The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Well, hello.’ Malcolm's voice, not discernibly displeased, hailed me.

  I hastened on, encouraged, and saw the pair of them, sitting in wicker chairs on deck, wrapped in overcoats, scarves and blankets, like a couple of old dears on a P&O Cruise, a bottle of wine on the table between them.

  ‘Clamber aboard, m'hearty.’

  ‘You're sure? I'm not interrupting?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Clarence, standing up to offer me a hand. ‘In fact you're just the girl I need. I'm trying to piece together the jigsaw that is Malcolm's life, and all I'm getting at the moment is sky. I feel you might be a crucial corner.’

  Malcolm beamed, thrilled that Clarence was bothering to piece him together, and I sat down relieved in a spare wicker chair. The water lay still and inky around us, and as the stars above twinkled down from the velvet heavens, I thought, as I did occasionally, that although most of the time I couldn't imagine how Malcolm lived like this, some of the time I could. There was a very special freedom to it. To be able to untie a few ropes and be gone. Float away. And to have your very own waterside view without paying fancy prices for it either, although, as Clarence confided to me as Malcolm got up to pour me a glass of Chablis, ‘If you're wondering what we're doing out here in the middle of October, I get horribly seasick down below.’

  ‘Do you?’ I took my drink. ‘But it's hardly moving.’

  ‘Yes, but then I get seasick on my granny's swing seat in her back garden.’

  I giggled.

  ‘I kid you not. Malcolm's cabin makes me feel like I'm being tossed around on the high seas.’

  ‘That might be a problem, then?’ I ventured, accepting the crocheted shawl Malcolm threw at me and wrapping it round my shoulders. I sank back, sipping my wine gratefully.

  ‘Nothing we can't handle. And Sooty loves it. She's never had such freedom.’

  We glanced across to where Sooty was chasing Cinders in mad, frantic circles in the grass. ‘Look at Cinders go!’ I marvelled.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Malcolm. ‘New lease of life. It's the puppy she never had.’

  As two pairs of eyes gazed gooily at their dogs, I realized a little seasickness was not going to be insurmountable.

  ‘So what brings you here, sugar?’ asked Malcolm breezily, passing the Hula Hoops, knowing full well it had to be a major catastrophe, but begging me, with his eyes, not to rain on his romantic, starlit parade. Which I wouldn't. And I wouldn't linger, either. I cut to the chase.

  ‘I need a job, Malcolm.’

  ‘A job!’

  ‘Yes, I've decided I don't do enough. And I think and imagine far too much, when what I actually need is occupation. But the thing is, all I've ever done is sell books. So I was wondering… well, I wondered if you needed anyone in the shop. Any more help. I wouldn't want much money,’ I rushed on, ‘hardly any at all. Nothing, if you can't afford it. But I badly need to work.’

  My voice was in danger of quavering and I sensibly sank into my wine, wondering what on earth Clarence must think of this little outburst, but beyond caring really.

  ‘I wondered when you'd get bored with your gilded cage,’ said Malcolm lightly.

  I glanced up. ‘You think that's what it is?’

  He shrugged. ‘I think you lead an enviable, cushioned existence. Which would be enough for many women. But you're brighter than the average monkey, Evie. And you can't just be the supporting act.’

  I swallowed. ‘Even though it's what I've always been. What I've always wanted to be.’

  ‘People start out one way, and by the time life's finished with them, they end up another. They change. You've changed, Evie. You've grown up.’

  I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that. I could feel Clarence watching me.

  ‘And it's not just me,’ I said, instinctively dodging the spotlight. ‘Ant and Anna would be pleased too, I'm sure. Would like me to do something.’

  Malcolm frowned. ‘You're doing it for them?’

  I knew he was trying to corner me. I ducked and weaved some more. ‘Of course not. I'm just saying… well, obviously I'm doing it for me. For self-esteem, and – oh, give us a sodding job, Malcolm. Or do I have to get a stand in the market? Flog second-hand paperbacks?’

  He smiled. ‘I'll give you a job. Now that the shop's so much bigger we could do with the extra help, and you're a good bookseller, Evie. Good with people.’

  I glowed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But this isn't to be some dilettante stance you adopt to piss off Ant, and which you chuck in after a couple of months when your family life is back on track, OK?’

  I gulped. Talk about getting to the crux of the matter. ‘Absolutely not.’ I meant it.

  ‘You have to be committed. And I don't want you saying you'll do five days, and then cutting it down to three.’

  ‘No, I won't.’

  ‘Or not putting in the hours. Gone are the days of half-day closing on a Wednesday. These days we work one late night, and Sundays too. It's tough out there.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  I could see Clarence watching this little exchange with interest. Seeing another side to his foppish new friend: a presumably not unattractive, forceful side.

  ‘So when can I start?’

  ‘As soon as you like. Tomorrow if you want. Half-term's a busy time. Your mum does Tuesday afternoons now, and Sundays and Mondays are quiet, but Wednesday to Saturday would be good.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said firmly.

  ‘And you don't have to do every Saturday,’ he said kindly. ‘We tend to rotate them, Ludo and me.’

  I nodded. ‘Um, Malcolm, that's the only tricky bit, actually.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ludo.’

  ‘I thought he'd forgiven you for trashing his car?’

  ‘He has. The problem is, Malcolm…’ I took a deep breath, ‘Well, the problem is, he fancies me.’

  Not the word I meant to use at all. Teenage. Smutty. Malcolm frowned. ‘Ludo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at me. Suddenly he threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Evie!’

  ‘I swear to God, Malc, he does.’

  Malcolm gave another incredulous bellow of laughter, right up to the stars this time. ‘Evie!’ His head came back, eyes huge and delighted. ‘How can you tell such lies?’ He turned to a bemused Clarence. ‘Ludo's hot,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh, thanks!’ I spluttered.

  ‘No, but he is hon, isn't he?’ He pleaded, eyes brimming with ill-disguised mirth. ‘He's young and he's fit and—’

  ‘Sounds just like Evie,’ smiled Clarence loyally.

  ‘Oh, no, he's much fitter than Evie!’

  ‘Malcolm! He's not even that much younger than me, actually, and thanks so much for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘Petal, he must be,’ squealed Malcolm. ‘Must be half your age! He looks like something out of the SAS,’ he explained to Clarence.

  ‘I must meet this man,’ purred Clarence, which made Malcolm do a swift double take.

  ‘Anyway,’ I went on doggedly, albeit through clenched teeth, ‘it would be better, certainly in the short term, if I did my shifts with you, rather than him.’

  ‘What, in case he ravishes you in Fantasy Fiction?’ he snorted. ‘Backs you up against Lady Chatterley's Lover?’ This went down best with Malcolm himself. It struck him as unbearably funny. Clarence and I waited patiently as he rocked about, clutching himself. He composed himself briefly, pausing to wipe his eyes. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘marvellous. Absolutely priceless. Yes, sure, whatever you want, Evie. Ludo's mostly there at the beginning of the week, anyway. Just as long you don't go completely delusional on me. I wouldn't want you fretting that I fancy you, or something.’ This set him off again.

  ‘No danger of that, Malcolm,’ I said. He'd got to the coughing and spluttering stage now. ‘And thanks for the drink.’ I stood up.

  ‘You're going?’ Clarence got up too as I drained my glass. We b
oth studiously ignored Malcolm, bundled in his rugs, sniggering weakly.

  ‘I am. I shall leave you in peace. I wouldn't want Malcolm to have a hernia. But thanks, Malc.’ I prodded my incapacitated friend with my toe. ‘You're a star.’ He raised a weak hand in recognition.

  ‘My pleasure, hon. You've made my evening.’

  I smiled. Then I disembarked with a little help from the lovely Clarence and, refusing his offer of walking me to my car, made my way across the meadow, back towards Worcester College.

  26

  If I were to put my motives for going back to work under a mental microscope, I'd probably conclude that I'd wanted to impose some control on my life: that it seemed to be spiralling away from me; that this was a stab at self-preservation. I certainly felt dangerously stretched, like pizza dough that's been spun around too much, and I wanted to ball myself up again, be me. But I wanted that ball to be unlike the old me: not soft and vulnerable, but hard and knowing. I had a feeling work would help. Who was it said it was the only dignity? Malcolm's theory – that I also wanted to prove something to Ant, that this was a knee-jerk reaction, which, quite rightly, he didn't want me jerking out of equally sharpish – also rang true, and it's as well he alerted me to it. I've always had to beware of myself: to be on the lookout for subversive behaviour. But whatever my motives, what I hadn't bargained on, particularly in my current frame of mind, was enjoying it. Remarkably, though, those first couple of days in Malcolm's shop were the happiest I'd had for some time. Why? Because they were mine? Who knows. Because, even if my motives were unclear, the end result, the satisfaction, wasn't? Not sure. All I know is I dived in and woke up to marvel. Days like these were rare, and I clung to them.

  Initially, of course, I was distracted by the sheer mechanics of the task, by the enormity of being employed again. I was ridiculously nervous, thinking I couldn't begin to remember how to do this; couldn't begin to get to grips with the new computer system, or the credit card machines, that everything had changed too much and got horribly technical. But within moments of Malcolm showing me, explaining how to look for a book a customer wanted, how to check stock and availability, how to order if we hadn't got it, I was away. The rest was like coming home. As I unpacked the latest glossy autumn hardbacks, putting the Booker Prize shortlist contenders on a separate table at the front as Malcolm instructed, taking time to arrange them in an eye-catching, decorative way, I remembered why I'd done it for so long; why, when friends said, ‘But isn't it just like being a shop assistant?’ I'd smile, knowing it wasn't. Particularly in a small shop like this, where people came for help and advice, and often with only the scantest shreds of information.

  ‘It's red,’ one faintly harassed woman said, as she glanced back at her car outside on a yellow line, fairly vibrating with children.

  ‘Red,’ repeated Malcolm, patiently.

  ‘And quite big.’ She demonstrated with her hands. Next she'd be making curtain-sweeping gestures and we'd deduce it was also a play.

  ‘Big and red,’ said Malcolm, as she turned to shake her head furiously at the wild animals in the Discovery. ‘What's it about?’ he prompted gently.

  She turned back distractedly. ‘I meant to get it last week, it's my husband's birthday tomorrow.’

  This didn't move us forward.

  ‘D'you know what it's about?’ he enquired again.

  ‘Battles. Wars.’ She cast about wildly for inspiration, as if at any minute she'd mime that too, fling herself to the floor with an imaginary machine gun. Malcolm steered her through to Ludo's side.

  ‘Military history? A new one?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Getting warmer.

  ‘Been reviewed?’

  ‘Yes. He read about it at the weekend, said he'd like it.’

  ‘What paper does your husband read?’

  ‘The Telegraph.’

  ‘At the weekend too?’

  ‘Oh. No, the Sunday Times.’

  ‘The History of the Crusades by Victoria Clark?’

  Malcolm plucked a large red book from a pile on a round mahogany table.

  ‘Oh! That's it. Oh, you are clever.’

  She glowed, paid, and left the shop at racing speed, waving her keys furiously at her brood. I too looked admiring. ‘Nice work.’

  He shrugged.

  Then came some browsers – students, mostly – then more women and children, which was right up my alley as Anna had read a lot of the books they were after, and I was able to guide and enthuse accordingly. Then an elderly woman, in a long brown coat, who smelled of spearmints. She plucked a Catherine Cookson from the shelves, gazed at it avidly and shuffled to the counter.

  ‘I've found one I haven't read!’ she declared, taking her purse out of her bag and counting out the money in small change. Malcolm picked it up.

  ‘Joan, you've read this.’

  ‘No, I haven't.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘I've never read one with a windmill on the front.’

  ‘Ah, but they've repackaged them. Changed the covers. This one,’ he reached under the counter, ‘is this one.’ He produced another book.

  She stared, dismayed. ‘I've read that.’

  ‘I know. Sorry, pet.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put her coins away downcast. ‘Oh, well.’ She turned to go. I nipped round the counter, went after her.

  ‘Um, Joan, have you tried Lyn Andrews?’

  ‘Who?’ She regarded me suspiciously.

  ‘Lyn Andrews. She writes lovely period romances, very Catherine Cookson.’ She took the book I'd plucked from a shelf behind me.

  ‘Well, I don't know…’

  ‘Try it,’ I urged. ‘I love them.’

  She dithered.

  ‘Try it, and if you don't like it, I'll give you your money back.’

  Behind me I heard Malcolm moan low and drop his head like a stone on the counter. He banged it up and down, Basil Fawlty-style, which took me right back. I suppressed a giggle.

  ‘All right,’ she said, brightening. ‘I'll take it.’

  ‘Hon!’ Malcolm wailed, jerking upright when she'd left the shop. ‘I'm not running a charity.’

  ‘Trust me. She'll be back.’

  ‘Indeed she will,’ he muttered darkly.

  Sure enough she was. The next day. ‘Read it in a day!’ she declared. ‘In the bath too.’ We cringed. Too much information. ‘Has she written any more?’

  ‘Yes, loads.’ I hastened to the shelves, flicking Malcolm a triumphant look.

  Some were harder to please. One tall, haughty-looking woman with a cut-glass accent and a nose a great deal of breeding had gone into, wanted a light romance for her niece. I offered her the bestselling chick-lit title.

  ‘Has it got any sex in it?’ she demanded, swooping from a great height to eye me fiercely.

  ‘None at all,’ I assured her.

  ‘Well, that's no good, is it?’ she snapped and left the shop.

  I turned helplessly to Malcolm.

  ‘Never fall for the niece ruse, hon,’ he murmured, stroking Alan Hollinghurst reverently before popping him back on the shelf. ‘It's as old as the hills. Point her in the Anonymous direction, next time. She wants to get horny by teatime.’

  The shop had changed since my day. For the better. It was a friendlier place than I recalled in Jean's reign. Most people knew Malcolm by name, some asked for Ludo, who happily wasn't there, some came to buy, some to browse, and some, it seemed, just to lean on the counter, chat and stroke Cinders. One or two curled up on the sofas upstairs for hours, read books they didn't buy, and even spilled coffee on them, brewed for them by Malcolm in his kitchen, complete with a chocolate digestive.

  ‘Don't you mind that they don't buy?’

  ‘Oh, I charge them for the coffee.’

  ‘No, the books.’

  He shrugged. ‘They're students – no money. Not really. They make the place look busy and tell other people about it, who do buy. I had a visiting American professor
in here the other day who'd heard about us from his students. Spent nearly a hundred pounds. Anyway, they're nice kids.’

  I watched him go carefully back upstairs balancing a tray of Nescafé. He was a sweetie, Malcolm. But sweeties didn't make money. I tackled him on it.

  ‘Oh, there's no money in it. Not really. I mean, I make a bit, obviously, but probably less than Jean made. Specially now that the supermarkets do discounts. But it's a nicer place to be, isn't it? And isn't that what life's about? Having a nice time?’

  He had a point. And with only a houseboat and a dog to run, what did Malcolm need with money? I sensed, though, that he was distracted, these days: his eyes were permanently on the door, looking for Clarence to come in, which he did, every lunchtime, on a gust of fresh air and a big smile, sporting heavenly Ralph Lauren shirts and cashmere jackets, which had Malcolm and I drooling and fingering the cloth, and often a bunch of flowers too for the counter, before whisking Malc off to Bertorelli or somewhere equally smart.

  ‘How come Clarence is so rich?’ I asked one day as we waited for him. ‘He's a college lecturer, isn't he?’

  ‘He inherited it.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘His family, who else? He's a trustafarian. No irony intended. Close your mouth, Evie, it's not becoming.’

  I shut it. ‘What did they do?’

  ‘I've no idea. I've yet to be so crass as to ask. Here he is. Can you see my spot?’ He raised his chin anxiously as a sleek convertible Mercedes drew up outside.

  ‘Hardly. Just keep your chin resting pertly in your hand all lunchtime. You'll be fine.’

  And off he went, frisky with excitement, hopping into the open-top car with a toss of his blond head, and leaving me in charge of a shop and two dogs for a couple of hours, which I loved.

  I wandered around, trying not to think too much, passing the time with customers, helping where I could – my embarrassingly thorough knowledge of light romantic fiction helping enormously – doing my best in Ludo's bit, where, I found, most people were experts anyway and knew what they were looking for, and surprisingly, managing not to dwell too much on my own problems. Managing not to go there. Up north.