Chapter 19
For everyone.
You are good enough.
No matter how impossible things seem, you truly have a wonderful life, and the world will always be better with you in it.
I’m in the cupboard under the stairs trying to wrangle a naked mannequin up the narrow steps to the back room when I hear the phone ringing. I groan. It’s only going to be a telemarketer, isn’t it? It’s eleven o’clock on a November night and I’m working overtime because, as the manager of the One Light charity shop, it’s my responsibility to get the Christmas window display finished before morning. I don’t have time for discussing ‘an accident I’ve had recently that wasn’t my fault’, mis-sold PPI, or my solar panel needs. Don’t they even stick to normal working hours now?
I’ll ignore it. I take a defiant bite of the fun-size Crunchie I’ve just found a bag of in the cupboard under the stairs. Who put chocolate down here? Maybe the volunteers were trying to hide it from me? It’s obviously leftover from Halloween and that was over a month ago. There’s not usually chocolate hanging around that long if I know it’s there. A day would be pushing it. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad hiding place after all.
The ring is insistent and I have a conscience about ignoring a ringing phone. It could be an emergency. It could be my dad saying he’s fallen and can’t get up, or paramedics who have been called out because he’s had another heart scare.
I look at the mannequin’s blank face. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter to it as I try to prop it against the wall, shove the last half of the Crunchie into my mouth and rush through the back room and out onto the shop floor, leaving behind a series of thuds as the mannequin slides back down the steps I’ve just dragged it up.
I’ve forgotten to hit the light switch so the shop floor is in darkness and I trip over a clothing rail and nearly go flying.
‘Hello?’ I say with my mouth full as I grab the handset from behind the counter. It’s far from the polite ‘One Light charity shop, how can I help you?’ that we’re supposed to answer the phone with, but I fully expect the caller to have rung off by now anyway.
‘Do you think it will hurt?’
‘What?’ I say with all the eloquence of an inebriated badger, hopping about with the phone in one hand, the other clutching the toe that collided with the clothing rail.
‘If I jump off this bridge?’
I choke on the Crunchie.
‘Are you okay?’ the man’s voice on the other end of the line asks.
‘Yes, thanks.’ I clear my throat a few times, trying to dislodge rogue bits of honeycomb. Only I could greet a suicidal man by choking at him. ‘Shouldn’t it be me asking you that?’
He lets out a laugh that sounds wet and thick, like he’s been crying. ‘I’m not the one choking to death. Do you need a glass of water or something?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, wondering if swallowing actual sandpaper might’ve been more comfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, I’d just shoved an entire fun-size Crunchie into my mouth and then tried to speak. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.’
I don’t know why I said that. A recipe for disaster is not me choking on a chocolate bar – it’s a guy about to throw himself off a bridge who doesn’t realize he’s phoned the charity shop for a suicide prevention helpline rather than the suicide prevention helpline itself.
My heart is suddenly pounding and a cold sweat has prickled my forehead. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been petrified this would happen but never really thought it would. I’ve always thought that the two numbers are printed worryingly close together on our leaflets. Head Office told me I was worrying too much, but I’ve often wondered how easy it would be for someone to get our number muddled up with the helpline number and phone here by mistake. And it seems like the answer has just rung.
What am I going to do? I can’t take this call. I don’t know how to talk someone down off a bridge.
‘Oh, I love Crunchies. Don’t tell me you still have fun-size ones leftover from Halloween?’
‘I think they were hidden from me. I’ve only just found them.’ I’m rambling about nonsense but I don’t know what else to say. I know people think chocolate is the answer to most things, but I doubt it’s likely to help in this situation, and as much as I’d like to keep talking about Cadbury’s honeycomb treat, I can’t keep avoiding his first question.
I go to speak but he gets there first. ‘Can we just keep talking about chocolate? This is the most normal conversation I’ve had for days.’
I let out a nervous laugh. ‘We can talk about anything you want. Chocolate’s always a good topic.’
‘Where’s your hiding place? I never manage to hide mine successfully; I always remember where it is and scoff the lot. I bought boxes of Milk Tray for the family when they were on offer a couple of weeks ago, and let’s just say I’ve now got to go and buy more before Christmas. You can guess what happened to them, right?’
Another nervous laugh. ‘Well, this time, my staff bought them in case any trick or treaters came round before closing time, but none did, so they must’ve hidden them in the cupboard under the stairs of all places. I was just wrestling a naked mannequin out when I found them. Safe to say there aren’t many left now. And I feel a bit sick. Those two points are probably related.’
‘Well, if they’ve been there for a month, you’re only testing them for quality, right?’
I giggle again. How can someone about to throw himself off a bridge make me laugh? ‘Yes. Testing them vigorously.’
He laughs too and the laugh seems to go on for much longer than for anything that was actually funny. ‘God, I haven’t laughed in so long,’ he says eventually, sounding out of breath. ‘So what
