I wonder when Chris will tell me of this new development. I suppose they’ll want to get married, so we’ll have to get divorced, and that means going to court, I think. I haven’t paid much attention because we’d agreed we’d wait out the two years of separation and have what is essentially a ‘no-fault’ agreement, since I had no desire to stand up and accuse him of any of the things he’s done. It’s childish, isn’t it? And it all sounds so old-fashioned, bleating about adultery. Christ.
‘Hey,’ says Edward, coming to find me a few minutes later. He hands me a glass of water, which I drain, gratefully. He puts the empty glass on the end table and comes and sits beside me while I try, unsuccessfully, to stop sobbing. ‘I brought your phone,’ he says. ‘You had some more messages.’
I take it from him, but don’t look at it. I assume the messages will be from Xanthe, asking if I’m okay, telling me to phone her.
‘Is… Are you…’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Um. It’s none of my business, but you’re clearly not fine.’
I sniff, shuddering. It’s so ridiculous to be crying like this. I feel stupid.
‘They’re having a baby,’ I tell him. ‘Chris and Susanna.’
He says nothing. There’s nothing to say, is there? We sit on the sofa and I try to control myself, but I can’t help the awful noise I’m making. Ugly crying, the worst.
‘Hey,’ he says, eventually. He moves closer, turning towards me. ‘Hey. Don’t – you’ll make yourself ill.’
I do feel like I’m on the edge of hysteria – not a good look.
‘Thea.’
I blow my nose for the fiftieth time.
‘Hey. Look – come here,’ he says, and puts his arms round me. I wasn’t expecting a hug – he’s not a huggy person, I don’t think. But he hugs me, even though I’m covered in tears and snot. He rubs my back and makes soothing noises. I cry into his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That’s pretty shit.’
‘Yeah.’ I try to reach my face with my sleeve, but I can’t. We sit there for ages, Edward stroking my back as I gradually stop crying. I close my eyes and feel myself relaxing. Eventually, I pull away so I can blow my nose.
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t need to close the shop.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I did. Look at the state of you.’
I hang my head. ‘Yeah, I know, sorry. Thanks.’
‘Thea. Stop apologizing. Why are you apologizing? You haven’t done anything wrong.’ He puts his hand on mine and rubs his thumb on my knuckles. I find this deeply confusing. But I don’t say anything, or move my hand.
‘I feel stupid. And…’ But I’m not going to discuss it with him, am I, that would be–
‘Why don’t you have any children?’
I stare at him. People don’t usually just ask. Or at least, I know people do, but no one’s ever asked me, not straight out like that.
‘I–’
‘Did you want to? Or not?’
‘I… Okay,’ I say. ‘Um. I don’t work properly, inside. The babies get away.’
He looks at me, and I laugh, awkward. ‘I had a miscarriage when we were first married. We weren’t trying to have children. It wasn’t awful or anything. It was only, like, six weeks, and I was only twenty-seven. It didn’t seem… It was fine. I’d been a bit frightened about being pregnant. I didn’t feel like I was ready. Anyway, people have m-miscarriages all the time, sometimes they don’t even realize.’
He’s looking at me intently. I feel very… exposed. I take a shuddering breath.
‘And then I had another one, later. We still weren’t trying to have a baby. But I suppose we weren’t trying not to either.’
I remember the winter morning, the bathroom light, how cold it seemed. It feels like a long time ago, a lifetime. I was a different person then. I’ve always pushed it away, the memory.
‘That one was worse. And they said if we were… if we wanted… it would probably be okay. But I didn’t want it to be something I got obsessed about. And he didn’t… he always said he didn’t. That’s what he said. That he’d never really wanted any. And I think I’ve never been that interested. In children. I mean, they’re okay.’ I laugh a watery laugh. ‘But I could never imagine, you know, being a… having any. So we didn’t.’
I plait my fingers together and look at the veins on the backs of my hands. I’m not sure when they started to show so clearly. Another sign of aging, I suppose. ‘But maybe he was lying the whole time. Maybe he just said that because he thought that’s what… but I would’ve. If he’d said. If he’d told me. I just. I’d have done anything.’ I laugh again. ‘That makes it sound like having a family is an unusual thing, rather than perfectly normal. But I… um. It upsets me,’ I say, a massive understatement, ‘to think that perhaps that’s what he wanted, and I didn’t know, and now–’
‘Shit,’ says Edward. He puts his hand to my face and wipes tears away with his fingers.
‘I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all about that.’
‘Thea.’
‘It’s dull, isn’t it? I just… I don’t want to feel like I’ve messed everything up.’
‘You haven’t, have you? It was Chris who did that. He slept with your friend.’
‘I… Yes.’
‘He should have talked to you about it, shouldn’t he, if he wanted to have a family. You’re his wife.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think he did it on purpose,’ he says. ‘Or if he did, I bet that wasn’t his plan when he started.’
‘When he started?’
‘Sleeping with your friend.’
‘Oh. No. Probably not.’
‘Was it from him? The message?’
‘No. No, from Xanthe. God knows how she knows about it. Maybe they’re telling everyone already.’ This gives me such a feeling of desolation, I could howl. ‘I just feel I was feeling better. I mean, still awful. Maybe I’ve been in denial about it all up here, but I felt like… I might get to a point… um. And now I just feel like it must have been my fault. I thought that to start with, but then I thought, no, I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just, it’s just one of those things, stuff like this happens, but now I–’
‘It’s pretty shit, yes. But it’s not your fault. And you will get through it, and you will be all right.’
‘Will I? I don’t know if I will. I don’t know if… I feel like he must just think he wasted all that time. All that time we were together, he could have been with someone else, having babies, and…’
‘Hey. Don’t cry. Come on now.’ He pulls me closer again, but this time he doesn’t hug me; he kisses the tears away instead.
And then we’re kissing, and that’s unexpected but I–
We kiss for ages. I stop thinking after a while and just feel his lips and tongue and his hand on my face. It’s… extraordinarily blissful. I didn’t expect him to kiss me and anyone would agree it probably wasn’t the best time for kissing. I guess I’m at quite a low ebb. Vulnerable, even. But I don’t want him to stop, because – well, for all kinds of reasons.
When we do stop though, and pull away and look at each other, I know at once that he’s sorry, and that it was accidental.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll just start crying again.
‘I didn’t mean–’
‘I know. It doesn’t matter, please don’t worry.’ I pull myself together. Sobbing, puking, spilling my secrets – the whole thing’s been a mistake, hasn’t it?
His shutters have come down; he drops my hand and stands up. ‘Tea,’ he says, ‘I’ll make some tea.’ Then he’s gone, and I pull my legs up, sitting with my face laid on my knees. I’d cry some more but I think I’m actually all cried out. I close my eyes and think of Alison Moyet. How old was I when she sang that? Quite young. Twelve, perhaps. Certainly too young to understand this feeling of emptiness and exha
ustion.
What happens when your boss kisses you and then decides he’s made a mistake? That’s going to be awkward, isn’t it? At least we can both claim emotional… something. My actions must have been because I was upset, and so I needn’t be embarrassed or worry that he’ll think I meant it.
Although I did quite mean it.
I wish I was twelve again. Or twenty-five, or forty. Or dead.
He brings two mugs of tea and puts mine on the table beside the sofa. Then he sits down, but not beside me this time; instead he sits in the armchair by the door.
‘Are you all right to drive? I can take you home.’
‘I don’t need to go home. It’s not even lunchtime. I’ll drink this, and then we can go back and open up.’
He frowns at me. ‘Sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Honestly, I’m… It was just a shock. I’ll get over it, and the best way for that to happen is if I have stuff to think about – you know, keeping busy, like your mum says.’ I sip my tea. I’ve never met his mother, of course. ‘Is that the sort of thing your mum says?’
His expression darkens. ‘My mother says things like, “Oh darling, really? A shop?” and, “I met a lovely girl at a dinner party last week, you’d like her.”’
I laugh, relieved to have something else to think about. ‘Does she?’
‘That sort of thing, yes. I’m a bit of a disappointment, you can probably imagine.’
‘She’d rather you were happy, though?’
He looks at me, intense. ‘She’d rather I followed the rules and didn’t cause any trouble.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not popular, with my family. Or at all.’
I’m not sure what to say to this. I drink my tea, and we sit in silence.
* * *
At five-thirty, when he’s cashing up, and I’m getting ready to leave, he says, ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better than I did.’ I pick up my bag. ‘Thanks again, for, um’ – I search for the right word – ‘for your kindness, earlier. I really appreciate it.’
He scowls at me. ‘I’m never kind.’ He shuffles, awkward. ‘I’d like to apologize again. For my… inappropriate behaviour.’
I take my keys out of my pocket and fiddle with them. ‘Please just forget about it. It doesn’t matter. I know you didn’t… It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ll be out, tomorrow,’ he says abruptly. ‘Probably Friday too.’
‘Oh, okay. Are you going to Fort William, then?’
He nods. ‘Might go up to Inverness as well. I’ll call you if – if I need to.’
‘Right you are. Thanks again,’ I say, and leave him in the darkened shop, heading out into the dusk.
I’ve been here six months – the summer’s long gone. It’s the middle of October. I should be thinking about going home, but I don’t want to. I know that’s cowardly. It’s not exactly that I want to stay here – or not entirely. I just don’t want to go back, less so now than ever. I don’t want to see anyone and have them be even more sorry for me than before, and the thought of people talking about it – the baby, which they will, and who can blame them – makes me shudder. It would be a lot easier never to go back, except to fetch my stuff. Do I want to stay here though? I look around at the neat stone houses, lights on, looking cosy in the gathering darkness. I see the lights go off in Alastair’s office, teenagers smoking in the bus stop by the Co-op, the impressive Victorian weightiness of the town hall. This is a nice place; I’ve made the beginnings of a life here. I could stay, easily.
Where else would I go? Anywhere, I suppose, anywhere at all.
* * *
Edward is away for the rest of the week. He calls each morning to ask shop-related questions. Apart from that, he can best be described as ‘distant’. I feed Holly Hunter, but I don’t go into any of the rooms of his flat except the kitchen.
I miss him. It’s dull when he’s away; even bad-mood Edward is company at least.
I don’t think about the kiss, or not much, anyway. There’s no point, is there? Best ignored and forgotten.
* * *
On Monday morning I’m running late. I slept badly, and missed my alarm. I rush about, drinking coffee and eating toast while I do my hair. I found a lovely pale cream cashmere twin set among Aunt Mary’s clothes, which just about fits, because I seem to have lost some weight – which is surprising, but useful – and decide to wear that with a smart pencil skirt that I bought in the charity shop. I don’t usually dress up for work, it’s not necessary, but today I feel the need to make myself look respectable and together. I am not the woman who collapsed into hysterical sobbing, or kissed someone she shouldn’t have.
As I open my front door, I notice an envelope on the mat. The post hasn’t been, so it must have been hand-delivered (that’s an odd phrase isn’t it; it’s not like Becky the postwoman doesn’t use her hands).
It says Ms T Hamilton on the front but no address. I open it as I walk to the car.
Thea
I regret to inform you that on consideration I have decided to terminate your employment at Fortescue’s Books. Please consider this letter in lieu of notice and find enclosed a cheque for your month’s wages.
I would appreciate it if you could return the keys to me at your earliest convenience.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for the work you have done for the past six months, and to wish you all success for the future.
Yours sincerely
Edward Maltravers
I stare at the paper. Once again a ball of horrified anguish gathers in my belly. I can’t say this will go down as one of my better weeks.
This is because he kissed me, isn’t it? Anguish is replaced almost instantly with anger. I’m furious. My hands are shaking. Absolutely fucking livid. In fact, as I get into the car, throwing my bag at the passenger seat, I can’t think of a time I’ve ever been angrier.
* * *
I shove the shop door open so hard it bangs against the back of the bookshelf. The bell jangles loudly. I storm – something I’m sure I’ve never done before – into the shop, and turn sharply to the counter. There he is, tapping away at the laptop as though everything’s normal. He looks up, startled, and is unfolding himself as I begin.
‘What the fuck is this?’ I shout, brandishing the letter. ‘What the actual fuck is this?’
He gathers himself, the scowl already firmly in place. ‘I think it’s perfectly clear.’
‘Yes, it is. Yes, it’s perfectly fucking clear. Is this about Wednesday? You fucking arsehole.’
I realize there are two customers in the shop, both caught in embarrassment, staring. I don’t care, though.
‘Thea–’
‘I thought we were friends,’ I say. My voice breaks and I cough, ashamed at sounding upset.
There’s a pause, and then he says, ‘We’re not friends.’
I step backwards, shocked.
‘Events… events have reminded me of my employment policy,’ he says. He turns and opens the desk drawer, then holds up the laminated sheet he showed me on that long-ago morning when I came in to ask about the job.
REMEMBER, NO GIRLS
‘No girls,’ I say, ‘is that right?’ I step towards him and lean on the counter. ‘Because they fall in love with you? Well, I’m not in love with you,’ I hiss, although whether this is the truth or not, I couldn’t tell you. ‘And you can’t seriously expect me to believe that you’re in love with me.’
He glares at me. ‘I don’t care what you believe.’
‘Oh really?’
‘It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me,’ he says coldly.
‘Oh, come on. You’re surely not suggesting you’d want to fuck me, are you?’
There’s a very long pause.
‘Maybe ten years ago,’ he says, ‘but no. I wouldn’t.’
Although I was expecting something like this, I’m still horrified that he’d say it. He could just have said no, it’s no
t like I’d have been surprised. There doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?
‘Well, that’s lucky. Because I wouldn’t fuck you if you begged me.’ I tear up the letter and the cheque, inefficiently, and throw the resulting, rather chunky, confetti in his face.
‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘Enjoy the rest of your miserable life.’
I pull the shop keys from my bag and throw them on the floor, followed by the Shed key. Then I stalk out, slamming the shop door behind me. I stand on the pavement, chest heaving, and realize I’m crying at about the same time I realize it’s started to rain. I turn randomly and walk blindly away.
We’re not friends.
I think that’s the cruellest and most hurtful thing anyone’s ever said to me, at least since I left school. When Chris told me he was leaving, it wasn’t cruel. It was tragic and awful, but it wasn’t cruel. He tried hard not to say anything hurtful, to make it as civilized as possible. I wipe my face on my sleeve and walk faster. Then I run, wildly and not well in my smart shoes. I turn down side streets without thinking or planning and then I’m not sure where I am. There’s a bus shelter though, and now it’s properly raining, so I go and stand under it, sobbing. I feel like I’ve done nothing but cry for the last nine months and, really, what’s worse than the sight of a forty-four-year-old woman crying in public. It’s humiliating, or it would be if I gave a toss what anyone thinks.
It’s quite a slap in the face, to think you’re friends with someone and find out that you’re not. I think of all the time we’ve spent talking, and the time at the Shed, and all those lunches and drinks after work and the times we’ve laughed enough to bring tears to my eyes. He bought me a spoon, for God’s sake. Two spoons, even. I was pretty confident we were mates. But we weren’t. We’re not. It’s devastating.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 22
