Page 45 of The Side Road
‘Thank you.’ She handed him his jacket. Was she trying to get rid of him?
‘Can I ask what your overheads are?’
‘After expenses – needles and wool, and I don’t charge for the pattern – I make about five dollars a kit. So, fifty grand. Only another nine thousand orders to go.’
‘I am seriously in awe.’
She walked over to the counter. He followed.
‘Thank you, but there are business overheads to consider. And wages. Advertising significantly reduces the profits.’
‘But still.’
‘I know. Quinn the Chicken is the first in a set. There will be follow-on sales.’ She paused. ‘You fixed my distribution line. Thank you.’
He picked up a knitted female doll from a basket on the counter. ‘Amelia Earhart?’
‘Yes.’ She showed him a woman with the monkey on her hip. ‘Who do you think this is?’
‘Probably…Jane Goodall.’
Mia picked up another doll. ‘And this one?’ The figure wore a black dress with a white lace collar.
‘RBG.’
She smiled.
Had he just passed a test?
‘While I’m here, can I get a four-millimetre circular needle? I should probably also get another pair of double-pointed needles. Tash left the last set on the school bus.’
Mia returned to the counter with the needles and two balls of wool. ‘No charge. Thank you for helping.’
He also placed a copy of ‘Knitting Without Tears’ on the counter. He thought tears might be in his future.
After glancing at the cover, Mia slipped the book into a bag. ‘This book comes with no guarantee,’ she said.
‘I understand.’
‘The private knitting lesson – we should cancel that. You’ll get a full refund, of course.’ Her smile broadened. ‘I’m still thinking about us. I appreciate your patience.’
‘I appreciate the update.’
Parkedoutside the store was the beautiful maroon Citroën. She watched him climb into the car and start the engine. Suddenly, she wanted him to stay, but it was too late; the car pulled out and drove away.
The idea of him was now loose. Caught on the breeze, it was impossible to call it back. An hour earlier, while they were working on the production line, she had stared at the arc of his eyelashes. Now, she recalled his scent, an earthy smell, like wild grass. The erotic charge of his presence had filled the shop, and it caused her heart to race. It fluttered like a flock of noisy birds.
Three years ago, Mia had been engaged. It had only lasted a few weeks. On the first day of spring, she had left her engagement ring on the kitchen table in the apartment she had shared with Alfie, along with a note. Unable to articulate how she felt face to face, writing everything down had seemed like a sensible idea. All her friends had agreed. Alfie had a way of getting her to change her mind. He was charming and attentive – when he wanted something – and for Mia, the push–pull nature of their relationship had been addictive. Life with Alfie was like a roller coaster – exhilarating and exhausting. Caught in a whirlwind of emotions, she couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of his personality. Later, she realised that his attentiveness was a calculated move to get what he wanted.
It was the right thing to do, leaving a note for her fiancé. It was a long note – three pages, double-sided – more like a three-thousand-word essay. An intuitive person might have suspected there was trouble ahead, that she was thinking of leaving him. But not Alfie. No one had ever accused him of being self-aware.
Finding the courage to leave had been the most difficult thing she had ever done. She left because she was afraid. Not of Alfie. After she understood the nature of their relationship, his hold over her diminished. She was afraid of herself. The compromises she had made for the love he offered. This was something she knew about. It was how she expected love to be. For her entire life, this was how her parents had loved her.
For a year, Mia worried that Alfie never read her letter – he wasn’t a man who took criticism well – but eventually, she realised it didn’t matter. Getting her life back on track was more important. Still, leaving the way she did and without a proper goodbye weighed heavily on her heart. She had lovedhim, and it had taken her three years to move on from that love.
If it were only a year, no one would care, including herself. There would be no pressure to find a partner, a lover, a husband, a soul mate, a best friend, a person to grow old with. Someone to hold at night. Someone to knit for. Cook for. A hand to hold. Lips to kiss. A body for sex…she missed that.
Three years wasn’t a long time – thirty-six months had passed quickly. The problem was that another three years could slip by just as quickly. If that happened, she would be forty. Still alone. This was a troubling thought.
