I look at him, but his face is bland and unreadable. ‘It’s my job to sell books, isn’t it? You don’t need to buy me things.’
‘I know, but I don’t pay you very much, do I? So think of it as a token.’ He puts a little brown paper packet on the counter.
I look at it. ‘I don’t think you should buy me things. Unless it’s my birthday.’
‘When is your birthday?’
‘June.’
‘Well, I missed it, then, didn’t I? Were you in? I mean, did you work?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, it was a Tuesday.’
‘You should have said.’ He frowns at me. ‘Why didn’t you?’
I shrug. ‘It was fine. We did have cake – I bought you a Belgian bun.’
‘We’ll have to do better for your next birthday.’ He’s still frowning. ‘D’you think you’ll still be here?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps.’
‘Open it then,’ he says, nodding at the packet. I pick it up – it weighs hardly anything. I tear off the wrapping and unwrap the dark blue tissue paper within. A tiny silver spoon, barely the length of my little finger. There isn’t room for three initials on the handle, but there’s an elegantly curly A.
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ I look at him. ‘What is it? Coke spoon?’
He snorts. ‘No, it’s not a coke spoon. Jesus. It’s a salt spoon, I think, or a mustard spoon.’
‘It’s charming. Thank you.’
He’s turned away, stooping to look for something in one of the desk drawers. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Please don’t buy me anything else though – I feel bad.’
‘You needn’t. I wasn’t looking for something to buy you – I just spotted it. I spend a lot of time poking about in the sort of place they have that kind of thing. And it didn’t cost much.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’
‘Ha, well, this was even cheaper. And older – it’s Georgian. 1801.’
‘How cheap? Was it less than twenty pounds?’
He nods. ‘Twelve quid.’
‘Oh, okay. That seems reasonable. Okay. Thanks. It’s lovely. Maybe I should start a spoon collection.’
‘Prepared to accept it then, are you?’
‘Yes. I’ve probably bought you twelve quid’s worth of buns, so, yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But seriously, don’t buy me anything else unless it’s Christmas, or–’
‘Why not?’
‘It isn’t seemly,’ I say primly.
He laughs. ‘I’d hate to be unseemly.’
‘Well, it isn’t, is it? It makes me feel…’
He’s looking at me intently. ‘Makes you feel what?’
‘I don’t know.’ I’m embarrassed, and stoop to push the spoon into the front pocket of my bag.
‘I thought everyone liked presents.’
‘Yes, but… that’s not the point.’
* * *
I’ve been thinking about whether I should go home. Not permanently – at least not yet – but to see Chris. I think I’m so far ‘out of sight, out of mind’ that he’s forgotten he’s meant to be remortgaging the house. I’m still paying my share, after all, as well as rent on my empty flat, and the fee for my storage unit. I don’t want to keep paying for Susanna to live in my house, it’s not fair. However childish that sounds. I’ve been worrying about it, and although I had an email from him yesterday where he reassured me that he’s in the process of sorting things out, he’s said that before and I still don’t have my hundred and fifty grand or whatever. I need to make some plans. Xanthe sent me a link for the developers who are building out on the coast road, back home. The flats look good, and I could live in one or rent it out, depending on what I decide to do. It would be good to have some income, even though I’m sure letting agencies are tiresome to deal with. The house is the next step in the process. Once that’s sorted, we just have to get divorced, and pretty soon it will only be a year before that can happen without us having to go to court.
Edward’s in an unnaturally good mood this morning; he even whistled while he was making coffee. Admittedly, it was ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ he was whistling, rather than ‘Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows’, but nonetheless. It’s a week or so since his fight with Lara. He hasn’t mentioned it again; but then, why would he?
‘You’re perky,’ I say, holding out my mug so he can top it up with milk.
‘I doubt I’ve ever been perky.’
I laugh. It does seem unlikely. ‘Unnaturally chipper.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m in a good mood.’ He flashes a grin at me.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Yes, actually. I’ve made some “life changes”. I think you’ll approve.’
I take my coffee back towards the front of the shop. ‘Will I?’
‘Mm. I’ve knocked it on the head. With Lara.’
‘Oh my God, have you?’ I turn back to look at him. ‘What brought that on?’
‘I’d been thinking about what you said. And about the way I haven’t had fun with Lara for… Well, maybe we never had fun. I can’t remember it ever being anything but a Godawful slog.’
‘Wow. I do approve. Not that it’s any of my business. But it did seem a bit pointless. What happened, then?’
‘I drove up there last night after work. Told her I couldn’t be bothered with it anymore.’
I close my eyes briefly. ‘Bloody hell. I don’t like the woman, but could you not have been even slightly tactful?’
He snorts. ‘Yeah, okay, I didn’t say it quite like that. I said it seemed like hard work, and I know it’s not working how she wants, and blah blah.’
‘What a gent. And?’
‘And she took it pretty well.’
‘No shouting?’
‘No, remarkably.’
‘Did you fuck her?’
‘Thea, you know sometimes you surprise me,’ he says, looking pained.
‘What?’ I take a swig of coffee. ‘I’m just interested. I mean, people do stuff like that, don’t they? Once more for old times’ sake and all that.’ I grin at him. ‘Even I’ve done that.’
‘No, I didn’t fuck her.’
‘Did you want to?’
‘No.’ He sighs. ‘You know that’s been part of the problem.’
‘What, that you didn’t want to–’
‘Things have been… unsatisfactory on that front for a while. For both of us.’
I’m pleased about this, even though it absolutely is none of my business. I’m not going to remotely consider examining my reaction. ‘I suppose there’s no point if you don’t like each other and you’re not even getting any.’
‘Quite.’
* * *
I’m on my own in the shop today, as I have been all week. I’ve been wrestling with pumpkins all morning, sorting out the window display for Halloween. Leaves from the Virginia creeper drifting down the wall and piled into heaps in the corners, some battery-operated tea lights in a pair of turnip lanterns that I spent hours carving last night. I have a blister on my palm from hollowing them out; they’re much harder to work with than pumpkins, but more traditional. The pumpkins are just going in an autumnal pile. We’re going to lean a broomstick against the wall; it’s all quite subtle. Becky, the postwoman, breezes in with a parcel, sending the bell clanging.
‘Needs signing for,’ she says.
It isn’t very big, about the size of an egg carton, and is addressed to me, which is unusual. I scrawl my name unreadably on her electronic paperwork and look at the package. I haven’t ordered anything; I can’t think what this could be. I tear open the padded envelope to find an actual egg carton inside. Taped to the lid there’s a note.
I’m sending these so you don’t have to open them while I’m there. Consider this a late birthday gift. And none of your whinging about how I shouldn’t buy you stuff. Not interested. E.
I tut loudly. At the same time, I’m intrigued, and pleased of course. He was right – who doesn’t like p
resents? Even though I’m still a bit uncomfortable accepting gifts from my boss. But anyway. More spoons?
I slice through the tape sealing the egg box shut and open it. Each of the six egg compartments holds a wrapped something. I purse my lips and unwrap one.
Napkin rings. Silver and decorated, naturally, with a monogram of my initials. They’re beautiful, very plain and stylish. The hallmarks are on the back, rather than inside. I sit down at the laptop and look them up. These are Glasgow, like my tablespoon. 1857. By the looks of things, even though they’re not boxed, if they’re all the same – I pause and unwrap two more and see that they are – then they probably cost him the best part of three hundred quid.
‘I don’t think I can accept these,’ I say out loud. It doesn’t seem right, even if they’d come on my birthday. Bearing in mind at that point I’d only known him six weeks or something, it would have been extremely odd for him to give me expensive antique napkin rings. But say it was my birthday today – it still seems wrong. I feel very odd about it. As with my tablespoon, I assume he can afford it and doesn’t think much about spending three hundred pounds on a random gift. But that doesn’t make it okay. No. I can see they won’t be much good to him, or as a gift for someone else, but he’ll be able to sell them on eBay I expect, or maybe back to the person he bought them off. I rummage in my bag for my phone, and send him a message.
Hey. Thank you for the napkin rings. They’re lovely. I can’t accept them though. Sorry to be a pain, but you spending that much money on me makes me uncomfortable. It would take quite a lot of buns to make it up to you. I’ll put them in the safe. I appreciate the sentiment and everything, don’t think I’m ungrateful. T.
I put my phone down on the desk and sell some books to a young couple who are up here on their honeymoon. They’re both glowing with happiness and make me feel a bit tearful. They’ve each bought the other one of their favourite books – it’s very sweet. I wrap the books up for them. This is a new thing; I’ve hung a wide roll of lovely brown paper behind the desk, and bought string in a dozen colours. If it’s not busy – and it’s never that busy – I make beautiful brown-paper parcels. Everyone loves a brown-paper parcel tied up with string. The woman is delighted and has taken a photo for Instagram almost before I’ve finished.
‘Tag the shop,’ I say, and then we talk about Instagram for ten minutes and generally I feel it’s an extremely successful customer interaction, and one Edward would never have had. I’m an asset, it’s true, but not a three-hundred-pound-gift asset.
Next there’s an older couple buying some Noddy books in hardback, and one of our regulars, who buys new books here and has come in for the latest Ian Rankin. We don’t have a particularly wide selection of new books, but Edward always orders books by Scottish authors and we have two shelves of modern Scottish detective fiction.
I forget about the message I sent and don’t look at my phone again until I’m eating my lunch.
Fuck off, is all the response he’s sent me, which makes me laugh.
No, seriously. I text back.
Not interested.
Edward.
Thea.
Please don’t fight with me about this.
The phone rings. ‘I’m not fighting with you,’ he says. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi, yeah. Look–’
‘No, you look. It’s my business what I do with my money. I can buy you anything I want.’
I laugh at this. ‘You can’t.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘No, you can’t. There are loads of things you can’t buy me.’ I empty the remains of a crisp packet into my mouth.
‘Such as?’
‘Love,’ I say, indistinctly through a mouthful of crisps. ‘Excuse me. Um, happiness. Famously, no one can buy those things. And other stuff that’s less’ – I wave a hand, not that he can see me – ‘you know, esoteric. I’d think it bizarre and inappropriate if you bought me underwear, or even outerwear, for instance. I suppose maybe a scarf or something would be okay.’
This has thrown him, I think. No response.
‘Um, sex toys – that would be wrong. Diet books. Any kind of self-help book, in fact. Pornography. It would be weird if you bought me perfume, or bubble bath, or Class As, or bedsheets.’
‘You are the strangest woman I’ve ever met,’ he says. I’m glad he’s not here, because this makes my face burn with embarrassment.
‘No, I’m not. How rude.’
‘You are. I hardly think buying you some napkin rings is the equivalent of buying you heroin. Or porn, or a vibrator. Jesus Christ.’
‘No, but it’s inappropriate, is my point. Not the object, in this case, but the cost. Can’t you see that?’
‘You’re boring me now,’ he says.
I laugh, but it won’t change my mind. ‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I’ve put them in the safe. And when will you be back?’
‘About half an hour.’
‘Really? You’re not driving, are you?’
‘No, I’m at the farm shop. Want anything? I suppose you’d accept a cabbage, would you, or some artisan bread?’
‘Oh yes. If they have the sourdough, can you buy me some? I’ll pay you back.’
‘Jesus.’ I hear him sigh heavily. ‘See you later.’
Nineteen
It’s a perfectly normal Wednesday, or at least, a perfectly normal Wednesday in my strange new perfectly normal life. I’ve been at work about two hours, we’ve had our first coffee, Edward’s shown me some books on the internet that will be in a sale later in the month and we’ve talked again about whether we should move Local History to the front of the shop, which I’ve been arguing for since I started. When my phone pings I don’t have a premonition of disaster or anything. I pull it from the pocket of my jeans and look. A message from Xanthe.
I open it. Susanna’s pregnant, it says.
I feel the strangest feeling in my belly, from right down at the core of my being. A huge visceral expulsion of air and pain and – like puking, only not. And a strange noise, like a huge dry sob, which I don’t at first realize has come from me.
‘Are you okay? Thea?’
The phone pings again.
Sorry. Didn’t know how to tell you. Phone me, says Xanthe. I put the phone down carefully on the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, and try to walk unhurriedly to the curtain in the hallway that conceals the kitchenette and the loo. There’s a customer standing right beside it, though, looking at Children’s Fiction (Collectable, 1890–1950).
‘Sorry,’ I manage, ‘I need to…’
The toilet is at the end of a short corridor, beyond the sink and kettle. It’s a narrow windowless room, lit with a horrible low watt bulb. There’s an ancient sink and an old-fashioned loo with a high-level cistern. I manage to close the door and lift the seat before I’m sick.
Objectively, I’m rather surprised at my reaction. I can’t think of anything else that I’ve ever reacted to so physically. And I’d thought of it, after all. I’d wondered that day at the Shed about this happening. I was sort of testing myself though. I didn’t think it really would. Chris has never wanted to have children. Or has he? It seems I’ve no idea, and the fact that I don’t know, that I can’t know, that he’s as mysterious to me as anyone, when once he was the person I knew best in the world, makes me cry. I pull the clanking chain to flush the loo and wash my hands and face in the tiny sink, drinking water from my cupped hands, but I don’t stop crying. I stare at myself in the cracked mirror.
‘Look at you,’ I mutter. ‘No wonder. No wonder. Jesus Christ.’
‘Thea? Are you okay? What’s happened?’ Edward’s voice is muffled by the door. Oh shit. Nothing’s ever private, is it? Nothing happens in isolation. You’re always exposed, forced to explain.
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ I say, splashing at my face.
‘Are you sure?’
I don’t know what to say, so I ignore him, and continue to cry, trying not to make too much noise. I blow m
y nose and wash my face again.
Maybe this time I’ll never stop crying.
I knew it was over. I’ve known that since January. I’ve never expected him to change his mind. I’ve never thought that one day it will all be okay, or at least not for months. I’ve been getting better, haven’t I? Getting over it? Or have I? I can’t believe it. Chris is forty-seven. When this child’s at university he’ll be nearly seventy. It will be the youngest of four and surely its siblings will hate it.
But that’s none of my business. I don’t need to worry about it, don’t need to be concerned for the poor child. It’s nothing to do with me. I’ll just be ‘Dad’s first wife’, if they even ever tell it about me. I don’t know why this makes me cry even harder, but it does.
‘Thea? Come out, please.’
‘I don’t want to.’ I squeeze my eyes shut, as though that might stop the tears.
‘There’s no one here, or hardly anyone. I’ll close up.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m fine,’ I tell him through the door.
‘Thea, please.’
I unbolt the door unwillingly and pull the string, turning the light off. The short piece of corridor is shadowy behind the curtain.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I must have, um–’
‘Are you all right?’ He peers at me in the gloom.
‘I was sick. Sorry.’
‘Shit, were you? You should go and lie down.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Go upstairs and lie on the sofa. I’ll lock up.’
‘You don’t need to close the shop, honestly. I’ll be all right in a moment. I just… I had a bit of a shock.’
‘Upstairs,’ he says, ‘now.’
We stare at each other for a moment. I think about arguing. But then I think I’d like to lie down.
‘Okay. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologize, for God’s sake. Just go upstairs.’
* * *
I climb the wide and elegant stairs and unfasten the gold-painted childproof stairgate on the landing, ignoring the notice that says PRIVATE NO ENTRY. Anyone coming up here to pick through the Engineering/Naval History section can basically see into Edward’s sitting room on the left, the kitchen on the right and up the third flight of stairs. I’ve still only been up here alone, to feed Holly Hunter when Edward’s away. I go into the sitting room, which is bright and sunny and quite unlike my mood. I sit down in the corner of the sofa and allow myself to cry some more. Why not, eh? But Jesus, I’m tired of all this. Tired of it. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to feel anything.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 21
