The Hopes and Dreams of Libby Quinn

by Freya Kennedy

  Jess’s expression changed. She rubbed at her temples and stiffened. ‘Let me get this right. He’s not the one because all you do is have fun?’ There was a definite hint of disbelief, possibly even annoyance, in her voice.

  ‘I know,’ Libby said, feeling herself cringe. ‘But, you know, I don’t think he’d disagree with anything I’ve said. We’ve been together for long enough that you’d think we’d be talking about taking things to the next level, maybe, moving in, I don’t know, marriage, kids…’

  ‘You’ve never even talked about a next step?’ Jess asked, incredulously.

  ‘Jess, don’t you think I’d have told you if we had? And, you know, we’ve never ever discussed the “L” word and I don’t think either of us are sitting pining to have the conversation either. We just rubbed along because it was fun, and now it’s not as fun any more and all the other problems are starting to become more pointed.’

  ‘Relationships aren’t meant to be fun all the time though, Libby. We both know that. You have to work at these things.’

  There was something in Jess’s tone – a judgement or something, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it – that made Libby uncomfortable. Maybe it was because it almost sounded as if her best friend in the entire world was fighting Ant’s case, instead of offering the unwavering support she had come to expect from her.

  ‘Jess, don’t you think that if you’re with the one – the proper one – the one that works on all levels – that you’d know it and you wouldn’t question it? You’d want to tell them you loved them and have them say it back. It shouldn’t be the case that you don’t care if they do or don’t.’

  Jess sat back, took a breath. Libby could almost see the cogs working in her mind – trying to understand how she could be in a relationship of sorts with a man who ticked all the boxes but didn’t fit all the same.

  ‘I suppose,’ Jess said softly. ‘But here’s the thing, I know what you’re like, Libby Quinn. I’ve known you since we were four years old and when you get involved in a project you give it one hundred per cent – which is admirable. The thing is, nothing should take up one hundred per cent of our life – no project, no job, no hobby, no man. Don’t put all your eggs in the one basket – don’t move on to the next gung-ho adventure without realising the last one still has a little to offer. It doesn’t have to be a case of either/or. Ant is a good guy – don’t make a mistake. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Libby conceded, to keep the peace, if nothing else, even though she knew deep down how she felt and that it was unlikely to change. Maybe Jess had been the wrong person to speak to after all. She felt this conversation run away from her. Just as it had run away from her when she had been with Ant earlier. She decided to try and move things on. ‘Look, how do you feel about coming with me to the vintage market at the weekend instead? We can hire a van. I’ll even let you choose the music we listen to. We can stay overnight – really kick off our heels? Or our flats?’ she said, looking down at her flip-flops and Jess’s slipper socks.

  ‘Oh, God, that sounds great,’ Jess said, in a tone that didn’t quite match her words. ‘But I can’t this weekend. I have that mental health conference at the university in Coleraine. It’s all booked and I’m representing the practice. I’m sorry, you know I would if I could.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Libby said, but she couldn’t help but feel disappointed and, if she was honest, worried that her friend might have been lying to her.

  11

  The Help

  Libby was very good at distracting herself with work. Especially when it was work she was enjoying – but by Thursday she had started to feel overwhelmed by the dust, the noise and the mounting bills.

  ‘It has to get worse before it gets better,’ her dad had told her. ‘You’ll be surprised how quickly it will start to come together.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Libby said, pulling her hair – which seemed to have a permanent coating of dust, no matter how much she washed it – back in a ponytail.

  ‘It will,’ he said. ‘Remember, I’ve done a lot of these projects and without fail I’ve had this conversation with every single person who has hired me. But you have to look at how far you’ve come.’

  Libby looked down at the counter top, where her notes and plans were all laid out. She could see it coming together on paper. She’d even had the chance to check out the online catalogue for the auction Craig had told her about and had found some brilliant pieces she had already decided she absolutely had to have, including two ercol desks and an industrial-style table which would work brilliantly to display books in the centre of the shop.

  She could see that progress was being made around her too. There was no doubt her dad had sway in the building community. Terry The Spark was working flat out, along with a spotty apprentice called Gerry. Libby wondered whether Gerry would someday adopt the moniker of Gerry The Spark – she liked to think he would. She loved the symmetry of Terry and Gerry.

  Billy the plumber was working round the clock, replacing some frankly disgusting pipework and planning how best to plumb in what she would need for the coffee bar.

  On top of that, she had a stream of joiners, glazers and plasterers calling in and out. Craig was in almost constant contact and her father was very much enjoying his role as a pseudo project manager.

  On some days, she felt as if she was relegated to the role of tea-girl, but if it kept things moving along at the shop to provide tea and biscuits on demand, she’d suck it up and keep doing it.

  Her newly enforced role also kept Harry happy, as Libby traipsed up and down the street several times a day to buy milk or coffee, or another packet of Rich Tea, from his shop. He perked up as soon as he saw her walk in – and even though she knew that she was never going to get out of there without hearing at least one of his rants, she liked that he had taken no time at all to accept her as part of the Ivy Lane community. That Thursday the subject of his ire was the number of domestic waste bins people were required to have these days.

  ‘I put the wrong bin out this morning because I was still sleepy and, of course, they didn’t lift it, so now I have to sit with all that rubbish rotting for the next two weeks – and with this lovely weather and all. There’s some out-of-date chicken in there and, I can tell you, it wasn’t smelling too fragrant when it went in. Imagine it after two weeks in this heat?’

  Libby wrinkled her nose in disgust but decided she would rather not think about it in too much detail if she could help it.

  ‘I suppose you could always take it to the municipal dump?’ she suggested, lifting a bag of sugar and wondering how her workmen didn’t all have type 2 diabetes from the quantity of the stuff they got through.

  ‘Just the chicken? Seems a bit extreme,’ Harry said, and for just a second she didn’t know if he was serious or not. It was only when he flashed her his pearly false teeth and winked at her that she laughed – his belly-shaking chuckle kicking in just after. ‘Your face, Libby! You are a card! Tell me this, are you single? What age are you? Because my grandson is twenty-five and he could do worse than have a lovely wee cuddy like you on his arm.’

  ‘Ah, he’s a bit young for me, Harry,’ Libby said, not actually telling him whether or not she was single. ‘I’m the wrong side of thirty for him.’

  ‘You could be one of those cougars?’ Harry asked, with a wink.

  ‘Ah, God no. I don’t have the energy for that,’ Libby laughed, ‘but I’m sure if your boy has even half the charm of his grandad, it won’t be long until he snaps up a lovely woman of his own.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not getting any younger and it would be nice to hold a great-grandchild before I pop my clogs.’

  ‘Harry, you’ll outlive us all, so none of that talk,’ Libby chided, handing over the money for her purchases.

  ‘Can I come down and have a nosy around the shop sometime?’ Harry asked – for once looking a little less than his usual bold and brash self.

&
nbsp; ‘Of course,’ Libby said. ‘I mean, there’s not an awful lot to look at just now – it’s a bit of a building site – but you are welcome down any time. The door’s usually open – just pop in. I don’t tend to travel far from my spot at the counter most days.’

  Harry nodded, handing her the change. ‘Good. Good. I’ll call down then. I remember when it was the drapers – although that seems like forever ago now. People don’t make clothes in the way they used to. That shop used to be busy all the time. My Mary was forever in and out of it – fabric and buttons and wool. It will be nice to see life back in the old place.’

  ‘Well, I hope I can get it half as busy as it was before then. Definitely call in. And bring your lovely wife with you if you want?’ Libby called as she walked out of the shop and back down the street – grinning like a lunatic – happy with her day.

  The grin – perhaps a little calmer – stayed on her face until her phone rang just after four and a very apologetic, but young and inexperienced-sounding, car hire assistant told her that there would be a problem with her rental of a van to take to the vintage market that Saturday and they were very sorry, but due to overbooking, they would be unable to honour her booking.

  ‘But I called on Monday? Paid a deposit. Surely you’re able to sort this out?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Ms Quinn,’ the baby-voiced assistant said. ‘I’ve been told to call you and say we’re very sorry and we’ll offer you ten per cent off your next booking as a goodwill gesture.’

  ‘How about, as a goodwill gesture, you just have the van I booked ready for me on Saturday morning? It’s very important that I have it. It’s for work – and I need to be able transport furniture back with me – there’s no way it will fit in my car. Not even one piece of it. So, you see, the only goodwill I even want to contemplate is you doing what I paid you to do.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ the baby-voiced assistant said. ‘There really is nothing we can do about it. We have tried to source another van from one of our other depots, but it seems this weekend is booked out.’

  Libby sighed and reminded herself to keep her cool. It wasn’t the assistant’s fault that the system had messed up. There was no point in losing her cool over the phone. ‘Fine,’ she said, sourly. ‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing that can be done.’

  ‘We really are terribly sorry. If we can be of assistance to you at any time in the future, please do get in touch.’

  Libby thought it highly unlikely she would ever look for assistance from that company again, but she stopped short of saying so, simply ending the call instead.

  She was just about to launch into the mother of all swearing outbursts and possibly throw something, when she heard a female voice say: ‘Is this a bad time? It’s just I was finishing up and thought I’d call in for a nosy?’

  Biting back the very bad f and b words that were itching to come out of her mouth, Libby squinted a little to make out that it was Jo standing in the door frame – a look of fear on her face, as if she knew she had just stumbled into a breakdown in the making.

  ‘Erm, come in. Of course, come in,’ Libby said.

  ‘I’ve brought some flowers from Harry’s shop. He said you might like them,’ she said, handing over a plastic-wrapped bundle of red and yellow carnations which had probably seen better days. There was clearly something about Libby that made Harry feel compelled to foist his on-the-turn goods off on her. She had the good grace to smile at the gesture, though, and took the flowers, filling a drinking glass with water from the five-litre bottle she used to make tea and coffee and standing them up on the thickened glass top of the counter. At least it was a burst of colour about the place.

  Jo was walking through the shell of the shop, oohing and aahing: ‘You feel it, don’t you?’ she said, turning to smile at Libby. ‘The history in the place? You feel the souls of the people who’ve been here before, not in a haunty way, just in a sense that this place could tell a hundred different stories.’ She took her dark-rimmed, tres chic, glasses off and rubbed them on her T-shirt before putting them back on and looking back around. ‘I have a thing for old buildings. For things that can be reinvented,’ Jo said. ‘Maybe because I like being reinvented myself. It’s nice to think people and places can get a second chance, or a third chance, or whatever.’

  Libby nodded, made the appropriate affirmative noises.

  ‘Listen to me rambling,’ Jo said and walked back to the counter. ‘Noah is always telling me that the customers don’t need my life story – but, sure, isn’t that what it’s all about? Talking to people? Having a laugh? No point in doing anything if you’re not enjoying it?’

  The way she looked at Libby made her feel as if she could see right into her thoughts and it unnerved her. The question over whether or not she should continue with Ant, when she wasn’t enjoying it as much as before, was still in her thoughts.

  ‘You must love this. I mean – who wouldn’t. It must be a dream project.’

  Libby nodded and smiled again. It was a dream project – she had no problem telling anyone who wanted to hear just how much of a dream project it was. ‘I’m very lucky,’ she said. ‘I just hope it all works out. I need it to.’ Libby fought the tears that were pricking at her eyes. This was stupid, being brought to tears over a stupid van and a stupid vintage market trip which was causing her nothing but trouble.

  ‘It’s stressful too, I imagine,’ Jo said, as she looked pointedly at Libby. ‘Is everything okay? I’m sensing maybe not?’

  Libby sniffed, annoyed at herself for getting upset. ‘I know it sounds trivial, but I’d a van hired to drive to the vintage market and auction on Saturday in Belfast and the company have double-booked. The auction only happens a couple of times a year, and they have some great pieces, but I think I’m going to have to let them go. I know that sounds like a stupid thing to get upset over, but I really want an authentic feel to the place.’

  Libby thought of the conversations she’d had with Grandad Ernie about how old things still had value and could bring their story with them, and she was gone. A fat teardrop rolled down her dusty cheek and plopped unceremoniously on the counter.

  ‘Oh, pet,’ Jo said, as she whipped around the counter and pulled Libby into a tight hug. ‘Do you know what my mum always says? There’s no point in getting upset over something that can be fixed. And I happen to know exactly how to fix this.’

  Libby watched with curiosity as Jo took her phone from her handbag and scrolled through her screen before tapping on a number and holding it to her ear.

  ‘Noah, what are you doing on Saturday? Yes, I know it’s a busy day – but we can hold the fort without you, the place won’t burn down. I have something that you could do that would really help our new neighbour. You know, Bookshop Libby? She needs a van to take to a market or auction or something in Belfast and the hire company has let her down. I was thinking, sure, don’t you have a big van you could drive for her? It would get you out of my hair for a bit too, and you’ve no need to worry about Paddy. I’ll mind him. I’ll even take him for a walk.’

  Libby was caught somewhere between feeling hopeful at the thought of getting to the vintage market after all and feeling uncomfortable at imposing on Noah in this way. This was a big ask. For him to take the day off work, to drive her to Belfast. They barely knew each other and the thought of almost two hours in a car either way (longer, if the interminable roadworks were still in place) was awkward, to say the least. She imagined it would be quite rude to put her earphones in and listen to her latest Audiobook.

  Libby tried to gesture to Jo that it didn’t matter – but it seemed that the diminutive redhead, who believed in second chances for people and places, was not easily dissuaded when she thought she was doing someone a good deed.

  She waved Libby away in a ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine’ manner before she turned her back and continued her conversation, in slightly more hushed tones. ‘You can consider it your good deed for the week and I’ll definitely owe you. Yes.
If that’s what you want. Yes. I know you always want one of those,’ Jo whispered, laughing.

  Oh God, Libby cringed, unable to escape the feeling that Jo was offering Noah all sorts of sexual favours if he would drive the poor sad sack of a neighbour to Belfast. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her.

  She tried to hide her embarrassment when, moments later, Jo ended the call and turned to her with a smile.

  ‘All sorted. Your friendly local landlord will take you in his van. I used my powers of persuasion.’ Jo laughed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Libby said. ‘But, really, neither of you should go to any trouble. It’s a busy day for you. I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not asking,’ Jo said, with the kind of quiet determination which made Libby think that she could perhaps be quite scary when she needed to be. ‘We’re offering. And we’re happy to do so. It won’t do Noah any harm at all to get out from behind that bar for a day. You’re doing us a favour really. He never takes time off unless forced.’

  When Libby climbed into bed that night and tried to shut her brain enough to sleep, she wondered what kind of mood a man who had been forced to take a day off and who had to be bribed (probably with sexual favours) to take her to Belfast would be in during their long journey.

  She also wondered how she’d break it to Jess that she was as sure as she could be now that Noah and Jo were very much a couple.

  12

  On The Road

  To his credit, Noah was not at all surly when he picked Libby up outside the shop on Saturday morning. He’d offered to drive round to her parents’ house to pick her up – but she had declined, still feeling guilty enough that he’d had to be persuaded to do this trip in the first place. She didn’t want to put him to any more trouble than strictly necessary.