‘Well, yes, it would be.’
‘Because I do like you.’
‘That’s nice. Usually friendship follows on from that in a pretty straightforward way,’ I tell him, ‘especially if you’re both adults and everything.’
‘Yes.’
‘But?’
‘But there’s a problem.’
‘Is it that you’re an arse?’
A grin flickers briefly. ‘No, it’s not that. Although it doesn’t help.’
‘Go on then,’ I say, ‘I’m prepared.’
‘I did try to tell you. But I don’t think you believed me, or wanted to understand what I was saying.’
I raise my eyebrows, puzzled.
‘We can’t be friends because I’m in love with you.’
I stare at him for a moment, and then I laugh. Eventually I have to put my head on the table because I go limp, my neck strangely floppy, when I laugh a lot. It doesn’t happen often, but at school I spent a lot of time with my head on the desk, weak with laughter.
After what seems like ages, I gradually stop, and wipe my eyes. ‘You idiot,’ I say. I expect I’ve upset him. He’s scowling again. ‘You idiot. This is just a thing you do to yourself, isn’t it? I think you’re just overly suggestible. You spend time with someone and get on with them, and because you’ve managed to screw up in your head how relationships work, you convince yourself it means something it doesn’t. I can see how that’s problematic when you’re dealing with some teenager. But you don’t have to worry about me, do you? Or sack me because of it? If we spend enough time together it’ll go away, won’t it? I mean…’ I can feel myself starting to get upset again. ‘I mean, it goes away even if you are in love with someone, in the end. In the end one of you sleeps with someone else, even if you think it will last for ever. But honestly. Why would you seriously think that?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says, and gets up.
‘No, it does. I wasn’t laughing at you,’ I add, ‘just at the notion.’
‘Why is it funny?’
‘Because it’s ridiculous. It seems unlikely anyone will ever fall in love with me again. And you especially. I mean, why would you? There are people like Lara for you to fall in love with. Maybe she’s not a good example. But you know what I mean. Oh lord.’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Sorry, that probably seemed rude, to laugh like that. I didn’t mean it to. Sit down. Finish your tea.’
‘Thea. It’s because I have stupid crushes all the time that I know this is true.’
I shake my head. ‘Oh, right, yeah. How does that work?’
‘Because it’s completely different.’
We look at each other.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean when I think people are pretty, or whatever, and you know “what lovely skin” and wonder what it would be like to kiss them–’
‘Pfft.’
‘And even what it would be like to take them to bed, yes, I admit I do think about that. But I’ve never thought about what it would be like if they were there all the time and wondered what they’d think about all my favourite places. Or read things and thought, I must speak to them about this, and wondered if they’ve read that. Or worried they’re sad and I want them to be happy. Wished they were with me when I have to go away.’
We look at each other for a long moment.
‘A lot of that’s being friends, Edward. All of it really. It’s not–’
‘And wanted to kiss them every time I see them. I haven’t even had a woman in the shop – I mean, given a job to one – for like ten years or something.’
‘No girls?’
‘No, I told you.’
‘Well, so–’
‘But that’s how I feel about you.’
We stare at each other for ages. I can feel the pulse in my throat.
‘But–’
‘And I’m sorry I said all those awful things. It’s frightening to feel like this. And I know you don’t feel the same way, so probably I should have kept all this to myself. But I didn’t… I didn’t want you to think that we weren’t friends because I don’t like you. I do – I really like you.’
This is so heartfelt I feel tears brimming again. I’m not sure where to look, or what to say. He closes his eyes and continues. ‘I’ve known since we went to the Shed. Not that I admitted it then, even to myself. But it was great, being there with you. I thought it would be – that’s why I asked you. I’ve always found your company very relaxing. Almost like being by myself, but better. I like the way you don’t need to be looked after all the time. And I like the way you don’t get bored.’
‘I hardly ever get bored,’ I admit. ‘And how would I get bored at the Shed? It’s brilliant.’
He smiles at me. ‘I know. That’s how I feel about it too. But I thought you were married. But then you told me about Chris – I could see how upset you were. And you’d never done anything to make me think you might… to make me think you were interested in me. And when you cut your head open–’
I’m uncomfortable, now, thinking of that, his fingers in my hair.
‘I forgot where I was, when I was looking at your hair; or who I was, or… something.’
‘Yeah, that was a bit weird. No one had touched me for ages,’ I say. ‘It was quite – intense.’
‘Yes.’
I clear my throat, embarrassed.
‘That’s why I was worried you’d think I’d manipulated the situation. By drinking too much. Trapping you there. And I thought about how if it hadn’t mattered,’ he says, ‘I might have made a pass at you, I suppose. But I knew it mattered more than that. I had such a nice time.’
‘I did too. It was lovely. Even though I was slightly anxious.’ Then I see his face, and say, ‘Um, just because I thought it might be… awkward. Like when you kissed me on Wednesday. I know you didn’t mean to, and it upset me that you–’
‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t that I didn’t mean to. But it was completely the wrong time to kiss you. Not saying there’d be a right time. But I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you. Of the way you felt.’
‘I know.’
‘I just wanted to make you feel better.’ He purses his lips, frowning. ‘And I wanted to kiss you.’
‘Um.’
‘So I’m sorry about that. I know you… I know it didn’t mean anything. To you.’ He looks almost anxious, as he says this, and I think, not for the first time, how odd it is that we can never know the truth of another’s thoughts.
‘I’m not sure what makes you think that,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m not completely dead inside.’
There’s a pause.
‘You see the thing is–’ I start, as he says, ‘I wasn’t sure if–’
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘No, you first.’
I gather myself. ‘You see the thing is, I have been thinking about it. For ages. About you. And I think… I think if you like someone, it’s much harder to tell if they like you too. Harder than if you were indifferent.’
I don’t think he’s going to help me out, here – he’s just staring. I soldier on.
‘I’m probably not in a very good place. Emotionally. God knows I’ll never forget how awful everything was at the beginning of this year. But I felt like I’d been doing okay. Making progress. Because coming up here made it easier for me to forget that any of it was true or real. I’d got used to feeling like it must be my fault, somehow, that he left. Even though I know logically that’s not true. I know I’ll get used to being by myself, and I’ll bumble along like other divorced people and it will be fine. Because I haven’t been as lonely as I might have expected, and that’s partly down to you.’ I pause again, trying to find the right words. For someone who talks a lot I find it hard to get the words right when it matters. ‘Because while you’re quite rude, and obnoxious, and not even always there – despite all that, having the shop, and someone to talk to about all kinds of things that were nothing to do with Chris or the house or the failure of my life
… I felt like I was almost me again, in some ways. Properly me, Thea Hamilton. Not Thea Mottram. If I were to go home, I expect it would be awful again, because I’d have to see people and places and all the ordinary everyday things that will never be the same. So maybe it’s all been false, this notion of myself as a new version of me, you know. But anyway.’ I falter, unsure of how to stop. ‘Sorry, I seem to have been talking for ages.’
‘You can talk as much as you like,’ he says, ‘I don’t mind.’
‘But you were going to say something. Ages ago, before I–’
‘When you say you’re not indifferent,’ he says, then pauses. ‘Is that what you were saying? At the beginning? I was listening to all of it, but I’ve rather latched onto that–’
‘I wanted you to kiss me, yes. If that’s what you’re asking.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Or at least, it was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. And maybe it wasn’t the best time. But I thought you might before, you know. When I had to run after you because you were being a twat. I thought you were going to kiss me then.’
He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘In the doorway? Yeah, I–’
‘That was the first time I thought you might… but then you didn’t, and I thought I must have imagined it. But anyway. It’s not like I minded, when you kissed me. I really didn’t. But you know that, right?’
‘I–’
‘Right?’
‘I didn’t… I wasn’t sure. I should have asked you if it was okay. I felt bad. But you wanted me to kiss you?’ He looks painfully unsure of himself, and it’s probably lucky I’m sitting too far away to be able to reach him. I want to reassure him, to soothe and comfort him. I’m not sure if this is a good idea or not.
‘Surely you could tell? I mean call me sentimental, or foolish or naïve, but it all seemed quite swoony and…’ I think back to that moment on the sofa, my hand on his chest, his fingers on my cheek, the hungry way we’d kissed, tongues entwined. ‘You know.’ I shrug again. ‘Sexy.’
‘Oh God,’ he says.
I shuffle my chair a little closer, leaning across the table, and he puts his hands in mine.
‘It’s difficult to talk about,’ I say. ‘Embarrassing and awkward. But it was nice of you to hug me and the kissing was a bonus.’
‘Okay.’
‘So please stop worrying about it.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll try.’
‘It’s not wrong to find someone attractive,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised that you do, but there we are. So now that’s all out in the open, can we be friends again?’
He tightens his hold on my hands. ‘I don’t know. Can we? Because I don’t imagine I’m going to stop feeling like this.’
I can’t quite look him in the eye. It’s so strange to hear him saying this stuff. His hands are warm; warmer than mine. It’s nice to hold hands, even if my arms are stretched further than is comfortable.
‘Yes, but you see, I think you’re missing the point,’ I tell him. ‘It works much better if you’re friends. I mean it’s more complicated, maybe, but if you’re not friends you can’t… there’s nothing to build on. Admittedly it’s hard to be friends afterwards, if you really throw yourself into it. I suppose we’d have to decide what was more important. It’s important to me to have a friend. And I don’t know how well I’d cope, at the moment, with someone being in love with me.’ I frown, because I’m still not convinced that he is, which is probably rude. But I can’t see why he would be. Lara was a bad example to give earlier, but it’s true there are a million women with good bones who haven’t slept with his brother who would be far more suitable. Anyway. ‘I don’t know. Once you sleep with someone, everything’s different, even if you try for it not to be.’
‘I’ve never tried to be friends with anyone I’ve slept with.’
I laugh. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’ I feel like this has all got a bit, I don’t know, impersonal almost. I’m not sure what to say now, as I lean here, my chin just above the surface of the table. Holding my head up is making my neck ache. It’s tempting to just lay my head on the table. I’m so tired. I put my forehead against the wood, and my nose, and close my eyes.
‘Thea. Are you all right?’
‘I’m just very tired.’
‘Should I go?’
‘We could sit somewhere more comfortable.’ I look up and he nods. I let go of his hands and get up. He gets up too and I lead him out to the hall. I’d intended to go through to the sitting room, but then I have a better idea. Or a more stupid idea. I’ve confused myself.
Going to bed would be mad, right? Can I ask him if he wants to? I’m not sure I can. Or what would happen if I did. I don’t know if I could do any of the things one does in bed. And taking someone to bed and then finding you can’t have sex with them is asking for trouble. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Even though now I’ve thought of it…
I know it’s a bad idea to sleep with people who are in love with you, if you’re not in love with them. I remember that much from my youth. Anyway, I still don’t believe he is, not really. It seems so unlikely.
And it’s not as though I’m completely not in love with him. There may be some grey areas.
I pause for a moment, and perhaps Edward notices my hesitation because he says my name so I turn towards him, and he pulls me closer. ‘May I kiss you?’ he says, which makes me laugh.
‘If you like.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’d like it, if you did.’
I’m glad it’s quite dark here in the cold passageway, on this wet Thursday afternoon in late October, because I know my face is red, and my hair has dried oddly, and I am, after all, wearing a pair of old man pyjamas that may well be almost as old as I am. Edward slides an arm round my waist and moves his other hand to my face. I close my eyes and we kiss very slowly. I’m shaking. I feel I’m all lips, conscious of my breasts against his chest, my own hands in his hair, amongst the curls. I’m breathless when he pulls away. He kisses my forehead, and squeezes me until I squeak. Then we look at each other for ages. Eventually I say, ‘Did you want to sit on the sofa?’ and he laughs. ‘Shall we?’ and we go into the sitting room.
It crosses my mind that it’s been a long time since I had sex on a sofa, and this thought makes me blush. I sit down hurriedly. I mean we’re not going to… There’s no need, is there? I have a perfectly serviceable bed hardly any distance away. Not that we’re going to have sex. Not yet anyway. Right?
We look at each other. I have no idea what to do.
‘Come here,’ he says, so I move slightly closer. I’m embarrassed, for some reason. Edward is entirely familiar to me – I’ve seen him at least three or four days a week, every week, since May. I spent twenty-four hours with him at the Shed. I’ve looked at his face more often than anyone else’s face since I got here, and yet now he looks quite different because we’ve kissed twice and he’s told me he… My brain shies away from the phrase, stupidly. Come on. He’s told me he loves me. These things have changed him for ever. I can touch him if I want to, unwind a curl or stroke an eyebrow, put my finger into the crease between his brows.
‘You’re really staring,’ he says, and leans closer, his nose against my cheek. I close my eyes and tilt my head slightly, and feel his lips on my jaw, my throat.
Jesus.
It’s terrifying though. He’s already made me incredibly miserable, hasn’t he? Even if that was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, an error, I was still much more upset than is acceptable. What the hell am I doing?
‘Oh God,’ I say, ‘is this really stupid?’
He sits back, and we look at each other.
‘Probably,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t recommend myself to anyone.’
‘Oh, not because it’s you,’ I say, wanting to reassure him. ‘Whoever it was, would it be stupid? I think I’m broken, and I don’t want to–’
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘And I know I’m not a very good bet. I shouldn’t have come.’
He goes to
get up and I put my hand on his thigh. ‘No, don’t say that. It’s not that. I’m glad you did. But I’ve been very unhappy, this week.’
‘Yes, me too,’ he says, and laughs. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been so miserable.’
‘Well, I definitely have, but it’s a surprisingly close-run thing.’
‘I’m sorry I hurt you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you how I felt. I was afraid.’
‘Oh God.’ I laugh.
‘What?’
‘Well, you’re just fucking adorable, aren’t you,’ I say, and then we’re kissing again and it’s all quite intense. Everything pulses and throbs in a way that reminds me of other fumblings in long-ago sitting rooms.
Eventually I say, ‘Okay. Are we going to bed?’
He looks very serious in the half-light. ‘What, now? Do you want to?’
‘Yeah, probably,’ I say, a bit distracted by wondering if my bedroom’s untidy. Pretty sure I made the bed – I usually do. The sheets are clean anyway, changed on Saturday. Not that it matters; I’d be surprised if he cared much about the state of the room, or the sheets.
‘Probably?’
I laugh at his expression. ‘Never expect me to say the right thing – I hardly ever do. What I mean is’ – I get up and pull him to his feet – ‘I’d like to go to bed with you, I think, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea, or if we should. But I do want to, so I’m going to ignore all that.’
In the hall, I push open the bedroom door. It’s almost dark, the light from the window grey and fading. It’s still raining steadily.
Now we’re in here, I think I may have made a mistake. Self-conscious doesn’t begin to cover how awkward I feel. I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the dressing table and pull a face.
‘What is it?’
I gesture at the mirror. ‘I just saw my reflection. Reminding me that although I feel exactly like I did when I was nineteen, or twenty-five, on the outside, I sadly don’t look like I did then.’
‘You look pretty good to me,’ he says. ‘Those pyjamas are–’
‘They were Andrew’s,’ I say. I look down at myself, and then grin at him. ‘There, has that ruined the moment?’
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 25
