‘I might just get changed,’ I say.
‘Feel free,’ says Edward, luckily unaware of my confusion. It seems darker outside now, with the candles lit. I slip out to the bathroom to get undressed but forget to take a candle with me and have to go back.
‘It’s really dark out there, now,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Yeah, isn’t it? It’ll be lighter later, when the moon’s up. Here, take a candle. There’s a shelf by the mirror.’
* * *
Much later, I hear his voice from the doorway. ‘Come and look at the moon,’ he says. ‘Or are you asleep?’
‘No, I’m not asleep.’ I sit up. I’ve been dozing, dreaming slightly uncomfortable half-dreams, brought on by the booze and anxiety. I really don’t think he’ll get into bed and try to kiss me or anything. It’s not exactly that. But it’s presumably enough of a worry that I can’t quite relax.
Anyway.
I get out of bed and feel about for a blanket. It’s not freezing cold, but it’s not warm either. I wrap the blanket round me and duck under the mesh as he holds it out of the way. He’s put a jumper on but is still wearing his shorts. I see the sleeping bag on the grass where I guess he’s been tucked up, watching the stars.
‘Gosh it’s clear. Look at that.’ The wide smear of the Milky Way is always startling. The moon is three-quarters full or more and hangs above the bay, where the waves barely ripple, painting a wide silvery path towards us. ‘Wow.’
‘I know, it’s great, isn’t it? Shame it’s not full.’
‘Still impressive, though. Do you know the constellations? That’s Cassiopeia,’ I say, ‘but I don’t know much else.’
‘The Pleiades. The really bright ones over there. The Seven Sisters. Sterope, Merope, Electra – I forget the others.’
‘I’d never thought about them having individual names,’ I say. ‘What a numpty.’
He laughs. ‘And that’s the Northern Cross, aka Cygnus, if you follow where I’m pointing.’
I put my face as close to his shoulder as seems appropriate and squint upwards along his arm.
‘It’s sort of diagonal, and more like a stick man with no legs waving,’ he describes, to help me locate it.
‘Ha, get you, Professor Brian Cox.’
He snorts. ‘If only,’ he says, and I make a noise of appreciation and agreement that makes him laugh. We stand looking up at the immense multitude of distant pinpricks. Apart from the gentle hushing of the waves, it’s very quiet indeed. I stare upwards for so long I almost lose my balance.
‘Steady. Easier to lie down,’ he says.
‘I think that’s too hardcore for me. I might go back to bed.’
‘Oh, okay.’ He pauses. ‘I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.’
* * *
We get back to town at about half past eleven the next morning, after Edward’s had a swim and we’ve eaten rather cold toast on the beach.
‘Are we opening the shop?’
‘I thought we should have lunch first,’ he says. ‘No rush is there? We’ll go to the Arms. Have you eaten in there?’
I shake my head. We go in the Railway Arms for a drink after work sometimes, but I’ve never been in at lunchtime.
‘I wouldn’t go for dinner, but it’s okay for lunch. Come on, I’ll treat you.’
I stare at him, surprised. ‘You’re going to buy me lunch? You really needn’t. You paid for everything yesterday.’
‘Come on,’ he says.
The pub is dark inside, and old-fashioned. Scottish pubs are mostly bars in hotels. We eat pie and chips. ‘I wish my boss would take me out,’ the waitress jokes.
‘This is my review,’ I tell her, ‘when he tells me I’m doing a good job but he can’t put my wages up.’ This makes her laugh inordinately.
When we’re drinking our coffee, he pulls something out of his pocket. ‘Spare keys,’ he says, putting them on the table. A big wooden keyring the size of a postcard, with the address of the shop in marker pen.
‘Spare keys? For what?’ It’s not the shop keys; I have a set of those already.
‘For the Shed. You can keep them until you go home,’ he says. ‘So you can go by yourself, if you want. This little one’s for the padlock on the boat shed. The one with the tape on it opens the glass door.’
‘Oh, that’s… How kind. Thank you. Are you sure? What if you want to go?’
‘I expect I can cope if you’re there. I mean we just spent twenty-four hours there together, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, but what if you want to be by yourself? Or take someone else?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m sure we can work it out. I thought you might like to be able to go whenever you want.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m quite overwhelmed, blinking back tears. I hope he doesn’t notice, it’s pathetic. ‘I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re so awful,’ I joke, ‘you’ve been very kind to me.’
‘I have, haven’t I? I’ll have to watch that.’
Thirteen
Another week has passed. It’s the beginning of August, and the weather’s turned, alternating between sultry and uncomfortable, and cold and grey. Today has been dry so far but it’s been threatening to rain since this morning. Edward’s away; I was half expecting him back this afternoon, but he never arrived. This is not uncommon; he’s often away, buying books and selling them, engaged in his mysterious social life. I’ve cashed up and done the catalogue and am waiting patiently for one of our regulars, Mrs Drummond, to return from whichever corner of the shop she’s disappeared to, so I can lock up. Once I had to go and look for her, and she was dozing on one of the sofas, surrounded by poetry books. Not today, though; she’s drifting back into the main room with a pair of green Penguin Agatha Christies. I deal with this and wish her a good evening and follow her to the door with my keys. Before I can lock up, though, an elegant blonde woman turns into the doorway and pushes through. I step back, slightly startled. It’s not as though she can’t see me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘we’re just closing.’ She looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t quite place her.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she says dismissively. ‘Edward’s just coming.’
And indeed, there he is, close behind.
‘Evening, Thea,’ he says. ‘Good day?’
‘It’s, er, yes. Not bad. You’re back then,’ I say, rather foolishly. ‘I assumed you weren’t coming back today.’
‘Change of plan,’ he says.
I try not to stare at the woman. I’m pretty sure it’s Sophie, who I met at Charles’s party. But not one hundred per cent certain. She’s wearing the most ravishing dress/jacket combination – raw primrose silk, like something I might think about wearing to a garden party if I was ever invited to one, but would then decide against it because it’s just too pale and effortless. She’d be very pretty, even beautiful, if she didn’t look so irritated.
‘Hello,’ I say to her, ‘did we meet before?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says, the implication in her tone being that it’s most unlikely.
‘You look familiar. We didn’t meet at Charles’s?’
‘No.’ She glances from me to Edward.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘sorry – this is Thea, she’s… We work together. And this is Lara,’ he tells me.
‘Hi,’ we both say, equally unimpressed.
‘Maybe you met Lara’s sister? Sophie?’
‘Ah, yes. That’s right. You’re very alike.’ She looks even more annoyed, if that’s possible. ‘I’m just off,’ I add. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Edward ignores this and says, ‘What are you up to this evening?’
‘Oh, nothing much, I shouldn’t think.’ I’m uncomfortable, conscious that Lara wants me gone, and sharpish.
‘You could join us for supper,’ he says. ‘I thought we’d go to Mario’s.’
Mario’s isn’t exactly a restaurant: it’s only open three nights a week, and it’s basically in Mario’s front room. There
are only five tables. The food’s good, but I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. I glance at Lara. I’ve rarely seen a person look so pissed off. She’s settled rapidly into irritability and sighs heavily as I say I hate playing gooseberry – making an assumption there that he doesn’t correct, so I guess I’m right – and he reassures me that I wouldn’t be. I put my keys away in my bag and go to fetch my cardigan from the kitchenette.
‘Are you sure?’ He follows me and adds, lowering his voice, ‘I could use the company.’
‘Oh my God. Why’d you bring her here then?’ I whisper.
‘Long story.’
‘I think you’ve made your bed. I don’t want to be a third wheel.’
* * *
For all I know, he was already spending lots of time with Lara, and just never mentioned her. After we’ve met, however, he mentions her quite often, and I’m pretty sure that whenever he goes up to Edinburgh, he sees her. I take it she’s one of these ‘not girlfriends’ of his, with whom he has an arrangement of some kind. He doesn’t bring her to the shop again, anyway, and I’m relieved about that – with no interest in exploring why.
* * *
A Friday afternoon, late August. Edward went to an estate sale this morning – somewhere round Gretna, I think – and I was expecting him back this afternoon, but yet again there’s no sign of him. I’ve already locked up and am taking some pictures of soft autumn light on rich leather bindings for my own amusement, and for the shop Instagram, when he calls.
‘Won’t be home this evening after all,’ he says. ‘I think I left the kitchen window open. Can you check? And put some food down for Holly Hunter?’
‘Okay, no problem. Anything else I should do?’
‘Maybe check all the windows? I can’t remember if I left any open and the forecast says it’s going to be windy. Is it?’
I peer out of the window. ‘Hm. It’s just started raining. And it’s hellish dark for five-thirty. But doesn’t look too windy yet.’
‘Can you check? D’you mind?’
‘No problem.’ I want to ask him where he is, but it’s none of my business. With Lara? Shut up, Thea, so what if he is? He’s allowed to–
‘Thanks. Want me to bring you anything from the big city?’
Ah, so it’s okay for me to say, ‘Where are you?’ in response to that.
‘Embra,’ he says. ‘Pretty cold here, and miserably wet.’
‘Did you buy anything this morning?’
‘Not much. Couple of first edition Ballards, one signed.’
‘Well, that’s cool. Did you text Malcolm?’ Malcolm collects signed Ballards, which is handy.
‘Not yet. You could. Concrete Island and High Rise. The signed one is Cocaine Nights.’
‘Oh, that’s annoying.’ It’s newer, and not worth as much.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Anyway, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Sunday probably. What shall I bring you then?’
I laugh. ‘Something shiny.’ That’s what I always used to say to my dad, when he went away for work. ‘Have fun.’
‘I shall endeavour to do so. And I’ll bring you something shiny.’
‘Ha, you needn’t really, I was joking. I’ll see you when you get back.’
When I’ve put my photos on Instagram, I go upstairs. I don’t go up there often and it always feels a bit odd. I’ve never been invited up for a cup of tea or anything like that. I’m not sure if anyone ever goes up there, except, I presume, Lara and his other ‘friends’, although mostly I think he goes to see them.
It’s a large flat, two storeys, big enough for a whole family, easily. And it’s lovely. The sitting room overlooks the square and is high-ceilinged and light, south-facing, two huge sash windows, massive sofas and a marble fireplace, paintings; books, of course, everywhere. I’ve noticed a couple of times, on evenings when the light was right, that you get a beautiful slice of sunset across the parquet. There are rugs, and a beautiful Edwardian plantstand, a fat barley-sugar twist in mahogany, with a brass pot containing a large aspidistra. I’d love to live here. I’ve even looked to see if there’s anything similar available on the square with a view of the rooftops, despite quite liking the lack of stairs at the Lodge. I like having a garden, as well, and there wouldn’t be one if I lived in a flat. Edward has a garden, but that’s because he owns the whole building. I asked him once where the money came from – it’s not like selling books is massively lucrative – and he looked rather hunted, before admitting he and Charles had both inherited ‘quite a healthy amount’ from their grandmother, his mother’s mother. Apparently that sort of inheritance was acceptable because it didn’t come with a title or acres of land. When I looked unconvinced, he just reminded me, rather sharply, that he was a hypocrite. And I suppose I am, too; it’s not like I’ve never inherited anything.
The dining room is grand, with an elaborate plaster ceiling, and a huge circular mahogany dining table that has enormous feet. Matching sideboard, massive mirror over the dark stone fireplace. The kitchen is long and narrow, with windows in two walls and a table at the back, a big chipped butler’s sink and a built-in dresser. The walls are dark green, the cupboards are white, all handmade, and it’s full of stuff, tons of pans and plates and jugs and things hanging up everywhere. It’s untidy but comfortable. He likes cooking, I think, although he has no one to cook for. There’s a whole shelf of cookery books, and piles of them open on the table.
The window is open, as he suspected, so I pull it closed. There’s no sign of Holly Hunter but her dishes are empty, so I fill one with biscuits and one with fancy cat food. It looks like something you could easily eat yourself, with a bit of toast. It amuses me that he’d buy such a thing. HH is elderly – twenty at least – he’s had her since he first came back from university. I refill her water bowl and then go to check the other windows.
I’ve never been up the third or fourth flights of stairs, since they lead only to the bathroom and the bedrooms. I realize I’m almost tiptoeing. The stairs up to the second floor are not as wide and sweeping as the lower ones, and instead of bookshelves they’re lined with framed prints and pictures.
It does seem a shame that Edward lives here by himself. Perhaps he’ll ask Lara to move in, I think cynically. I can’t imagine she’d like it, although I may be doing her a disservice. Apparently, she didn’t like the Shed though, when he took her there last year. She complained pretty much the whole time. No electricity or hot water, he must be mad et cetera. ‘I think she’s a bit glam for the Shed,’ I said, when he told me.
I wanted to ask about her, how long they’d been seeing each other, how ‘official’ she was, when they met, whether he’d slept with her sister… but I didn’t. I did ask if she was his ‘type’ and he said he didn’t have a type. I said, ‘except for “people who’ve been out with your brother”?’ and he told me to fuck off. Which was fair enough.
At the top of the stairs I pause. Two closed doors and two ajar. And one open – the bathroom, all clanking but beautiful Victorian sanitary ware, with lots of plants and a heap of white towels abandoned on the floor. Clean though, for a bathroom used only by a man. He doesn’t have a cleaner or anything, or at least I’ve never heard him mention one. He must do his own housework. I can’t picture him dusting but I guess he must do.
I assume the closed doors are to the spare bedrooms – and a quick poke of my head round the doors confirms this. Neatly made beds, unusual lack of stuff. The others must be his bedroom, and the study. He writes. As one would expect.
‘Shit poetry,’ is what he said, when I asked him what he wrote. It can’t be that awful, though; he’s had some published, apparently.
His bedroom’s at the front, over the sitting room. It’s surprisingly white, and surprisingly tidy, although there’s an unsurprising pile of books neatly stacked beside the door. And the window is open, so at least there was a purpose in coming up here. I fight with the sash, which is open at the top. They’re never easy; I wonder if the
y worked smoothly when they were new, but I’ve never used a new sash window, only ancient ones with fraying ropes and overpainted pulley wheels. I manage eventually and fasten the screw, pulling the curtains closed, which means I then have to grope my way back past the bed in the gloom.
It does feel quite odd to be in his bedroom. Bedrooms are personal, aren’t they? His dressing gown, darkly tartan, hangs on the back of the door, and there’s a white-painted chest of drawers with a mirror above that does for a dressing table and houses odds and ends, cards and photographs. I hesitate and then flick the light on so I can look more closely at the pictures. There’s another of his grandmother, if that’s who she is; the woman in the photo at the Shed. And maybe this is his mother? A faded seventies Polaroid of a very beautiful woman in a high-waisted Laura Ashley frock, laughing at the camera. He said his parents were fashionably bohemian in the late sixties, before he was born. I should look them up; there might be pictures on the internet, and I’m curious. I never get the impression he’s close to his mother, so it’s unexpected that he has a photograph of her. If it’s her.
Tucked into the frame of the mirror is a photo of Edward himself, fresh-faced and grinning, in a student sitting room with two other young men, all smoking, the coffee table covered in beer bottles. It’s a funny thing to see a young version of someone you’ve only known in their forties. They all look like the boys on my own degree course, the two that aren’t Edward with long hair, while his is just big, cut short at the back and back-combed, Jesus and Mary Chain-style, on top. Bless. Skinny black jeans, Dr Martens propped on the table, the corner of a poster above their heads that I confidently identify as Béatrice Dalle in Betty Blue.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 13
