by Liz Eeles
‘I’m so sorry about your wife. Did you say that you and Caleb moved in with Luna earlier this year?’
He looks up. ‘That’s right. We lived on our own for ages, near Worcester. But Caleb started having problems at school a few months ago and I’d just changed my job, so we thought we’d make a fresh start, nearer to my new office. We’re here with Mum for a while until we find the right place to live.’
‘What sort of problems was he having?’ I hate the thought of vulnerable Caleb being unhappy at school, and it strikes a chord with me. People who say school is the best time of your life never went to my single-sex establishment. It was an all-girls’ bitch-fest that only the strong survived.
Daniel sighs. ‘Kids being mean. That kind of thing. Caleb’s quite a sensitive soul and it badly affected him. I’m not sure that running away from it was the right thing to do. It was hard to know what to do for the best, but I couldn’t bear to see him so upset.’ His next two words are almost whispered. ‘Not again.’
Poor lad. Only nine and he’s already been through so much. They both have.
‘I’m sure a fresh start will do Caleb the world of good,’ I say, and then I cringe inside. That sounds like such a platitude, especially from a woman who has no idea what’s best for a child. ‘Sometimes an escape is for the best,’ I add, lamely.
Daniel suddenly sits up straight in his chair and shakes his head as though he’s ridding himself of memories. ‘And what about you, Flora? What brings you to Luna’s home for the lost and lonely? You told me you’d separated from your husband. What did you say his name is – Marvin?’
‘Malcolm. Yes, I walked out almost a week ago.’
‘Why? Did you stop loving him?’
I’m taken aback by Daniel’s direct question. He’s obviously not a man who beats about the bush. I hesitate, not sure how to reply. Of course I didn’t just stop loving Malcolm and I miss him horribly – his bombastic confidence, the warmth of his body at night when I roll over in bed, his awful jokes. It feels wrong that he’s not by my side. But I can’t bear to be with him at the moment. I’m stuck.
‘I shouldn’t pry,’ says Daniel, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.
‘It’s all right. Your question just threw me.’ I take a deep breath. ‘We run a restaurant in Oxford – well, Malcolm does – and I found out a few days ago that he’s been having an affair with one of the waitresses, a woman called Marina. She’s much younger than me.’ That last bit isn’t really relevant but the age gap has really got under my skin. ‘Anyway, he’s been lying to me so I left him.’
Humiliation washes over me. How long was I in the dark about my husband’s predilection for nubile young blondes?
‘He sounds like a dick,’ declares Daniel.
When I splutter into my glass, wine goes up my nose. ‘I suppose he is a bit. Mind you, he thinks I’m an idiot when it comes to business.’
‘Why?’
I shrug and start dabbing the splashes of wine on my T-shirt with a tissue. ‘I don’t know. I suppose he doesn’t trust me to make good decisions that benefit my business. He couldn’t see the point of me getting involved in the Charter Day celebrations, for example.’
‘Is that the bash to celebrate 900 years of markets that Luna mentioned the other day? I don’t suppose getting involved in something like that will make you rich, but it might get you some brownie points with the locals, which won’t hurt. Sometimes the whole point is just being involved.’
‘Exactly!’
When I smile at Daniel, he raises the bottle and waves it in my direction. ‘Another glass or three? You haven’t got far to stagger to bed.’
As he moves, a lock of thick hair flops over one eye and he pushes it away impatiently. Dark curls are touching the back of his collar and I realise he looks more like an artist than an accountant. A handsome artist, tortured by suppressed creativity and lost love. Blimey, where did that come from? Has the wine gone to my head? I’ve hardly looked at another man since I got married. Occasional flutterings of lust over handsome actors didn’t count because they were no threat to my relationship with Malcolm. Idris Elba was hardly likely to turn up on my doorstep declaring undying love, was he? But now my marriage is in tatters and Daniel is right here in front of me, all brooding intensity and floppy hair, and I can’t escape the fact that he's a very attractive man. It’s a good job he doesn’t much like me.
‘Are you all right?’ Daniel leans forward and frowns. ‘You’re miles away.’
‘Not really. Just thinking that I need to be up early for work tomorrow. So I’d better pass on the drink and head for bed.’ I carefully place my wine glass on the side table, beneath the row of colourful prayer flags tacked to the wall.
Daniel nods and sinks back into his chair. ‘At least a boring office job means I get Saturdays off. Though Caleb will make sure I don’t get a lie-in. I rather foolishly promised to take him to football practice.’
He watches me as I stand up and stretch. There’s something I need to say. ‘It’s not ideal, me being here, but I’m not trying to take advantage of your mum, you know. I’m grateful for the room and I’ll be moving on when I know what I’m doing. Everything’s a bit up in the air at the moment.’
Daniel stares at me for a few moments. ‘Fair enough. It turns out we’re both seeking solace at Starlight Cottage. Turn the light off, will you, on your way out?’
I flick the lamp switch and leave him drinking alone, in the dark.
The cottage is chilly and full of shadows as I get ready for bed and I’m glad to finally slip beneath the sheets. But sleep eludes me as the minutes tick by and I stare at the ceiling, wondering if the bursts of attraction I feel for Daniel are some kind of subconscious revenge. Hey, Malcolm. Stop snogging Marina for a minute and look at me, drinking wine with a tall, dark, handsome man. That would be a bit pathetic, wouldn’t it?
I’m still awake an hour later when Daniel creaks up the stairs to his bedroom.
Chapter Eight
The whole of Honeyford appears to be going to the Charter Day meeting. Hordes of people are filing under the honey-coloured arches of the market house, climbing the stairs and spilling into the room above. Although I’ve arrived early, it’s hard to find a seat unless I want to sit right at the front of the room – and I’d rather not. That seems a bit presumptuous for a newcomer to the town.
Eventually, I squeeze into a spare seat at the back and nod at Becca, who’s just sidled in. She’s dressed in black jeans and a drab grey T-shirt but she’s still hard to miss with her bright hair and big green eyes. I wasn’t expecting her to come along because she hates crowds – and I can’t shake the feeling she’s only here to support me and The Cosy Kettle. She’s certainly come on leaps and bounds since the first time we met, when she was having a panic attack in the bookshop. She feels safe and at home in the café now, and she’s a hardworking and loyal café manager. But I sometimes forget how anxious she can be outside work.
At first, I didn’t fully understand Becca’s anxiety. But I’ve gained new insight since Malcolm’s betrayal and now I’m sometimes gripped by panic when I think of the rudderless years ahead. I thought I’d be with him until death us did part, but now, who knows?
‘You run the bookshop, don’t you?’ asks the woman to my left, thankfully interrupting my thoughts. Her lined face is caked in powder and she smells strongly of roses.
‘I do. I took over the shop a few months ago.’
She dabs her nose with a tissue before pushing it into the top of her handbag. ‘Yes, I heard that Ruben had moved on. It’s such a shame that the shop’s no longer in his hands. He’d been a part of Honeyford for decades, man and boy.’
I don’t quite know what to say to that. Sorry for not being born here?
‘I hear you’re making changes,’ she continues, wrinkling her nose at ‘changes’ as though it’s a dirty word.
‘We’ve increased the range of our stock and opened a café with a little garden at the back. You should cal
l in and see us sometime. I’m Flora, by the way. And you are?’
I’ll never find out because a rotund man with a florid face walks onto the stage at the front of the room and the crowd falls silent.
The lady beside me stiffens. ‘Have you come across Alan before?’ she whispers. When I shake my head, she purses her lips. ‘Prepare to be deafened.’
She’s not joking. I wondered why there were still empty chairs in the front row but now all becomes clear.
‘Thank you all for coming tonight,’ bellows Alan, going even redder in the face. ‘Most of you know me. My name is Alan and I’m the chairman – sorry, I think it’s more politically correct to say chair’ – he rolls his eyes at a stick-thin woman sitting to his right – ‘of the Honeyford Heritage Society. We’re here to talk about the 900th anniversary of the Honeyford Charter and how you can get involved.’ He emphasises ‘you’ and points his finger at us. ‘I, or rather we, want these celebrations to put Honeyford on the map and mark a major point in this town’s history. As well as having fun, we’re also hoping to raise lots of money to repair the community centre roof as it’s in a shocking state and letting in rain. So’ – he takes a deep breath – ‘we’re going to host a festival on the actual charter day, the third of August, which, as luck would have it, is a Saturday. Already planned are duck races on the river for the children, a community barbecue in the Memorial Park in the evening with a few fireworks, and a re-enactment of King Henry the First visiting Honeyford. I’ll be playing the monarch, of course.’ He puffs out his chest and carries on bellowing. ‘So what else can we do? Or rather, what can you, the good townsfolk of Honeyford, contribute to the celebration?’
There’s a moment’s silence from everyone – we’re just grateful that the shouting has stopped – and then people start putting up their hands and offering suggestions. Amy from the sweet shop suggests a treasure hunt with a confectionery hamper as the prize, Vernon the butcher offers to help with the barbecue, and Luna, who came straight from her shop and is sitting nearer the front, offers to do tarot readings. A few people start muttering at this idea but Luna sits quietly until the mumblings have ceased.
As other suggestions come in thick and fast from the people around me, Becca catches my eye and gives a little nod. She thinks we ought to be involved but I’m still not sure. Malcolm’s disapproval is hard to shake and, whatever I do, I’ll never match up to Ruben in the eyes of some locals. I steal a glance at the powder-caked woman next to me, whose fingers are still shoved in her ears. Plus, I’m emotionally knackered and it’s probably unwise to take on more work while my marriage is in tatters. What’s the point?
Suddenly I hear Daniel’s voice in my head, which is rather disconcerting: ‘Sometimes the whole point is just being involved’. My hand shoots up and Alan spots me before I have time to gather my thoughts.
‘That lady there, I don’t believe we’ve met. Who are you?’
‘My name’s Flora and I run the bookshop and The Cosy Kettle Café,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘I’m just registering that we’d like to be a part of the celebrations.’
‘Excellent! So what can you offer?’
‘What about…?’ Jeez, now everyone’s looking at me and my mind has gone blank. Their first impression of the new woman who’s taken over from Ruben won’t be a good one at this rate. I swallow hard. ‘Details to be confirmed later but we’ll run some sort of writing event during the day and, um…’ Becca starts stirring her hand round and round. Is she telling me to wind things up and stop talking? As I hesitate, she mimes putting something into her mouth and chewing. Ah, what a brilliant idea!
‘And, um, what?’ barks Alan.
‘And a Honeyford Bake-Off! We’ll run a baking contest with the prizewinning cakes being sold in the café and profits going to the community centre.’
A murmur of approval hums around the room.
‘Excellent!’ booms Alan, nodding at the thin woman who’s making notes. ‘That’s Honeyford Bake-Off, open to all keen cooks, and a high-profile writing event to round off the day.’
I certainly didn’t use the words ‘high profile’… But Alan has already moved on to someone else and, by the time the meeting ends, he’s extracted promises of support from almost everyone in the room. There’s something about Alan that reminds me of Malcolm – maybe it’s his bombastic nature and refusal to take no for an answer. He’s not as good-looking as Malcolm but, on the other hand, maybe he’s not cheating on his wife.
I sigh and wonder what sort of high-profile event I can organise. It needs to be interesting, entertaining, informative and popular with local people if my bookshop and I are going to make our mark on the town. No pressure, then!
It’s going to mean a lot of extra work but I don’t regret volunteering to be involved. Malcolm’s probably right and Charter Day won’t make me any money. But as long as I don’t mess things up, it’ll give me a chance to make my mark on this tiny town that I’d like to be a part of my future.
Chapter Nine
It’s Sunday afternoon, rain is hammering down and I’m planning to curl up in Luna’s tiny summer house in the garden and lose myself in a book. Leaving Malcolm has only reinforced my view that books offer an escape to less challenging worlds.
Combine a good novel with a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps and a cool lager, and the magic is complete. Malcolm disapproves of flavoured crisps – he says they’re for people with unrefined palates – so eating them feels like a mini-rebellion.
I haven’t made it to the summer house yet – I’m still in the kitchen, chatting to Luna – but I’ve already started on the crisps. I crunch into another one and wince as a sour, salty tang bursts onto my taste buds. I intend to make my palate as unrefined as possible. The only fly in the ointment is the fact that I don’t have a novel to curl up with and read. I finished the Le Carré I was reading yesterday and I forgot to choose something else from the shop before coming home. The irony isn’t lost on me – I’m a bookseller without a book.
‘Not a problem,’ says Luna, who’s up to her elbows in flour at the kitchen worktop, when I ask if she has a book I can borrow. She puts the bread dough to one side and places her floury hands on her hips. ‘We have plenty of children’s books and lots of mine that you probably won’t be interested in. The thrillers and suchlike are all on a bookcase in Daniel’s room. You could have a look in there.’
‘I’ll wait for Daniel to get back,’ I tell her; I’m not keen on going into Daniel’s room unannounced. ‘I can help you instead.’
But Luna’s having none of it. ‘I’m almost done here, and Daniel won’t mind if you nip in and choose a book. He might not be back for ages and it’s a shame to lose out on an afternoon of reading; Caleb was angling for a milkshake once the film’s finished and I expect Daniel will go along with it. He’s a good father.’
‘I know.’ I bite my lip. ‘You’re sure he wouldn’t mind?’
‘Quite sure if you just nip in and choose a book. Simple!’
Hmm. Nothing seems simple when it comes to Daniel. I find myself treading on eggshells around him – never sure what to say – and he seems to feel the same way about me. I don’t think he’d approve of me going into his room uninvited. But the lure of an afternoon reading session is too strong and I’m soon loitering outside Daniel’s bedroom. The door’s closed and I knock, even though Daniel is miles away at the cinema. How awkward would it be if Luna was wrong and he’d just got out of the shower?
I puff out my cheeks and think of something else – anything else: book orders from this week; the tall beech tree outside the shop, which is in full leaf; Becca’s newly dyed sapphire-blue hair. But it’s no use. As well as registering that Daniel Purfoot can be a pain in the backside, my currently bonkers brain has also noticed that he’s an extremely handsome man, and it keeps chucking lascivious images my way. Imagine if I opened the door and Daniel was inside, wrapped in a towel and still dripping. My brain would probably implode.
P
ushing the image of Daniel half-naked to one side, I give the door a shove with my foot and it opens wide. Phew, the room’s empty. With a quick glance along the landing, I step inside and look around. I have to admit that choosing a book isn’t the only reason I’m here. I’m also curious to see what Daniel’s bedroom is like. He gives so little of himself away; maybe his room will reveal more about him.
The first thing I notice is that, compared to the rest of the cottage, it’s very blokey in here. Most of the other rooms are crammed with mismatched furniture, candles on every available surface and dreamcatchers hanging from beams where you’re most likely to bang your head on them.
But Daniel’s room is a candle- and dreamcatcher-free zone. It’s relatively sparsely furnished with only a high double bed, a small pine wardrobe, a white-painted bedside table and a low bookcase. The midnight-blue quilt on the bed has silver moons and golden stars appliqued to it, and the fabric looks old and heavy. The view from his window takes in the stream at the bottom of the garden and the small clump of apple trees that Luna ambitiously refers to as her orchard. Thick dark clouds are scudding across the top of the hill.
Everything in here is very tidy – from the novels in the bookcase to the clothes hanging neatly in the wardrobe. The wardrobe door has swung open and I can see half-a-dozen shirts plus jeans and trousers hanging on rails, and a small pile of folded sweaters. They’re all in muted shades of blue and grey. I run my fingers over a soft dove-grey sweater on top of the pile but quickly pull my hand back, feeling as though I’m snooping. Which, I guess, I basically am.
Guilt starts prickling at the back of my neck as I move to the bookcase and start scanning the titles. I’ve already read the more modern books and the older ones don’t pique my interest. There’s a big, black Compendium of Witchcraft and Wizardry but I’m feeling rather overwhelmed these days by magic and mysticism. I need something more down to earth and real. Pick one, Flora, and get the hell out of here!
