The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘There’s probably a bit more to it than that.’

  ‘You reckon? I guess I’ll find out. I’ll ask him.’

  Edward looks at me, arms folded. ‘What will you ask?’

  I put my head on one side. ‘Hey, Charlie boy, you wanna fuck me or you just wanna fuck with your brother?’

  The frown on his face disappears when he laughs. ‘You’re hilarious.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘You wouldn’t really say that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to find out afterwards,’ I say. ‘Imagine the hu-mil-iation.’

  ‘It’s put you in a good mood, I see.’

  ‘Only ’cos it’s funny. It’s pretty funny, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a funny way to get at you, if that’s what he’s doing. I know you don’t like him but surely you wouldn’t care much if–’

  ‘I wouldn’t find it desperately amusing,’ he says, ‘if you slept with my brother.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘No, but… it’s not much good as revenge, is it? Oh yeah, Edward shagged my wife, so I thought I’d cop off with his staff?’

  The frown was back for a moment there but now he’s laughing again. ‘“Cop off with”, what kind of phrase is that?’

  ‘I dunno, it’s northern I think. One of my housemates at uni used to say it. We’d go sharking, with the hope of copping off. I don’t think it meant “have sex with” actually, just get off with.’

  ‘Don’t get off with my brother.’

  ‘Ha ha, don’t worry. Whether or not he fancies me is moot. I definitely don’t fancy him.’

  ‘That never stopped anyone,’ he says, drily.

  ‘It might not stop you. It would stop me though. Especially as your brother has all kinds of disadvantages.’

  ‘Why go at all, then?’

  ‘I told you. Curiosity.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That’s why you went to that party. Regretted it though, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did a bit, yeah, but it was interesting. And if your brother manages to make me feel common on what isn’t “not a date”, well.’ I laugh. ‘That would be a poor effort. Unless he wants to pull some kind of, you know, My Fair Lady shit. Or that other thing, what is it, King whatsit. Cophetua. Is that right?’

  ‘King Cophetua and the beggar maid?’

  ‘That’s the chap. Where’s that from? Shakespeare? I only know it because Harriet Vane talks about it when Lord Peter asks her to marry him.’

  ‘Don’t marry my brother.’

  This makes me laugh even harder. ‘Oh my God, can you imagine? I’d flounce home, demanding people call me “my lady”.’ I snort. ‘I’d be tempted, just to annoy everyone.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’m joking.’ I chuckle to myself. ‘Oh God, though.’

  ‘Thea.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know this will sound… it might sound rude. And I don’t mean to insinuate that my brother might have an ulterior motive. You’re an attractive woman–’

  I snort even more loudly.

  ‘But you know I think he might be… I think you should be careful.’

  ‘Careful? What, d’you think he might try and roofie me?’ I pause. ‘Would that be the verb do you think? I am roofied, you are roofied, he roofies, she roofies, I don’t know, what do you reckon? About the word,’ I add, ‘not the chance he’ll drug me.’ I laugh again.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He covers his eyes with his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Look. I don’t care one way or the other about Charles. Therefore, it’s of no consequence if he has an ulterior motive. It’s not like I’ll be upset. “Oh, but I thought you liked me, boo hoo.” There was me choosing a trousseau, and then it turns out he only asked me because he wanted to annoy you. And like I say, it’s a pretty crappy revenge, isn’t it? He’d be better off waiting for you to meet someone you like. You’re only forty-seven or whatever, it could still happen.’

  He turns away. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but… Or he could, I don’t know, buy all the second-hand books in Scotland or tell Lara’s husband you’re going to elope or something. Mess up your little arrangement.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care about that. And he probably couldn’t buy all the secondhand books in Scotland.’

  ‘What would you do if you were him? Since you’re Mr Rewengay.’

  He turns back for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I’d probably be able to come up with something.’

  ‘Go on then, do tell.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ he says, ‘if he ever pulls it off.’

  ‘Oh, boo.’

  ‘Anyway, enough. Haven’t you got any work to do?’

  * * *

  I’m in the pub with Jenny, Cerys and Edward the following evening. Although Edward’s reading something on his phone, so I wouldn’t count him as present exactly. We’re talking about my dinner date tomorrow.

  ‘And I just have no idea what to wear. Something about invitations from Charles make me want to dress like the women from the Human League,’ I say.

  Jenny cackles with laughter. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘I mean like desperately early eighties but sophisticated. You know. Um. A little hat with a veil. Shoulder pads. Possibly a peplum?’ We’re all reduced to helpless hysteria by this.

  ‘Oh my God. A peplum?’ Cerys wipes her eyes.

  ‘Yes, and maybe patterned tights, you know. Polka dots?’

  Jilly grasps my arm. ‘Oh, oh, or a bow on the ankle.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘A clutch?’ suggests Cerys.

  ‘Yes, to tone with the hat. I used to cut pictures out of my mum’s catalogue of outfits I thought were particularly elegant,’ I say. ‘That little hat with a bird’s eye veil is always tempting.’

  Jenny nods. ‘Like Joan Collins.’

  ‘Yes, exactly! Joan Collins in The Bitch, probably.’

  ‘Oh, you should. You could probably get all that in the charity shop.’

  ‘What was that woman’s name,’ says Cerys, ‘the one in the Polo advert?’

  ‘Polos?’

  ‘No, no, you know, the VW Polo. Or Golf? Where she strops out of the fancy mews flat and throws her fur coat away and she’s going to drop the keys down the drain but changes her mind?’

  Now I know what she means. ‘Oh, yes. Paula something. Paula Wilcox.’

  ‘No,’ interjects Edward, ‘Paula Hamilton. She was a model.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I feel I should channel that.’ I make vigorous ‘channelling’ motions with my hands, and Cerys snorts loudly.

  ‘Why, though?’ asks Jenny.

  ‘I don’t know. It just seems like the right thing.’

  ‘You’re very silly,’ says Edward.

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘I am not fucking jealous,’ he says. He slams his glass on the table and is out of his seat and across the bar before any of us can say anything. We all stare at the door as it swings shut.

  ‘Christ’s sake,’ says Jenny.

  ‘Don’t go after him,’ says Cerys, but it’s too late, I’m outside and looking about for him. There he is, stalking away towards the shop.

  ‘Edward!’

  He ignores me, and I run after him. Cerys is right. I should let him stew. But I hate being misunderstood.

  ‘Hey!’ I grab at his arm and he shakes me off. I dart ahead of him and spread my arms to stop him walking on. ‘Hey, what the hell’s your problem?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem.’ His face is so thunderous I’m surprised he hasn’t actually caused it to rain.

  ‘Right. Just suddenly decided you needed to go home? After swearing at me?’ He steps forward, and I step backwards. And then again. I look over my shoulder quickly to make sure I’m not going to fall off
the kerb. We’re almost at the shop.

  ‘I wasn’t swearing at you,’ he says. He looks awkward, now, rather than angry.

  ‘Yes, you were. You said–’

  ‘I know what I said. And it’s true. I’m not fucking jealous.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Listen to yourself. Jealous of my silliness, is what I meant, because you can’t be silly, can you, because you’re a’ – I wave my arms – ‘giant flipping idiot.’

  We glare at each other.

  ‘I’d have let you strop off if I thought you knew what I meant. I knew you didn’t though because you’re such a massive… arse. And I hate to be misunderstood. So’ – I jab my finger at his chest with each word – ‘don’t. You. Dare. Misunderstand. Me.’

  He steps forwards, so I step back again. ‘You’re a–’ I continue.

  ‘What am I?’

  ‘A giant–’

  ‘That’s just rude,’ he says. I can see he’s trying not to laugh now, and I have to bite my lip. I’m still pissed off with him though. Making a scene, and making me have to run after him, like he’s a teenager, or my–

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I say.

  ‘I think you put your finger on it,’ he says. ‘I’m a spectacular cunt.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You have neither the depth nor the warmth,’ I say, and then he’s really laughing. ‘Or the charm,’ I add.

  ‘Oh God, Thea Hamilton,’ he says, ‘the things you say. You’re perfect’ – he stumbles slightly over his words – ‘perfectly ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s hardly ridiculous. In fact, it’s bang on.’

  ‘This is how you talk to your boss, is it? Shocking.’

  We’re laughing at each other, but it all feels strangely serious, or important, maybe. I’m backed against the door of the shop now, and he ducks his head towards me. For a split second, a tiny moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t though. With his lips close enough to my ear I can feel his breath on my cheek, he says, ‘I think this might be a disciplinary issue.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I laugh harder. ‘Are you going to get on to HR? That Mr Maltravers is a tyrant.’

  I can’t deny I’m totally thrilled by this and if he did kiss me, I’d… Well.

  He steps back, folding his arms. ‘Isn’t he, though? I’ll tell him not to be too harsh on you, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m terrified.’

  ‘You look it. Now, if you’ll get out of the way–’

  ‘Are you going home then?’

  ‘Cerys has seen me make a dick of myself on numerous occasions,’ he says, ‘but I see no reason to give her the opportunity to laugh in my face.’

  ‘Oh. Well, okay,’ I say. I squeeze past him so I’m standing on the street. ‘Honestly. I can’t believe I had to run after you.’

  ‘I’m amazed you did,’ he says. We look at each other for a moment. ‘I’m not worth the effort, you know.’

  ‘Keep going,’ I say, ‘you’ll convince me eventually. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  * * *

  Back in the pub, Cerys looks surprised to see me. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I didn’t think you’d be back.’

  ‘My bag’s here,’ I say, ‘and my keys. I wouldn’t be able to get home.’

  They exchange glances.

  ‘You owe me a fiver,’ says Jenny, and I watch, startled, as Cerys gets her wallet out, sighing, and gives her a five-pound note.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘We had a bet,’ says Jenny.

  I pick up my handbag and narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Never you mind. I’ll win it eventually,’ says Cerys. ‘You off then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Catch him, did you?’

  ‘Yeah. What the hell is wrong with him? It’s like being friends with a teenager. A stupid teenager.’

  Jenny laughs. Cerys looks serious. ‘He just doesn’t know how to do this stuff.’

  ‘Did he do this to you when you were first friends?’

  A loud crack of laughter. ‘Jesus, no. Although to be fair he did get stroppy on occasion.’

  ‘I can usually get him to snap out of it,’ I say. ‘But it’s tiring.’

  Seventeen

  I stand in the hallway and wait for Charles to come and collect me. I’m not nervous because I am not invested in this dinner, even if I did buy a new lipstick, but I am interested to know what he’ll say in response to all the questions I’m going to ask him.

  When I was leaving work this evening, Edward said, ‘Without wishing to sound like a prick – please don’t sleep with my brother.’ He wasn’t looking at me when he said it, attention focused on the laptop.

  ‘Ha ha. What would you do if I did?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s not find out, eh?’

  I blew a loud and childish raspberry, and went home to get ready.

  And now I’m dressed in my finery, waiting. No shoulder pads or little hat with a veil, sadly; instead I’ve had to make do with a sensible black shift dress and a Chinese red silk jacket. Strappy sandals, and I had to buy hold-ups in the chemist. I’m not impressed with them but hopefully they won’t let me down in an embarrassing fashion. I’m dancing in the hallway because I’m in a good mood – I couldn’t explain entirely why this should be because it’s not like ‘dinner with Charles’ is on my bucket list. I wonder whether the staff at the hotel will call him Lord Hollinshaw? If they do, I might laugh.

  When the bell rings I have to calm myself. A deep breath, and then I answer the door to a smartly dressed Charles. It’s a fine evening, the last pink-gold streaks of sunset lingering in the sky.

  ‘Hello,’ I say and, feeling that perhaps a handshake is less suitable this evening, I lean forward so he can kiss my cheek.

  We make with the polite chit chat while I lock the front door behind me and follow him out to the car. He has more than one car I think; this evening it’s something German in dark blue with pale leather upholstery. I don’t care much about cars, but it’s certainly comfortable. A Mercedes. Most cars are dark inside, I realize, with black carpet so you can’t really see into the footwell. When it’s pale, you can see everything; it’s quite odd. It’s a bit different from Edward’s knackered old Defender.

  ‘Have you been across to Knockandry before?’ he asks me.

  ‘No, there’s nothing much there, is there, except the hotel?’

  ‘Not much, admittedly. There’s a beach and a golf course.’

  I think about asking if he plays golf, but what if he does? I don’t want to talk about golf. Instead, I ask how the building work’s going with the barn conversion, and we talk about that, and about the new bathroom I’ve had put in at the Lodge. I’ve never had a brand-new bathroom, and it’s very exciting. I go and look at it quite often, admiring the slate floor and the beauty of the freestanding bath and the fabulous shower. I probably spent more than I should have done, but it’s great and I love it. Now it’s done, the major inconvenience of having dust everywhere and no loo for a week is easily forgotten.

  Talk about builders and plumbing get us through the half-hour drive to the hotel. It’s a very grand building: Victorian, in a rather flamboyant baronial style.

  ‘My grandparents used to come to dances here, before the war,’ he tells me. ‘And my great-grandparents would go for dinner, you know, before it was a hotel.’

  ‘Mm,’ I say, unimpressed. Then I remember that these people were also Edward’s ancestors. I tell myself that doesn’t make them any more interesting, but it kind of does. I stand beside the car and look up at the turrets and castellations. It’s huge; no wonder it’s been a hotel for eighty years. How could anyone ever afford to keep it up?

  ‘Back in those days, of course,’ he adds, ‘everyone had a London house as well, and somewhere in the Highlands for the shooting.’

  Jesus. It’s not right, is it? I know I find it fascinating, but it’s still not right.

  We crunch across the gravel and r
ound the corner of the building. A wide sweep of drive, a fountain, formal gardens dropping down to the coast, the darkness of the ocean.

  ‘Can’t see much of the view now it’s getting dark,’ he says, ‘which is a shame – it’s very dramatic.’

  A smartly dressed doorman opens the door for us and we walk through to a vast marble-floored entrance hall. In the centre of the room, an enormous display of cut flowers stands in an urn on a huge shiny table. Dozens of mounted antlers demonstrate the deer-killing expertise of the previous owners. There are tweedy drapes in a subtle tartan and large, comfortable leather sofas arranged in front of an immense fireplace. The front desk is so discreet as to barely be there at all. I don’t have much time to look round though, as we’re quickly ushered towards the staircase. The dining room is on the first floor, above the entrance hall, making the most of the views across the gardens and the sea.

  ‘I always sit in the window,’ Charles says, leading the way between the white-clothed tables. There are a number of other couples here already, and a family party at the far end of the room. The tables are round, there’s carpet, everything’s hushed and elegant. I’m looking forward to seeing the menu. One waiter takes my jacket, and another pulls my chair out for me, flicking the napkin out and draping it across my lap. They bring the wine list and the menu and I look about me with interest.

  ‘So you come here a lot?’

  ‘Fairly regularly. It’s the best place this side of Dumfries. In my opinion.’

  I nod and return my attention to the menu. I haven’t been out for dinner for ages. The last time I went somewhere special was with Chris – was that our anniversary? Last September, if so; we went up to London and had dinner at Murano. A year ago, but it seems like fifty. Chris bought me a necklace, which I left behind when I took all my stuff. I’d been wearing it before that, but it seemed… well. I left it behind, anyway.

  We talk for a bit about food and other places we’ve had dinner. I’m not sure whether he cares about food or whether he just cares about going to places with a good reputation. I find Charles much harder to read than Edward, but that’s probably because I don’t make as much effort.