice try, Bella,” I said, smiling. “Eat your chicken.”

I will never procreate, ever. Not even if they paid me. The only reason I agreed to watch the girls in the first place is that Emma has an inventorying job to do. She makes about 150 quid a store, which isn't bad at all considering she does about fifteen of them a month in addition to her regular job. Emma's doing wonderfully for a newly single mother. Lately, she's even stopped her weekly meltdown in which she goes over every reason she and Doug split up, and wallows in self-pity while I offer what words of comfort I can and put on the kettle.

She should be glad Doug's gone, I always tell her. He had a terrible gambling problem and we're nearly certain he was cheating on her. Em told me how differently he behaved toward he after the babies were born. It made her feel really unattractive. But she's not. She's gorgeous; she only needs to lose some of her baby weight.

I'd never ever tell this to anyone, but I set the numbers back on her scale to lift her spirits a bit. When she weighs herself now, she comes out 2 kilograms lighter. What else are friends for? I wish I had someone dogging my steps and making me feel better. I could really use it right now.

You see, my love life isn't exactly healthy either. It's quite near run its course. At least that's how I feel. Irving, on the other hand, seems to think our problems are perfectly mendable. That's his name, by the way. Irving Gallagher. Hearing his name used to make me so happy. In the beginning of our relationship, I'd rush home from work to call him and we'd chat for hours. We could talk about anything--our parents, useless people, good books, our favorite restaurants, and even sex. Not that we ever had sex. Seriously, though, I wasn't joking and I'm very glad for that. I would've regretted it.

Recently I found out some pretty scummy things about Irving. Things I wish I'd known earlier, before I'd wasted so much of my time trying to be his girlfriend. Two years ago when were eighteen and met, he'd felt nervous about kissing me. Well, after three months of nothing, I'll admit I was frustrated. I began to worry if it was because I wasn't pretty, or if he'd stopped liking me. So I pressured him, along with a few of my friends, who decided to join in.

This made the situation much worse, until he told me a week later about a childhood experience that had supposedly contributed to his anxiety. He said he'd known this girl when he was eight who'd convinced him to snog her. Later, she went and told her father that Irving had forced her into the whole thing, and her family then took him to court. Upon hearing this, I felt like a complete ass for bothering him so much about it. I even pitied him for this girl's actions. Everything between us was all right for a while after that, though we've always fought 70 of the time.

But two months ago when we were on the phone, he mentioned me being his first kiss. His whole story unraveled then. He'd lied about the girl and the lawsuit. The story was only a cover-up, meant to make me feel guilty for nagging him and to buy him time to ease his nerves about snogging me. When, between urges to both vomit and scream at him, I asked him why on earth he'd never told me this before, he replied with, “There was never really a time I could've mentioned it.”

BullSHIT, I wanted to retort. Two years! He couldn't bloody find time to mention it in two years? Now don't get me wrong, I don't care if he ever did snog the girl; his lie broke my heart. This man, who I thought was my best friend, who I'd invested so much time in, into whom I'd poured my soul and my love, was a liar. A liar with a horrible excuse, I might add. I've never looked at him the same since.

My parents believed him too. I didn't feel that I could lie to them about Irving's lawsuit, so when they asked the usual, “He hasn't been to jail, has he?” I told them. At first, they thought he was some sort of rapist, and advised me to break up with him. But I trusted him. Still, they demanded an explanation from him, so I brought him home and he threw a story together. I told mum that the story was a fake the night I found out about his lie. She gave me the most pitying look I've ever seen and said, “Honey, you don't really believe that do you? He's a liar and a delinquent. I warned you about him.”

He's been trying so hard to rekindle our flame lately. I can't count the number of times he's apologized and cried and spewed out these long, redundant speeches with phrases like, “I can't change what I've done, but I can improve our future.” Yeah. How many times have I heard that one?

Sometimes I come so close to just yelling, “We're through, Irving!” because we fight more than ever now. We've lost our sparkle and friendship. We're too polite to one another, too afraid to act like we used to that we piss each other off. But I never pluck up the courage to open my mouth. I'm too scared to be separated from him. I've built my entire adult life around him. I'm completely unhappy with him, but part of me feels I'll be worse off if I leave.

You want to hear the worst part? I'm in love. That's the only thing keeping me sane. The man in question is the most amazing person I've ever met. He shares most of my interests, unlike Irving who likes to pass his evenings watching wrestling matches, finds my writing hilarious and deep, matches my sense of humor, and behaves all-around identical to me that it's uncanny.

I bet you're wondering, why don't you just run off with this man, then? He's loads better suited for you than Irving.

I wish I could. I face, however, two problems:

1. He's my boss

2. He's engaged

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Chapter 2: Bloody Hell

May 28, 1978

Location: Work

Stress Level: Let's not talk about it.

So, where did I leave you off? Oh, right. I just told you about my boss. I'm a little embarrassed writing all this down. Do you ever get the feeling that there's someone reading over your shoulder, even when you know nobody else is in the room? I get that feeling all the time. It took me forever last night to finish writing about Irving, because I was so frightened he'd tiptoed into the bedroom somehow, and I'd find him behind me screeching, “Your boss?! You're in love with your boss?!”

I have a teensy bit of an overactive imagination, as I'm sure you can tell.

Only about twenty minutes left until work. I'm finishing up my usual egg and cheese croissant and a peanut butter shake in my favorite coffee shop downtown, Worcester Gourmet Coffee House. I work downtown, so Worcester is extremely convenient.

Argh...I hate the walk to the library. It's only three blocks away from Worcester, but morning traffic is so terrible that my walk takes me four times as long as it should. When I finally entered Reigate Library, Trudy, my friend Sherry's boss and my superior, was glaring at me from behind the circulation desk.

“You're late, Lily,” she said crossly. “Third time this month! I'll have to report you to Laney if it happens again.” She wagged her finger at me as though I were a naughty child.

“Be my guest,” I muttered before walking off to the children's department, where I work. Ironic, really, since I rather dislike children.

“Lily!” said Sherry cheerfully, waving from behind the children's desk. Yes! Sherry was working children's with me! Sherry normally works in the AV department, but since the library is short-handed as a whole, she bounces around a lot. I don't see why Sherry even needed to be on the desk. The library had just opened; no children were in our department yet.

“Sherry! Good morning!” I replied, grinning, and dropped my bag behind the desk. I leaned toward Sherry, glanced over my shoulder, then whispered, “Caroline hasn't been here yet, has she?”

“Not yet,” answered Sherry. “But you should busy yourself before she rushes over.”

I snorted. “That's the only time she ever rushes, when she wants to assign me a job. She'd order someone to rush for her if she could.”

Caroline is our coworker. She's only a library assistant 1, the lowest position next to being a volunteer, yet she acts like she's the assistant regional librarian. Her job is to come up with arts and crafts and then set them up for children's activities. Except rather than putting them all together herself, she creates an `example' and then brings the supplies to me, like I'm some volunteer.

“How long are you on the desk?” I asked.

Sherry glanced at the clock. “Five more minutes. Laney's taking over when she gets here.” Laney is my boss, the head of the children's department. I have several bosses; Laney's the lowest ranking of them.

“Sherry, we know each other well enough to have a serious discussion about men, right?” I asked while cutting bookmark patterns with the slicing tool.

Sherry smiled. “Yeah, I think so.”

Sherry had been married and divorced twice, and her children were both at least ten years older than me. She may not have been overly successful in love, but she gave good advice and I trusted her judgment.

I set down the book mark patterns, glanced at the floor, then back up at Sherry. “Have you ever had a...thing for an older man?”

“Of course,” said Sherry, laughing. “What woman hasn't?”

I nodded. “Okay, well...have you ever fancied an engaged man before?” I braced myself for the reaction.

Sherry stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Might've. I can't remember; I'm getting old.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fifty-four is not that old, Sher. Besides, you don't look a day over thirty-five.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Sherry with a giggle, and swatted me on my shoulder. “My Christmas list this year will be `Lily, Lily, Lily' all down the page after that one.”

“Well, you have nice skin,” I said earnestly. “Wonderful skin. I hope I have the same luck when I'm older.”

Sherry blushed and smiled. “So who's this man?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. What should I do about him being engaged?”

“Back off,” she advised. “He's committed himself to his fiancée.”

I hesitated for a moment. “But what if he's been sending me signs that he finds me attractive?”

Sherry cocked an eyebrow. “Has he? What kinds of signs? I want to hear this.”

At the thought of him, I smiled. “The smallest one is that he stares at me a lot. When we're in the same room, I always catch him glancing my way, and when he catches my eye, he'll either look away instantly, or hold my gaze for a few seconds. Then, during a party we were at, he mentioned that the friend I brought didn't really look like she wanted to be there. I told him he was right, that I'd made her come to get her out of the house, and he said, `Well, that's good. I mean, I'm glad you came.'

“Curious,” said Sherry, “but don't you think those things could be just normal behavior?”

“I have more,” I said bashfully.

“Of course. Excuse my interruption,” she apologized.

“No problem.” I waved it away. “Another example would be--”

A high-pitched giggle cut me off. Running past the desk went a child of about four. He held a lit wand above his head like it was an Olympic torch.

“Excuse me, young man,” began Sherry, rising from her chair. “Where did you get--?”

“CHARLES JEFFREY GINSBURG!” yelled the voice of a flustered young woman; a moment later, she materialized in front of the desk, panting from having run down the staircase from the second floor. She paused for only an instant to glance at the two harassed-looking employees behind the desk.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” I tried, but the woman's bellows drowned me out.

“Don't-you-EVER-take-mummy's-wand-again!” growled the woman through gritted teeth, accenting each word with a hard swat on the youngster's bottom. He no longer oozed triumph; rather, he oozed tears.

All onlookers felt frightened at the display. Even Trudy--that cow--was visibly appalled with the boy's punishment; the circulation desk, from certain vantage points, provided a view to the children's department.

“Lady, I'm going to have to call security,” said Sherry. She waved over the bored guard, who had been leaning against the wall, attempting to crack a walnut with his teeth.

The security guard escorted the protesting woman and her sobbing child to the front doors. A second later, Laney appeared.

“You can return to AV.,” she told Sherry. Sherry nodded and stood up from the chair.

“See you,” I mumbled, disappointed. Confusion and depression filled me, and I suddenly felt too tired to deal with work. In a matter of seconds, I transformed from happy, excited Lily to an android version of myself. For a few minutes, I felt almost certain that my dilemma would end, that Sherry, with her greater experience, would present me with a solution I had failed to conceive. Sadly, I was mistaken. Tonight I'd return home to Irving, as usual, to face his annoying attempts at romance.

“--amazing the sorts of loonies we get in here, isn't it?” Laney was saying, shaking her head in dismay.

“Yeah,” I said halfheartedly.

“Well,” said Laney crisply, reverting to her business-like tone. “I have a job for you.”

Splendid, I thought bitterly. (Aren't I too young to be bitter?)

“What is it?” I asked, correcting my slouch. I'd been leaning on my elbow against the desk, twirling the eraser end of a pencil on the surface absently.

She handed me an envelope. “This came from The Friends this morning; it's their response to our request to buy more books. Mr. Potter needs to sign the enclosed form to complete the transaction. Got that?”

I frowned. Of course I've got it! I thought scathingly. I'm twenty years old, not six!

“I think so,” I said in falsely sweet tones, and speed-walked out of the children's department.

I stared at the envelope, smiling. This definitely improved my morning. Happy, excited Lily broke through her android exterior, and as a result I found myself nearly skipping up the stairs humming “One Fine Day.”

Mr. Potter's office resided on the second floor of Reigate Library. He was the only one of us whose office was an actual room. That's because, unlike Caroline, he was the assistant regional librarian, the most senior one can be without being on the board of directors. When I arrived at his lovely walled-in office, I saw that it was dark. Was Mr. Potter not coming in today? Perhaps he was just in a meeting or something. Desperate to do anything but the menial tasks Laney undoubtedly had in store for me, I committed myself to wait around for ten minutes to see if he showed up.

Ten minutes later, after becoming so bored that I'd begun to count the checks on a nearby woman's jacket, I stood to leave, tired of waiting, even for someone as pleasant as Mr. Potter. Android Lily started to take over when I noticed a figure making its way toward Mr. Potter's office. I grinned; it was him! He didn't look happy, though.

As he neared the office, he spotted me and smiled. “Lily. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “I brought a letter for you.” I held it out. “It's from The Friends of the library.”

He took the envelope and pocketed it without opening it. While unlocking his door, he said, “And you brought yourself. Come on in, Lily.”

Pondering the potential meaning of his former statement, I followed him into his office. I'd been there countless times before, sometimes to discuss library business (which, admittedly, wasn't that often), but mainly just to chat. His office's only distinguishing feature was the pile of CDs on his desk: Abba, the Bee Gees, the Carpenters, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Elton John, Terry Jacks, John Denver, and Mary MacGregor. He liked the same type of Muggle music as me.

I made myself comfortable in a chair in front of his desk. He unpacked his things in a distracted sort of way, getting ready for work. The troubled wrinkles returned to his forehead. My curiosity got the better of me.

“Mr. Potter, is anything wrong?” I said tentatively. “You seem a little...bothered.” I anxiously awaited his response, wondering if I'd crossed some sort of boss/employee line.

His back faced me. When he heard my query, he hung his head for a moment, the way people do when they're really vexed. Then he turned around.

“There is, actually,” he admitted. “But it's pretty heavy.”

I wanted so badly to know. “Well,” I said, sounding awkward, “if you need someone to talk to...”

He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, facing me across the desk as he always did when we talked. Only this time it was different. It felt more like we were friends. He ran his hand nervously through his hair and stared about the room a bit before he started.

“I told you about my fiancée Melissa, right?” he asked.

Like I could ever forget her. “I think maybe you mentioned her a few times,” I said.

He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Please, if this is going to be too much for you, stop me now. I don't want to drag you into this.”

“It's no trouble to listen,” I assured him. “My friend Emma is going through a divorce. I always talk to her about relationships. I'm an old hand at this.”

He gave me a grateful smile. “You're a good friend.”

A feeling of warmth coursed through me. I smiled.

“Things have changed between Melissa and me since we got engaged,” he said. His smile had vanished. “I don't know if I've started picking up more on her personality, or if she's been acting different lately. When we were just dating, she was confident, fun, and very...`take charge', if that makes any sense. I was in awe of her. She always knew what to do; she never missed a beat.” He paused, mulling something over. “She still is that way, I suppose, but in a different way. Now it's like she unzipped some sort of suit she was wearing and out came this frightening version of Melissa. She's turned our wedding into a project. I never realized what a planner she is until recently.” He sighed. “I guess I should have expected this. She's a barrister; she has a job on Fleet Street. Barristers approach everything as projects.” He paused again, looking a little guilty, but at the same time, relieved.

“Maybe you didn't notice because you weren't spending as much time together before?” I said, not wanting him to be too hard on himself. I felt ashamed at the part of me that was glad for their problems.

“Perhaps that's it,” he said thoughtfully, “but what if she wasn't being entirely...real before?”

“It's possible,” I said, taking note that the thought seemed to distress him.

“Melissa's always so jittery and she can never just relax, you know? I honestly think she doesn't know how to. And she never seems comfortable in her own skin, either. She's always complaining about her body. It's really starting to bug me. I feel like I'm with a totally different person.”

For a moment I sat in silence, taking it all in. “This is heavy.”

He laughed, surprised at my remark. “You don't have to come up with any advice if you don't want to. It was nice enough that you listened.”

“Have you talked about your concerns with her?” I said determinedly, wanting to be of use.

“No,” he confessed. “I've been trying to convince myself that this all has to do with us being engaged now, that there's not actually anything wrong.”

“Maybe you should talk to her,” I suggested. “I think it will help.”

He ran his hand through his hair again, causing it to look even messier than it already was. “You think so? I just don't want to upset her...she's always under so much pressure....”

“Also,” I said more confidently, glad for the amount of women's magazines I read, “think about the good and bad times you've had with Melissa and see which group outweighs the other. That might help you feel better about your relationship, if the good outweighs the bad.”

“That's a good idea, too,” said Mr. Potter. “Thanks, Lily, for all you've done. It's great to have a friend at work I can talk to. Nobody else here has tried to get to know me like you have.”

I tried to come off like our talks didn't mean the world to me. “It's no problem, Mr. Potter. I enjoy talking to you. I hope things get better for you with Melissa.”

My forced wishes of success fooled him. He smiled at me. “I hope so too.”

There was a pause. I felt as though I should go back downstairs. I started to leave. “Goodbye, Mr. Potter.”

He watched me walk to the door. “Goodbye, Lily.” My hand had just wrapped around the doorknob when he added, “By the way, you can call me James. We've known each other long enough for that.”

- - -

Location: Emma's

Time: Evening

“He said you could call him James?” said Emma excitedly. She was sitting beside Sophia's high chair, trying to convince her to eat some mushy green goop. Bella was using her dinner to create a cesspit beside me at the table, unnoticed by her mother. “Well, that's progress, isn't it?”

Emma was always encouraging me when it came to my boss. Okay...James. It feels so odd to refer to him as James. This will take some getting used to.

“I suppose it is,” I said, “but Em, he's engaged, for the five-thousandth time! There's no hope for me.”

“Engaged is not married,” said Emma with a naughty smile. “Besides, you said he and what's-her-face are having issues.” Suddenly, Emma frowned. Sophia was determinedly squeezing her lips shut. She wasn't having any of that green junk. “Oh, bloody hell, Sophia, just eat one spoonful of peas, won't you?”

“Ooh, Mummy,” said Bella in an admonishing tone. “You're not supposed to say naughty words!”

Emma and I exchanged a look. I was trying not to laugh, but Emma didn't appear to appreciate her daughter's criticism.

“Anyway, Em,” I continued, “I am not going to throw myself at him, especially not after our talk today! He's clearly very confused about his relationship and he doesn't need me in the mix buggering it all up.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You are too good. Being good is all right sometimes, but Lily, you've got to go after the things you want, and you know you want him.”

I blushed at her choice of words. “Yes, I know, but I just can't bring myself to interfere like that. It's not me. If we were to ever get together - and I fully believe this will never happen - I want it to be because he chose me, not because I schemed to ruin his relationship.”

“I'm not saying you should ruin his relationship,” Emma amended. “I just think you should make it a bit clearer how you feel about him. Don't be so `just friends' all the time. Give him something to really think about.”

I sighed. Emma is my best friend and all, but sometimes I just can't get through to her. She thinks everyone should be assertive and sexy and confident all the time like she is. I'm sure she meant well by her advice, but none of it ever really helped when it came to James. I think she enjoyed giving me advice for a change. I was usually the one talking with her about getting over Doug.

I glanced at the clock. It was seven-thirty. Irving would be wondering where I was. We'd moved in together during the last month, despite our problems. He suggested it. He said it would bring us together. It hadn't worked yet.

I stood and began to gather my things. “I'd better go, Em. Irving will have dinner ready by now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He's cooking for you now, is he?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling guilty, “he's been trying so hard lately.”

Emma waved her hand dismissively. She didn't care at all for Irving.

“Enjoy your romantic evening!” she said with a smirk.

At that moment, Sophia spat out the peas Emma had just gotten her to put in her mouth. They got all down Emma's front. I can't say I was sorry to see it after that remark.

O O O

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Chapter 3: Cor Blimey

Still May 28, 1978.

Still miserable.

Location: Home.

As I made my way home from Emma's, I felt my happiness from my workday dry up. Dreams of a relationship with James were my sustenance. My hope that somewhere in the future laid a life of love and joy and fulfillment, belonging completely to me, was the only reason I could live through being at home with Irving every night.

It's not that I don't appreciate his efforts. They're sweet, really they are, and sometimes I am overcome with guilt from my efforts to avoid him. But perhaps he should have tried this hard in the beginning of our relationship. I never used to let the thought of another man enter my mind. I used to be wholly content with the state of things. Now I can't trust Irving. Maybe it's a character flaw of mine that I'm unable to move past this, but I am inclined to agree with Mr. Darcy's sentiment that my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.

Irving was cross when I got home. He sat at the dining room table poking lazily at his partially eaten portion of roast chicken, undoubtedly trying to keep it on his plate long enough for me to join him.

He frowned at me. “Where have you been?”

I sat down at the opposite end of the table from him, placing my things by my feet. “I was at Emma's,” I said, beginning to eat. I avoided his eyes. I knew what was coming.

“Emma's,” he said disdainfully. “You're always at Emma's.”

“She is my best friend,” I pointed out. “Besides, she's going through a rough time. You know that.”

“Well, why can't she go to a therapist, or something? Doesn't she know you've got your own life?”

“You're being really insensitive.”

“I only wish that you'd come straight home after work more often,” he said. “I'd like to spend more time with you.” He was obviously trying hard to be pleasant.

The rest of our dinner passed mostly in silence, with the exception of our usual inquiry to each other: how was your day?

I absolutely hated that question. The truthful answer was that it was arse-numbingly dull, if you don't count my conversation with my boss, who I adore, even though he's about eight years older than me and is with another woman, and he happens to make me happier than you ever have, just by being in the same room as me.

However, I assume that wouldn't go over too well. So I always tell him it was fine, and then I share a pointless anecdote from the day so that he doesn't feel like I never talk to him. And here's the kicker - he thinks I enjoy my job. He thinks I'm happy.

I really should stop talking about my predicament with Irving. It makes me feel more pathetic to see it written out on paper like this.

But I suppose I have to share with you this next part, what he did after dinner, because things like this are the reason I can never manage to break up with him. They make me think that one day, when I'm over my boss, Irving and I might have a great relationship.

“I bought these for you today,” he said sheepishly, approaching me at the sink where I stood washing dishes. He brought out a bouquet of assorted flowers from behind his back, looking pleased with himself. I accepted them with a smile, reminding myself to hug him.

“Thanks, Irving. This was really thoughtful of you.” I made sure to smell them as I hunted for a vase; after all, what else can you do with flowers?

“It was no trouble,” he assured me. “The flower cart in front of my building was having a sale.”

“Oh,” I remarked. How romantic.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, standing behind me at the sink. I'd started washing dishes again. He rested his head on my shoulder. I closed my eyes, wanting him off. I was glad that he couldn't see my face.

“Why don't you sleep in my bed tonight?” he said, trying to sound sexy.

I forgot to mention: Irving and I have separate beds, like Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. I told him that I didn't want to sleep with anyone before I get married. I haven't actually decided if this is what I want to do, but it's been working for me. Most of the time I don't even sleep in the same room with him, especially when he tries to get me into his bed. I always invent some chore that I must do, and afterwards I go to the living room where I watch the telly until I fall asleep on the couch.

I pretended to act disappointed. “Oh, gosh, Irving, I can't. I have to take a shower and then I have to read this book Laney made me take home. It's for a project that's coming up, I think.”

I hated lying to him. I rarely told him an outright lie.

“Oh, come on,” he pressed. “You can read it tomorrow.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Impossible. She told me it had to be done tonight.”

He let go of my waist, accepting his defeat. “All right,” he said. “I'll be in the bedroom if you need me.”

I never did. As a strict rule, I never entered our bedroom after refusing him sex. I shudder to think of what goes on in there when he's alone.

- - -

May 29, 1978.

Location: Work

Just got into work. I'm on the desk in the children's department, waiting for Sherry to arrive for a chat. She said she'd be over at 8:00, so barring any unforeseen tragedies, she should turn up in about five minutes. I'll shelve some books while I wait.

When Sherry turned up, she was a few minutes late. She was carrying a large cardboard box.

“Sorry,” she said, dropping the box on the desktop. It sounded heavy. “Caroline called me into the back to give me this. It's for you to deliver to Mr. Potter.”

A pleasant tingle went through my body.

“She's such a cow,” Sherry went on. “She could have delivered it herself.”

“I don't mind,” I said quickly.

Sherry raised her eyebrows. “Since when? You hate Caroline's chores.”

“Well, er, I'm just...in a good mood today, I guess,” I said, making a quick save.

“Oh? Heard good news from your secret love, have you?” said Sherry.

I felt myself go red. “Sherry, stop it!”

She chuckled. “I'm only teasing, love.” After a pause, she added, “So, are you going to tell me who this mystery man is, or not?”

I plopped onto the chair behind the desk, considering her request. “Okay, I'll tell you, but you have to promise that you won't tell a soul! And you can't tease me when he comes round,” I warned her. “I don't want to be completely obvious in my affections for him.”

“Are you saying that I know this bloke?” asked Sherry incredulously. “Is he a patron?”

Right as I was going to answer her, Caroline stalked up to the desk. Her eyes fell upon the cardboard box.

“Lily, why haven't you taken this box to Mr. Potter's office yet?”

“I was busy shelving books. I haven't got around to it yet.”

Caroline perched her hands on her hips. “You seem to be unoccupied at the moment.”

I stood up. “All right, all right.” I pulled the box toward me. “I'm taking it.”

Even though it was mostly Caroline's chores that allowed me to establish my friendship with James, I had to pretend that they were an annoyance. Otherwise, I might spoil our dynamic.

I mouthed `goodbye' to Sherry, who looked annoyed at Caroline's interruption. I knew she was dying to know who I fancied. Lugging that box upstairs would have been a nightmare, so I took the elevator instead. This time, his office was all lit up when I arrived. I was having trouble trying to support the box with one arm, so instead of knocking, I hit the door as gently as possible with the box.

“Hello,” he said when he opened the door, beaming at me as usual. “Here, let me take that.”

Carefully, I transferred the box to him. His hand brushed mine in the process. It was warm and soft and lovely. He put the box behind his desk. I noticed that he still seemed melancholy.

“Did you and Melissa have a chance to talk yesterday?” I asked.

He sighed. “No. She was packing for a business trip when I got home. I didn't want to send her off on an unhappy note.”

He was so good.

“That's too bad,” I told him. “How long is she gone for?”

“Three days.”

“So did you try my other suggestion?” I continued. He nodded. “How did it go?”

“The good and the bad times are about even,” he admitted. “I tallied them up yesterday at work. I was really counting on talking with her.”

I wanted to say something to him to make him feel better. An impulsive thought flitted into my head, and before I could talk myself out of it, I blurted,

“You're not the only one with trouble in paradise.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said earnestly. He sat down at his desk. “You can take a seat if you'd like to talk about it. I'm no agony aunt, but I'd be glad to listen.”

His invitation was too appealing. My instincts told me he would understand my misery. I sat down. Then I told him the whole sad story. Well, most of it, anyway. Naturally I excluded the bit about being in love with him. It felt surprisingly therapeutic to share the details of my dysfunctional relationship with him. This was a whole different experience compared to talking with Emma or Sherry. They, especially Emma, were always trying to throw in their two cents' worth, but James sat silently and listened until I finished.

“Blimey, Lily,” he said in amazement.

“I know,” I said. “I'm totally pathetic.”

“I don't think you're pathetic.”

I am not one to let myself off the hook easily. “I can't make myself leave a man who I don't love, and who I have no desire to be with. How is that anything but pathetic?”

He rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. “I think part of you wonders if things might improve in the future, so you're afraid to leave just yet. Also, you've been with him for a long time. You two have a routine, and you're obviously attached to him, even if you don't feel like you are.”

For a moment, I was unable to speak. “Wow. No one has ever laid it out to me like that before. You're better at this than you think.”

His expression became modest. “I suppose I just know where you're coming from, that's all.”

It registered with me then how long I'd been on my errand. I'd talked with James for nearly a half-hour.

“I've really lost track of time,” I said, dreading Laney's scolding. “They'll be wondering what's kept me so long.”

James smiled for the first time since he'd let me in. “Tell them we've been discussing county funding programs.”

I giggled.

“Hey, Lily, I was thinking,” he said. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? It might cheer us both up to be each other's company.”

Those words flipped on a switch in my body. Right away, I felt energized, excited, happy.

I played down my exuberance. “Well, it would save me the trouble of dodging Irving tonight.”

He grinned. “Does that mean you accept?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

O O O

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Chapter 4: Bollocks

May 29, 1978

Location: Emma's.

I never had a happier workday than today. Laney yelled at me for tarrying upstairs, I worked the children's desk with Trudy the Cow, and Caroline ordered me to cut out sixteen sets of the alphabet on the Ellison machine for a craft project. I couldn't stop smiling. I was going to James's house.

Irving hadn't got home yet when I arrived, so I wrote him a note explaining where I would be for the evening. He could hardly be cross with me for having dinner with my boss.

Irving's lucky absence from our flat made sneaking out my three outfit options much easier. I packed my loot in a small suitcase and went to Emma's, where I am now. The two of us are concocting the perfect outfit. I brought two Muggle outfits and some robes as the third option, just in case. Witches and wizards had adopted Muggle clothes in the early seventies for everyday use. They're easier to manage than robes and they help us blend in when we're in the Muggle world, which is most of the time. Even though I live in Reigate, an all-magical city, I rarely wear robes. They're so bulky. Muggle clothes are a better match for me.

My first choice was dressier, a grey skirt I'd borrowed from my only suit and this black, short-sleeved tunic thing Emma gave me for my birthday. The other outfit was casual: blue jeans and a checkered tank top. Emma was frowning at both of them. She'd ignored the robes entirely.

“Well,” she said finally. “You haven't given me much to work with.”

Emma is never satisfied with clothes I pick out. I'll admit, she's about 10,000 times more fashionable than me, but she doesn't have to be so overt about it. She's basically banned me from buying clothes for her.

“Is there nothing you can do?” I felt like I was talking to a doctor.

She picked up the black top and looked it over. After a brief moment of consideration, she laid it over the jeans.

“This is the best choice you've got,” she said, indicating her creation.

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you pick the top you bought me.”

She smiled. “It is lovely. Now put it on - it's nearly six thirty!”

James asked me to come over at seven. Emma only lives three blocks away from him, so I can't see why she's worried about the time. Perhaps because I'm walking? I never Apparate. The first time I tried it, I splinched myself. Those were the most frightening twelve minutes of my life. Call my fear silly if you must, but that's just the way it is.

I surveyed myself in the mirror once I finished dressing. I have to hand it to Emma, she knows her stuff. She captured exactly what I wanted in my outfit - it was casual, and I appeared to have put in exactly the right amount of effort. I don't want to give the impression that I think this is a date.

Emma re-entered the room after going to fetch something from the bathroom. She had her make-up case.

“Absolutely not!” I said before she could open her mouth.

“But why, Lily? I'll make you look gorgeous.”

“That would be too much. I can't show up to his place dressed for a date!”

“Lots of women wear make-up when they go out, Lily,” she said, opening the case.

I looked at my watch. “It's six thirty-eight, anyway. I should leave now. We don't have time.”

Emma looked as though she would challenge me. Then with a sigh, she closed the case. “Fine.” Her expression softened and she moved forward to hug me. “Have fun tonight.” She pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “And be good.”

“Emma!”

She grinned. “I'm only joking. I know what a goody two-shoes you are.”

“I respect the fact that he's engaged,” I said with dignity.

Emma raised her eyebrows and smirked. Oh, like she can talk. I ought to tell you how she and Doug met. But right now, I've got to go!

- - -

I didn't want my nerves to build up beyond control on the walk to James's, so I brought along my Rubik's Cube to keep my mind off the subject. In all my years of playing with those blasted cubes to calm my nerves, I have never once solved one. Muggles definitely know how to make a person go bonkers.

I arrived at his house with four minutes to spare. The place was nothing fancy, but it was charming. You could tell a woman lived there by the overly floral garden, the frilled curtains in the windows, and the knick-knacks in the front yard. I wondered briefly how Melissa would feel if she knew I was coming over tonight.

I knocked on the front door. A dog barked inside. I heard it bound to the front door along with a pair of human feet. James opened the door, holding the collar of a beautiful Irish setter. A delicious smell wafted toward me.

“Hello,” he said with a smile, struggling to restrain his energetic dog. “Murray is very excited to have a guest.”

I laughed. “He's very cute. Would you mind if I pet him?”

“Sure, go ahead. He might jump on you, though.”

I knelt down and pet his head. He was friendly; he didn't jump. When he licked my face, I was glad that I refused Emma's offer of make-up.

“I'm sorry,” said James quickly, as I wiped my face. “Let me put him out back and I'll get you a towel. Come in.”

I stepped into the foyer. I watched James walk to the back of the house where sliding glass doors led to the backyard. He wore casual clothes, too, unlike the black creased pants and starched, button-up shirts he wore to work. As I glanced around the house, I noticed that his bedroom door was ajar. I couldn't resist. I might never be in his house again, after all.

Four brooms were mounted on the walls. Each had broken. A plaque inscribed with a year and the names of two Hogwarts houses hung under every broom. `Gryffindor Victory' was written at the bottom of the plaques. I never knew James played Quidditch at school, but he had told me about being a Gryffindor like me. He must have been a Chaser, because a big red Quaffle hung amongst the brooms. There were also several Quidditch uniforms on the walls, although only one of them came from Hogwarts.

Melissa appeared to have claimed the rest of the room. There was an ironing board, a sewing machine, and “shabby chic” furniture; shabby chic is a terrible new fad where people deliberately buy or make furniture that looks like rubbish.

“Taking a self-guided tour of my house, are you?” James was behind me, extending a small towel. He looked amused rather than angry.

“I'm sorry,” I said, feeling ashamed. “I'm so nosy.”

“It's all right,” he assured me. “I should be apologizing to you for Melissa's furniture.”

I wanted to be polite. “It's not...that bad.”

James raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, all right. It is. I don't even think my grandmother would buy it.”

James laughed. “I've never heard you say anything mean before.”

Suddenly I felt bad. “I'm sorry. That was a bit mean.”

James waved my apology away. “Don't be. I completely agree. I don't complain though, since she lets me tack up all my Quidditch junk.”

“It's not junk!” I protested. “You won all those games! I bet you were really good.”

James shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, shall we go to the dining room? Dinner is ready.”

This was certainly curious behavior. I couldn't understand why he would display his Quidditch things on the walls and then deny his achievements. I resolved to solve this mystery by the end of the night.

For dinner, James served bangers and mash. Bangers and mash, in case you are not familiar with this pub classic, is sausages and mashed potatoes with onion gravy, and it is my absolute favorite food.

“I hope you don't mind the pub grub,” said James apologetically as we sat down. “I'm not much of a cook.”

“Me either,” I said with a smile. “That's why I love bangers and mash.” I happily began to eat.

James grinned.

“Where did you get those Quidditch uniforms on your walls?” I asked. “Did you play on any teams besides Gryffindor's?”

I hoped that if I got him on the topic of Quidditch, I could uncover his secret.

“No,” said James. “They're replicas of my favorite players' uniforms. I used to wear them when I was a kid and I played Quidditch with my friends. The green and scarlet one is Dai Llewellyn's from the Caerphilly Catapults, and the dark green one is Darren O'Hare's. He played for the Kenmare Kestrels.”

“I've never heard of them before,” I said. “It must've been hard to track down their uniforms.”

James looked bashful. “I made them, actually.” He watched my face for a reaction. He probably expected me to laugh at him, but I didn't find it funny or silly at all.

“You actually made them?” I replied, thoroughly impressed. “They're very good. I thought they were regular uniforms. And you made them when you were a little boy?”

James was still bashful, but he smiled. “I wanted real Quidditch uniforms to play in when I was a kid. I asked my mum to make some for me, but she wouldn't. She said I'd have to learn for myself. I never had a sister, or any other siblings, so she was determined to pass on her talent to me. It took me years to admit it, but I love making clothes. I've made other things too, like the Quaffle on my wall.” He stopped, looked at his plate, and poked at his mashed potatoes with his fork. A moment later, he looked at me again. “For the past few months, I've even considered ditching my post at the library and opening some sort of Quidditch supply store.”

I'm sure my shock and horror at the idea of him leaving Reigate Library showed in my face, because he looked at his plate again and sighed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I thought perhaps it's a bad idea...”

“It's not a bad idea,” I said. “I'm sure you'd be great at it. It's just that...well, the library wouldn't be the same without you.”

He brightened at this. “You don't think it's a terrible idea?”

I was staring at my plate, cutting a sausage with my fork. My eyes were stinging. All I could do was shake my head.

He picked up on my disappointment. “You'd really miss me if I left?”

I wonder at how I did not erupt with tears right there.

“Of course I would miss you,” I said, forcing the sting in my eyes to go away. “You're the best friend I have at work.”

He was surprised and touched. “And here I thought I was only a diversion from your chores.”

“No way,” I said. “You and Sherry are the only interesting people at the library. Everyone else bosses me about and doesn't care a bit about getting to know me.”

“I can't see why they wouldn't care,” said James. “You're friendly and caring and sweet. You make a wonderful friend. You're one of my best friends.”

“That's why I wish you wouldn't leave.” Then I felt guilty for my selfish desires, and I added, “But if a shop is what you really want, you should open one.”

“I'm glad for your vote of confidence, but it'll never happen. Melissa would scream if I told her I wanted to be a small business owner. She's a big advocate for stable, lucrative, sure-thing kinds of jobs, like being a barrister.”

He tells me about his dream shop, but not her?

“Wouldn't she rather that you try your shop and be happy than stay in a position you don't like?”

James chuckled. “No. I've mentioned before that I'm unsatisfied at the library and she started encouraging me to hang on until retirement. Can you believe it? Retirement will take practically my entire lifetime to get here. It would be a waste of time to mention the shop to Melissa, and it would end in us being annoyed with each other.”

“How did you end up working at the library then?” I asked out of curiosity.

“I didn't know what to do with myself after I graduated. I figured I'd work at the library until I figured out what I wanted to do for real. I kept getting promoted and here I am ten years later. I still can't figure out how I managed to become the assistant regional librarian. I never thought of myself as a library kind of guy, you know? I don't read much, and I've never cared for - or understood - symbolism and all that.”

It hit me strongly then how similar James and I are. He is also stuck in a boring job he hates. Melissa doesn't understand him, just as Irving doesn't understand me. James is unhappy. I am unhappy. I fell more in love with him that night.

After dinner, we listened to music in his living room. He told me to choose whatever I liked from his records. I saw an old doo-wop album lying amongst his more recent records. I love doo-wop. My delight doubled when “Life Could Be a Dream” played first.

“Interesting choice,” remarked James with a smile. He'd been sitting on the couch, unable to see my selection.

I smiled broadly. “I love this song.”

James stood and offered me his hand. “Then we have to dance to it.”

I accepted his hand. I loved the feel of it in mine. “I am a terrible dancer,” I warned him.

“I bet you're not,” he said.

He led the dance, twirling me, dipping me, and doing every silly move he could think of. By the end of the song, we were laughing so hard that we stopped dancing. We leaned into each other to keep from falling over. He smelled good. I loved having his arms around me. They were firm and warm and, I imagined, loving. I'd never felt so close to someone, never laughed so much, with such abandon. It felt like we'd just begun to hold onto each other when we both let go. I hadn't noticed that we'd done so, or that we were staring each other in the eyes until he said,

“That was a lot of fun.”

I straightened up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “I know. Everything has been a lot of fun.”

“Maybe we should do this again tomorrow?” he said.

“I'll have to check with Irving about our plans first,” I said. “I'll let you know tomorrow at work.”

He smiled. “All right. Sounds good.”

I really don't care if Irving has plans for us. I just need time to think things over. I don't know if I can handle being so close to him again.

“Thank you for inviting me over,” I said. I had to get out soon. I couldn't suppress my tears for much longer.

We started toward the door. “It was a pleasure. I'm glad we're spending time together outside of work.”

Soon I was outside in the dark. There was no way my Rubik's Cube could take my mind off this.

- - -

May 29, 1978.

Location: Emma's.

I couldn't go straight home after the dinner with James. How would I explain my torrent of tears to Irving? And I couldn't very well break down in the middle of the street either. No. I needed my best friend to comfort me.

At first Emma sat quietly on the couch with me, letting me cry while she hugged me and stroked my hair. Once I calmed down some, she asked what had happened.

“It was wonderful,” I said miserably as I wiped my eyes. “The whole night was perfect. He made my favorite thing for dinner and he didn't even ask if I liked it - he just knew - and he told me about his Quidditch shop plan that he hasn't even shared with Melissa. Then he danced with me to one of my favorite songs...I just about died of happiness when he held me after....” I started sniffling again.

“After what?” said Emma, wide-eyed.

“After we danced, you dope,” I said, blushing. “We were laughing so hard at our silly dancing and we ended up sort of leaning against one another until we caught our breath.”

Emma sighed and pulled me close again, because a fresh wave of tears was overcoming me.

“Why do you put yourself through this torture, love?”

I didn't know the answer to that myself.

“Mummy?” Bella appeared from the hallway, looking sleepy. “Why is Lily crying? She woke me up.”

I never had more disregard for children than I felt at that moment. Who cared if I woke up that bratty preschooler? She caused me enough annoyance on a regular basis. She didn't even know how good her life was, to be tiny and innocent and free of worry and problems and heartache.

“Bella, why don't you go back to bed?” said Emma gently. “Lily needs some comfort right now.”

Bella walked to the couch. She stood beside me and patted my back.

“I'm sorry that you're sad, Lily. Do you want to borrow Big Bear?”

Big Bear is Bella's favorite thing in the entire world. It's a tan stuffed bear that she brings nearly everywhere. Her generosity and compassion floored me. I felt guilty for thinking mean things about her.

Still unable to speak, I nodded and accepted the toy. For that moment, I loved the little blighter.

- - -

Twenty minutes later, I'd composed myself enough to go home. I scrubbed my face in Emma's bathroom to get rid of the tear streaks and I decided to walk home instead of using Floo Powder, to give the redness time enough to leave my face.

I fiddled with my Rubik's Cube again on the way home. I'd made several of the sides show only one color, but a few odd blocks here and there robbed me of my success. Determinedly, I twisted and turned it, still not really sure of what I was doing after all these years. Frustration built up inside me. If I couldn't figure out my own life, I should at least be able to figure out a stupid puzzle box. As I went up the walk to my building's front door, I solved it. I had to look it over a time or two to be sure. I held it in my palm and stared at it, elated that I accomplished something worthwhile. I felt like I could do anything.

I bounded up the stairs to my flat. It was late. I didn't expect Irving to be up when I went in.

But he was. He was sitting on the couch reading a book.

I gasped; a sickening, cold feeling flowed through my body.

He was reading my journal.

O O O

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