You'll get there, I told myself later as I sped back down the lanes, one leg completely sodden. It's all a matter of practice. You're just not used to it. And you a farmer's daughter, a little voice in my head said. What had I been doing with my life whilst my sister-in-law held breakfast meetings – which I now realized that little tête-à-tête had been, both women finding a window of opportunity before they started work, proper work. What had I been doing? Reading trashy mags and eating lime creams, that's what.
But I was focused now, very focused. And I knew where I was going next. To Malcolm's. To his shop, to raid his shelves. To get the lowdown on Bella Edgeworth, to ferret amongst his paperbacks and get the full story. I sped towards town, crossed the river – the amount of driving I did you'd think I'd be quite good at it – skirted round the centre and headed down St Giles. The larger bookshops wouldn't be open yet, but one of the ways Malcolm stole a march on the bigger stores was by tempting customers in with an early-morning coffee and a possible purchase on their way to work. I swung a left down Clarendon Street. He'd be there.
I parked in the little cobbled yard at the back. Good: just Malcolm's car. Changing my wellies for a pair of old flip-flops on the back seat, I got out and hurried round to the front. Quietly opening the shop door, I glanced through the archway to my left… but no. No one there. No sign of Poo-Face. In fact, the whole shop was empty and still in semidarkness, save for Malcolm, who was behind the counter at his computer, glasses perched on nose. Cinders was lying at his feet. He peered over his specs as I came in. Beamed.
‘Darling! You're up bright and early. What a treat.’
‘Malcolm.’ I shut the door and hastened towards him urgently. ‘Malcolm, have you heard of Bella Edgeworth?’
‘Yes, of course I have.’ He took his glasses off. ‘She writes those lovely Victorian romance books. All crinolines and petticoats. Why?’
‘Lovely? You think they're lovely? I thought they were more sort of… throwaway and trashy.’
‘Well, they're not highbrow or literary, if that's what you mean. But they're certainly very charming. And very accessible.’
Oh God. Like her probably. ‘Sexy?’
‘No-o,’ he said slowly. ‘Not really. I mean, a hint, but it's always dot dot dot and shut the bedroom door. No throbbing members, if that's what you mean. I've got some here. Why?’ He got up and went to the shelves to peruse.
‘Because she's the sodding ex-girlfriend, Malc. The one with the child!’
‘Oh!’ He turned in astonishment, stared at me. Alarmingly, his eyes began to shine. ‘Oh, how thrilling' Oh, Evie, d'you think she'd do an event for us? A reading? She's awfully popular.’
‘Malcolm!’
‘No, no, sorry. Silly me,’ he said quickly. He snatched a couple of books from the shelves and hurried back with them. ‘But you must admit, quite exciting. And so much better than a Doreen, don't you think?’
‘From whose point of view?’
‘Well—’
‘You mean, if one's fiancé is going to shag another woman and have a lovechild, much better that she's beautiful and famous?’
Malcolm shifted his weight onto one leg and scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Ye-s. Yes, I think that's exactly what I mean,’ he declared defiantly, deliberately ignoring my sarcasm. ‘The daughter's bound to be a chip off the old block – great genes, especially with Ant as the father. How much better than traipsing a couple of dogs round the Bodleian?’
‘Oh, yes, marvellous. Perhaps they should have some more? I could give guided tours to any number of tall, blonde brain boxes. Recreate the Aryan race!’
‘Now don't be like that, petal. As I said the other day— Oh!’ He broke off as he flipped open the back cover of one of the books. A young woman of quite astonishing beauty was revealed. Her hair was long and blonde, her eyes doe-shaped and limpid, her cheekbones high, her lips full; her bosom too, what one could tantalizingly see of it in the bottom left-hand corner. It had clearly taken Malcolm's breath away, and he was of the other persuasion. Mine too. We stared at it together.
‘Right, that's it,’ I whispered, when I could tear my eyes away. ‘I'm off to Magdalen Bridge. I'll be the one on the riverbed with stones in my wellingtons.’
‘It's probably a good picture,’ he soothed, snapping the book shut. ‘Vaseline on the lens, lots of retouching.’ He was looking inside the other one now. ‘Oh God…’
‘Let me see!’ I lunged.
‘No, no.’ He held it up high, out of my reach.
‘Even better?’ I breathed.
‘Well…’
I jumped and snatched it from him. Flipped it open.
‘AARGHH!’ I dropped it. Then I collapsed into his chair and brought my forehead down dramatically onto the counter.
Malcolm bustled away into his back room. A few minutes later he was back with his usual remedy: hot and strong. I raised my head weakly from the counter as he put the mug beside me.
‘Two sugars?’ I whimpered.
‘Three. One for the nerves.’ He patted my back. ‘Now listen, flower. I know you're in a bad way, but would you do me a humongous favour?’ He clasped his hands, knees bent as he lowered himself down to my line of vision.
‘Anything,’ I murmured bleakly as I picked up the spoon and stirred my beverage miserably.
‘I'm supposed to be taking Cinders to a doggy training class in five minutes, and your ma is supposed to be relieving me here, only she's a bit late. You wouldn't hold the fort for moi, would you? Till she comes? Would you, would you?’ He fluttered his lashes at me.
‘Mum? Oh. Oh, yes, she said.’ I shrugged resignedly. ‘Sure. Why not?’ I rested my head on his counter again. ‘I have no life. Nowhere to go. I am a zero.’ I gazed down at my thighs. ‘If only I were a size zero too, like Bella Edgeworth. Go.’ I waved him away. ‘Just go. Be gone. Don't crawl.’
‘Thanks, hon.’ He straightened up. ‘We're running over The Three Commandments again today. D'you want to hear them?’
‘Three what?’
‘Commandments. At doggy training, I told you, with Cinders. Shall I tell you what they are?’
I raised my head wearily. ‘Why do I know you're going to tell me anyway?’
‘First you say – “Sit!” Then you pat your dog and say, “Good sit.” Then you say, “Down! Good down.” Then, my favourite,’ his face twitched with suppressed mirth, ‘“Come! Good come.”’ He giggled. ‘Isn't that killing?’
‘Killing,’ I muttered. Annoyingly, though, I could feel my mouth twitch.
‘I just dissolve. No one else does, though. Dalmatian's owner looked very snooty, but I did catch American Cocker's eye last week. He gave me a very knowing smile, which I thought was encouraging, n'est-ce pas?’
I shrugged. ‘Peut-être.’ I sipped my tea weakly, wondering if I should read her biography on the back. Might it go something like:
Bella Edgeworth was a student at Oxford. She has written four novels and lives with her daughter in Sheffield. Although single, she has a long-term boyfriend with whom she is deeply in love, and plans to marry in the spring.
Yes. Maybe. My eyes roved towards the books.
‘And don't torture yourself with those books, hm? As I said, a little bit of Vaseline goes a long way. I should know.’ He gave me an arch look and went to pick them up, but I slapped my hand down on the pile.
‘Leave them,’ I said savagely. ‘Torture is what I want right now. When in pain, only more pain will do. Don't take my hair shirt away from me.’ I raised anguished, possibly over-melodramatic eyes.
He shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said peevishly. ‘But don't slit your wrists in my shop, hon. It wouldn't be good for business.’
And with that, he was away, slipping into his crushed linen jacket, whistling for Cinders, who was instantly at his heels, whisking out of the door and down the street. I sank back in my chair and watched them go. Cinders, it occurred to me vaguely, was not only pushing twelve, but also the most obedient dog
in Christendom. Puppy-training classes? Old dog, new tricks? I smelled a rat. Suspected the tricks were all Malcolm's.
I slumped right back in his chair, head lolling, eyes shut. After a moment, I reached out a hand and drew one of the books towards me, the one Malcolm hadn't wanted me to see. I opened the back cover gingerly, peered at the photo again. A second view confirmed my fears. Worse. Much worse. Older than in the previous picture, but more sophisticated. More elegant. Less pout, more poise. Less bosom, more bon point. Eyes wild, I read the biography.
Bella Edgeworth was born and brought up in the north of England. She was a student at Oxford University, and now lives near Sheffield with her daughter. She won the Herald Book of the Year for historical romance in 2006.
I read on feverishly:
Critical Acclaim for Bella Edgeworth
‘Brilliant! Witty and compelling’ Scotsman
‘I loved this. A sharp, sexy romp’ Daily Mail
‘A wise, funny book, beautifully written’ Northern Star
‘What a find! Who is Bella Edgeworth? I want to have her babies!’ Mark Cox, Daily Express
I gaped in horror. ‘Join the fucking queue!’ I shrieked, dropping the book like a hot coal. I sprang from my seat and shrank back from it, gazing at it as it lay there on the floor.
‘Arghhhh!’ I roared, as, fists clenched, I ran and jumped on it. Childish. I did a little stamping on it, like a Russian Cossack. Totally immature. Then I kicked it, as hard as I could, to the back of the shop, and my bare toe in its flip-flop caught the edge of the counter. Painful. I screamed out in agony as the book spun into the doorway of Malcolm's back room. ‘Shitshitshit!’ Clutching my foot, and hopping across to the chair, I collapsed into it. And then, predictably, and for the third time recently – I didn't earn my childhood nickname for nothing and my toe really hurt – I burst into tears.
It was quite a noisy outburst, with a fair amount of shuddering and vivid dramatic accompaniment, but I got relatively quickly to the catchy breath, hiccupy stage that heralded an end in sight. All cried out, perhaps. I cradled my toe in my lap, whimpering softly. Was it broken? I wiggled it gingerly. No. Don't think so. I was almost disappointed. I did a bit more shuddering, coughed a bit more… then froze, mid-gulp. Coughed? I wasn't coughing. A deep throat-clearing noise came again.
‘Who's there?’ I sat bolt upright.
Out of the shadows, halfway down the shop, and from behind the archway, came a tall dark figure. He was frowning at his shoes, hands in pockets.
‘Oh. You!’
‘I, um, didn't know whether to…’ He began gruffly.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Well… a while, I suppose.’ He looked up, defensively. ‘I came in through the back. My office has a door to the yard. You and Malcolm were talking, and it seemed inappropriate to announce myself. I didn't like to—’
‘You were listening!’
‘Well, not intentionally,’ he spluttered. ‘I can assure you I've got better things to do, but these walls are very thin and there didn't seem to be a convenient moment when I could declare my presence.’ He looked at me defiantly then his eyes slid away. ‘And it appeared to be… quite a personal conversation. But then, when you were… you know.’ His brow puckered. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Just now. I couldn't just sit there and listen, so…’
‘No,’ I said quickly. He really did look uncomfortable. Awkward, even. ‘No, I understand.’ I gulped and rummaged around in my bag for a tissue. Pulled out something of a more intimate nature. Shit. I dropped it and used my sleeve instead. ‘Well, then,’ I forced a bright smile. ‘There you have it. If you were paying attention, which I'm sure you were, you'll know that the mad woman who parades in kinky underwear at her bedroom window, sucking bed-knobs and throwing lubricant at cars before reversing into them, is married to a man who's ex-girlfriend is not only beautiful and famous, but has recently pitched up with his lovechild. No excuse for such terrible histrionics in a bookshop, I agree, but perhaps at least it goes some way to explaining it.’ I flashed him another thin smile. Used my sleeve again to wipe my nose. Saw snot. Attractive.
He shrugged and moved cautiously my way, head still bent, hands in pockets. ‘It… fills in a few gaps.’
I nodded bravely. Gave a last mighty sniff. Waved a dismissive hand at the book on the floor. ‘That's her,’ I said bitterly.
He stooped. Picked it up. ‘Bella Edgeworth. So I heard.’ He looked inside the back cover.
‘If you whistle, or say “tasty”, I will go outside and torch what remains of your car,’ I snarled.
His mouth twitched. ‘Well, it's a hire car – mine's at the garage being fixed – so help yourself.’ He put the book down. Looked at me. ‘You all right?’ His determinedly brisk tone betrayed kindness. Not good for me. I felt my chin wobble. I nodded wordlessly, my face full of snot and tears. Hands in pockets, he came slowly to the counter where I was sitting.
‘I, um, met her, actually. At a literary festival. In Cheltenham, last year.’
I glanced up. ‘Is she a whore?’ I gasped hopefully. ‘Does she sleep around?’
He threw back his head and barked out a laugh. ‘No, I don't think so. Not that I noticed. But then, maybe I wouldn't.’
‘Why not? She's gorgeous, isn't she? And single. Are you married? Not that that appears to matter,’ I added bitterly, aware I was flying now, my sails full, anchor adrift, all moorings gone, despair emboldening me.
He smiled. ‘I'm not married. I was.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Widowed.’
‘Oh.’
The wind changed, the boom came over with a mighty smack of canvas, and my boat tacked and rocked.
‘Oh,’ I said again as I rootled around for something better. That put my petty problems into perspective, didn't it? At least all the people I was angsting about were alive.
‘I'm so sorry. Really.’
‘Thank you.’
A silence ensued. He was standing in front of the counter, and I was behind it. His head was bent and he still had his hands in his pockets. His averted gaze gave me the advantage. His legs were long and slim. Good legs, actually. I ran my eyes up them.
‘Here, why don't you…?’ I swung the other chair behind the counter around to face him.
‘Oh. Thanks.’ He came and sat beside me. Another silence.
‘D'you mind me asking… I mean, how did she…?’
‘She was killed by sniper fire in Uzbekistan.’
‘Good God. A soldier?’ A rather butch woman running around in khaki trousers and brandishing a Kalashnikov sprang to mind.
‘No, a photographer. War photographer. For a newspaper. Le Figaro. She was French.’
‘Gosh. How brave. You mean… in a flak jacket?’ Now she was whippet thin with high cheekbones and long flowing hair. Or was that Bella Edgeworth? I shook my head confused. ‘Like Kate Adie? Dodging bullets?’
‘Or not, as the case may be. But actually, that was me. I mean, I was Kate Adie, the reporter. But she did have a flak jacket, for all the good it did her. Anyway, that's how we met.’
‘Oh my God, how romantic. So how come—’
‘I'm running a bookshop?’ He shrugged. ‘I don't know. I carried on reporting for a year or so after Estelle died, but then I didn't really have the stomach for it. Or the guts, maybe. Thought if I saw another teenage Iraqi boy shot as he threw a stone, or another truckload of young British soldiers ambushed and blown up by grenades, I'd jump on a grenade myself. I think you have a certain shelf life as a foreign reporter, if you're going to be any good, and I'd come to the end of mine. I'd done fifteen years. Estelle was dead. Time to move on. Leave it to the young and the unembittered. Running a bookshop had always appealed.’
‘Very different,’ I ventured.
He shrugged. ‘I like books.’
‘Me too. It's what I used to do. I mean, work here. With Malcolm. Years ago.’
He looked surprised. ‘I didn't know that.�
��
‘No reason why you should.’ I regarded him, sitting beside me, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He seemed intent on his shoes. Funny, I'd always thought him arrogant. Maybe shy. It was very quiet.
‘Don't you miss… being abroad? In Afghani… Paki…’
‘Sorry?’
‘The stan place. One of the stans.’ What, like one of the shires, Evie?’
‘Uzbekistan?’
‘That's the one.’ I flushed.
‘You mean, do I miss the action?’
‘I believe I do.’
‘Sometimes. But it's her I miss. Estelle. And it wouldn't be the same. Wasn't the same, reporting without her. Not seeing her face in the pack of photographers as they rolled into town.’
I gulped. He had a way of telling it like it was. Painting a picture. Reporting, I suppose. Telling the truth. Which was what he did. Or had done. I imagined him, camped out in the top floor of some deserted building, scanning the dusty streets of a Middle Eastern town as more trucks arrived in a convoy, looking out for the one she'd be in, with her French crew. Making sure she'd made it.
‘Had you been married long?’
‘Five years.’
‘Children?’
‘No. The lifestyle wasn't conducive to children. Wasn't fair. We wanted them, though. Estelle was twelve years younger than me, so we had a bit of time. But when she died… well, she was pregnant.’
‘Oh! Did you know?’
‘No. She was only just. Maybe she hadn't known herself.’ A muscle went in his face.
‘Oh God, I'm so—’
‘So you see,’ he swept on, ‘our lives would have changed anyway. That's the way I looked at it. We wouldn't have been reporting from Baghdad together, it's not as if we'd have gone on like that. My life – our lives – with responsibilities, children, would have changed anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do. To adopt a different lifestyle. Settle down a bit. Buy a house. Get a steady job. And obviously to get a penis extension.’
The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton Page 22
