by Liz Eeles
‘Come back in, Flora,’ pleads Malcolm, glancing around to see who’s watching. A couple sitting in our restaurant window are agog. ‘We can talk about all this inside. There’s no need to be so dramatic.’
But I shake my head. I just need to get away.
‘Where will you go?’ Malcolm calls after me as I wheel my case along the paved street. The wheels are catching on the stones and making a terrible racket. Great, I’ve shouted at strangers and now I’m broadcasting to the whole street that I’m leaving my adulterous husband.
‘Flora, you’re being totally ridiculous.’ Malcolm’s words float through the heavy summer air as I turn the corner and walk towards my new future.
Chapter Two
After parking my car next to Honeyford’s weathered stone war memorial, I sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel. The town square is quiet at this time of night at the beginning of the week. The parking spaces are mostly empty except for a lone Corsa parked under the tall beech tree that stands outside the butcher’s. In front of me, the arches of the medieval market house are shadows in the gloom and its honey-gold stone looks grey.
Honeyford is just as I left it a few hours ago. In many ways the town is much as it has been for centuries. But I’m different, I realise. My busy married life in Oxford suddenly seems unreal and I feel more grounded here, surrounded by a dark sweep of ancient hills.
After heaving my case out of the boot, I wheel it along the High Street towards my bookshop. There’s a tiny cottage squeezed between the post office and Amy’s sweet shop and I glance inside as I trundle past. An elderly couple are sitting hand in hand on the sofa as the blue light from a TV flickers across their faces. That’s how I thought Malcolm and I would end up – watching reruns of Inspector Morse together in our old age.
I bite hard on my lip to stop the tears that are threatening to fall and I hurry past the pub with my head down, in case any of my customers spot me. At the shop, I let myself in and flick on the lights. The usual smell of ink, paper and coffee hits me, along with a sense of organised chaos. There are piles of books everywhere and, at the back of the shop, Callie’s hand-painted sign for The Cosy Kettle hangs above the café door.
I’ve achieved a lot in the short time since I took on this business. I’ve gained new customers and new confidence in my abilities, but now I’m contemplating what I’ve lost.
I wander into the café, open the back door to let in some air, and sit at one of the tables. Callie’s beloved coffee machine is gleaming silver in the corner, near the burnished copper kettles that once belonged to Stanley’s now-dead wife. The cake counter is sparkling clean and empty, ready for tomorrow’s delivery of delicious treats.
The last time I was here, earlier today, I was Flora Morgan, shop and café owner, and Malcolm’s wife. Now, I’m not sure who I am. The ginger cat that’s often in the café garden darts inside and starts winding its way round my legs as I gently lower my forehead onto the table and start to sob. I cry until my nose is running and my head is hurting and I feel totally wrung out. Then I pick up the wriggling cat and bury my wet face in its fur as I consider my options. Walking out was the right thing to do, but what the hell do I do now?
Turning up with a sob story on Callie’s doorstep at – I check my watch – quarter past ten isn’t really on. And it would be awkward, what with me being her boss. She might feel obliged to find me a bed for the night. There’s a new boutique hotel in Honeyford, but it’s expensive and I need to save my money right now – plus, my story would be all around the town by tomorrow lunchtime. And I don’t think I can bear the locals wandering into the bookshop to see how I’m doing. So, there’s really only one thing for it…
One step at a time, I haul my case up the wooden stairs at the back of the shop and fumble across the bare bricks for the light switch. My fingers find it and harsh white light almost blinds me. A bare bulb is swinging overhead, illuminating an attic room and a small door leading off into a tiny cubbyhole that holds a toilet and a cracked basin. Old, empty boxes are piled up in one corner and, beneath a small window, there’s a battered leather chair and an ancient put-you-up bed. Ruben, who ran the shop before me, left them when he handed over the store. Apparently, he used to slip up here for an afternoon nap and leave Callie in charge.
When I pat the thin mattress, a puff of dust rises into the air, but it’ll do for tonight. I pull a fleece blanket out of the case, ball up a jumper as a makeshift pillow and take a couple of puffs of my inhaler, just in case. Then I switch off the light, lie on the bed and gaze out of the grimy window.
A full moon has risen and is casting silver beams across the grubby room. A humungous spiderweb is glowing silver in the corner, and I pull the blanket over my head until only my nose is poking out.
Images from the last few hours play out in my mind, like a record that’s got stuck. Malcolm and Marina locked in a steamy embrace, Malcolm swearing that he’d only ever kissed her, the lost earring that I never found. Round and round they go, until my head feels as though it might split in two. I don’t think I’ll sleep but I eventually fall into a fitful doze.
I wake to see early morning light slanting across the dusty wooden floor. I ache all over when I stretch, and a fresh wave of misery hits me as I remember last night all over again. A glance at my muted mobile shows that Malcolm has called half a dozen times and left several text messages.
The first reads:
Where are you? Let’s behave like adults about this.
I delete the rest without replying, which probably isn’t particularly mature but, right now, I don’t care.
The water’s freezing when I fill the basin and have a wash, and the fleece blanket is a rubbish substitute towel, but I’m downstairs and ready to open the shop before eight o’clock.
I spend the next ten minutes completing an order from yesterday that I should have done before I went home. If only I had stayed to do it, I wouldn’t have walked in on Malcolm and Marina, and I’d still be blissfully unaware of what was going on. Would that be better?
‘Hello. You’re in early,’ says Becca, poking her head around the shop door. ‘I’m going to the newsagent to get milk for my muesli and I spotted you were open already. Do you want anything? I can…’ She trails off and narrows her green eyes as I rub a hand over my face. I’ve slapped on some make-up but I must still look pretty rubbish.
‘I don’t think I need anything, thanks. And there’s no rush to come in because the café’s still closed. I was just up early this morning and thought I’d get ahead with things.’
‘If you’re sure,’ says Becca, slowly, flicking her purple fringe out of her eyes.
Her hair changes colour so often, it’s hard to keep up. It was a startling shade of emerald green when we first met, after she had a panic attack in the shop. Callie took Becca under her wing and got her to help with setting up The Cosy Kettle. The rest is history – Becca now manages the café while Callie spends most of her time running the coffee house at Honeyford’s boutique hotel. Though she still helps me out sometimes.
Becca is still standing in the doorway. She swallows. ‘Um, I’m not trying to intrude or anything but is everything all right?’
‘Absolutely fine. I just didn’t sleep too well,’ I say breezily, looking back down at my computer screen. Discussing my marriage problems at work is a no-no. And the last thing I want is people feeling sorry for me.
‘OK. I’ll be in soon then.’
Becca wanders off along the High Street, but is obviously not convinced. She’s back to open the café before nine o’clock and, though she doesn’t quiz me any further, steaming cappuccinos and thick slices of my favourite strawberry cake are placed in front of me at regular intervals throughout the day.
‘Just in case you’re sort of, you know, thirsty and a bit hungry, maybe,’ she gabbles, a flush spreading across her cheeks before she scuttles back to the café. She’s as sweet as the cake, which is chock-full of fruit from a local strawberry
farm.
I gulp down the drinks – caffeine is essential after a night on Ruben’s put-you-up – but only manage a few mouthfuls of the delicious sponge. There’s a whole shelf of diet books in the shop, but it turns out that all you need to lose weight is marital trauma – The Cheating Husband Diet.
There’s no sign of Malcolm. I texted him back after his twelfth message, to say I wasn’t coming home, and I haven’t answered any of his phone calls. I doubt he’ll turn up and make a scene here, but I jump every time someone comes into the shop.
‘Got any horror?’ calls a middle-aged man across the shelves, as I’m shoving my phone back into my bag.
‘We have a selection at the back of the store.’
He wanders off and starts running his finger along the Stephen Kings, all the while glancing at me and scowling until the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. He either thinks I look a fright or he’s about to shove a book up his jumper and do a runner. I really hope it’s the former because I’m in no mood to chase him along Honeyford High Street and through the tiny lanes that criss-cross the town.
As though he can mind-read, the man walks over with a paperback and thumps it down in front of me.
‘Lovely weather,’ I say, feeling guilty for doubting his good character, but he only grunts as he hands over his money. I try again: ‘Are you in the Cotswolds on holiday?’
He nods, shoving his change into his jeans pocket.
‘Have you come far?’
‘It depends if you think Leicestershire counts as far.’
Bit rude, but I plaster on a smile. ‘It is quite a way. Did you find everything you wanted in here today?’
I regret asking the question the minute it’s out of my mouth. My customer is in a right mood and champing at the bit to vent about something – probably anything – and I’ve just given him the perfect opportunity.
‘I did not,’ he sniffs. ‘I thought your horror selection was very poor, with nothing out of the ordinary at all. Frankly, it was disappointing.’
I take a deep breath to try and stifle a yawn. I’m so tired but I doubt Mr Angry would take kindly to me yawning in his face. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I say, calmly. ‘We’re a small bookshop and can only stock a certain number of titles, but I’d be happy to order in a specific book for you.’
‘How is that going to help me when I’m here on holiday?’
‘We could possibly get it in tomorrow.’
‘That’s still too late,’ barks the man. ‘I’ll get my book elsewhere but you need to tell the shop owner that you should expand your range.’
OK, knackered or not, I’m starting to feel annoyed now. Most people who come into my shop are lovely, but the occasional customer can be challenging. And it’s just my luck that I get a grumpy bugger on today of all days.
‘I am the owner,’ I tell him, pushing his book into a paper bag with more force than is necessary.
‘Really? That’s surprising.’
I’d like to think he’s surprised because I look far too young to have such a responsible role. But his expression, which screams bulldog chewing a wasp, tells me otherwise. I must look really rough today.
Before my addled brain can come up with a suitably withering reply, the man grabs his book and stalks out with his nose in the air.
I sigh as the door bangs shut behind him. Overall, today is shaping up to be a total bust. The publishing rep I was expecting this afternoon cancelled at the last minute, customers have been few and far between, that last bloke was a rude idiot, and I’m half-asleep with the prospect of another night on Ruben’s lumpy mattress.
‘All OK, Flora?’ shouts Stanley, who belongs to The Cosy Kettle’s afternoon book club. He’s been in the shop, browsing, for the last ten minutes.
‘Fine, thanks,’ I call back, grateful that Stanley didn’t hear my exchange with Mr Angry and feel obliged to wade in. Because that’s just the kind of gung-ho thing he’d do.
‘Coolio.’
Stanley carries on flicking through a book on extreme sports, which will strike fear into Callie’s heart. She already spends loads of time reining in her grandfather’s more extreme ideas. Last week he announced he was planning to trek the Inca Trail and bungee jump off a dam in Switzerland. This week, if the book’s anything to go by, he’s set his sights on cave diving and heli-skiing.
I’m picturing him leaping in Lycra from a helicopter, like a bald James Bond with wrinkles, when Millicent bowls into the shop. Oh dear. Millicent, who also belongs to the book club, is nice enough but could never be described as soothing company. She tends to barge her way through life in her purple gilet and sturdy shoes.
‘No Callie in today?’ she asks, nodding at Stanley.
‘Afraid not. She’s busy at the hotel coffee house.’
Her face falls, making me feel very second-best. Everyone loves Callie, who’s lived in Honeyford almost her entire life. They got behind her when she set up The Cosy Kettle for me, and they’re still supporting her now she’s running the hotel’s upmarket coffee house.
Millicent sniffs. ‘Ah well, I suppose you’ll do, Flora.’
Gee, thanks.
‘I was passing so thought I’d check if my book had arrived yet.’
‘I’m pretty sure it came in this morning.’
‘And yet you didn’t let me know.’
‘Sorry. Today has been a bit… trying and I haven’t properly sorted out the delivery yet.’
Millicent’s face softens and she leans towards me. ‘Is everything all right, Flora? You’re looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’ve got a bad headache, that’s all.’
‘Do you get them regularly?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘HRT!’ Millicent suddenly booms across the shop. ‘My friend Marigold swears by it and says it’s done wonders for her headaches. You should give it a go. We ladies of a certain age need all the help we can get.’
‘Ladies of a certain age’? Just how old does Millicent think I am? I know I’m not looking my best today, but still. My mood dips even lower as I contemplate the double whammy of being passed over by my husband for a younger model shortly before being mistaken for a menopausal fifty-year-old. This week truly sucks.
‘Colonic irrigation,’ says Stanley, wandering over. ‘I read it’s good for detoxing the body so I’m thinking of giving it a go. That might help.’
‘It’s just a headache,’ I say, faintly, as Millicent screws up her face. She’s obviously imagining Stanley just as I am right now. And it’s really not helping my head at all. I reach quickly under the counter and flick through today’s delivery of books until I find Millicent’s biography of Stalin.
‘Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.’
‘I’m not sure enjoy is the right word but I’m sure it will be educational. Thank you, Flora.’
Millicent has only just left the shop, with her new book tucked under her arm, when a loud crash echoes through the shop. Good grief, what now?
‘Can you keep an eye on things?’ I ask Stanley, who’s wandered off and is now nose-deep in a novel. ‘I’d better go and check that out.’
‘Sure thing, hun. You mosey on down to the caff and eyeball what Becca’s dropped before I sling my hook,’ says Stanley, who regularly mangles slang in his bid to be down with the kids.
I hurry through the shop and step into The Cosy Kettle. Today’s last remaining cakes and pastries are under glass domes on the counter and the room is thick with the smell of rich coffee beans.
All is as it should be – apart from a muddle of smashed crockery on the floor, a spilt latté splattered up the wall, and two slices of carrot cake lying icing-down on the concrete. Becca is on her knees picking up shards of china and a tall man with dark hair has the hand of a small boy who’s looking sheepish. They came into the shop about five minutes ago and made a beeline for the café.
‘What the hell is going on in here?’
That c
ame out sharper than I meant it to and the boy flinches away from me. The café is empty, thank goodness, apart from him and the man, who I presume is his father.
‘It was an accident,’ says the man, equally sharply, frowning until his dark eyebrows almost meet in the middle. ‘Caleb, my son, jumped up and knocked into the tray. He didn’t mean to.’
A flash of burnished copper catches my eye. Caleb did more than smash china that will be expensive to replace. He also knocked two of the old kettles from their shelf, and they’re damaged. The large dents look like wounds in the shiny metal and for some reason this, more than grumpy customers or abrasive Millicent, makes me feel close to tears.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ I sigh, picking up the kettles and placing them back on the shelf. ‘He’s damaged these as well.’
‘As I say, it was an accident and we’re very sorry.’
‘Well, he really should have been more careful.’
Straight away, I wish I could take the words back when Caleb shrinks behind his father. His pale skin looks almost translucent under his mop of fair hair, and his blue eyes are enormous.
I step forward to calm the situation but the man shakes his head. ‘Caleb has just been to the doctor because he isn’t feeling too well and we came in here for a treat. We’ll pay, of course, for any damage.’
My protestations that this really isn’t necessary are waved away by the man, who grabs his son’s hand and pulls him forward. ‘Apologise to the lady, Caleb,’ he says, his dark brown eyes meeting mine.
‘Sorry,’ murmurs the boy, pink spots flaring in his pale cheeks. The man pulls the boy’s head into his side as though he’s trying to protect him, which makes me feel terrible. I don’t have kids myself and I tend to avoid them – I never coo over babies in prams or strike up conversations with youngsters. But I’ve never frightened a child before, especially not a sick child who’s just been to the doctor.
‘That’s all right,’ I say, soothingly. ‘It was an accident and I hope you’ll soon be feeling bet—’
