The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  A little glass dish full of cufflinks, a pocket watch on a stand, a pair of hairbrushes that look antique, battered silver with someone else’s initials – RVTM – on them are also on the dressing table. There’s a card with an Edward Hopper painting on it. I pick it up – I do feel bad for doing so but can’t help myself – and open it to read the message.

  Super weekend, darling, look forward to the next one. Yours ever, Corinne x

  Huh. Who’s Corinne then? And does Lara know about her?

  On the wall by the mirror is a drawing of the house, Hollinshaw, and another, an old print, of a ruined castle, the traditional Scottish ‘tower house’ type. And a photograph of the Shed, sky blue above the black wooden walls. Other than this and the dresser, though, there’s not much else in here; it’s as if there’s so much in the rest of the house, there was nothing left for his bedroom.

  I turn out the light and cross the landing to the final room: the study. Ah, so that’s why there’s not much in his bedroom – it’s all in here. Crammed bookshelves, postcards of paintings on any spare bit of wall, dust, CDs, even a pile of cassette tapes. The ancient stereo is a stack of silvery minimal separates – must have cost a bomb in 1995 or something. Records too, in crates on the floor. I stoop to have a quick flick. He only ever listens to classical music in the shop, but having discussed music so extensively at the Shed, I’m not confused to see the Nick Cave and Smiths albums. They certainly fit with the boy in the photograph. Black Sabbath, Can, Prince and David Bowie, The Clash, Nirvana – I wonder how often he listens to any of this now. What’s on the turntable? I lift the lid carefully. Bauhaus. Gosh.

  The desk, which is a yellow Formica-topped kitchen table, sits in front of the curtain-less window, which is also open. It’s above the dining room, and has an interesting view of rooftops and the trees in the garden. I lean across to wrestle with it, but it works much better than the one in the bedroom, and the sash slithers downward, landing with a thump. I twist the screw and turn to the desk. There’s a typewriter. This makes me chuckle; he would have a typewriter, although I know he uses a laptop for his writing. The typewriter is pushed to the back of the desk; a totem, presumably, rather than something he uses. There’s paper, too, all different sizes, drifts of it, none of it typed, all covered in his unexpectedly tidy writing, in pencil mostly. A jar of pencils in varying states sits on the windowsill. At the front of the desk is a neater pile of paper, held down with a smooth white pebble.

  I glance at the top sheet. I know it’s rude, and I’m always wary of other people’s words in case I read something embarrassing. It might be embarrassing because it’s awful – a dreadful poem, maybe – or because it’s true. Truth can be too exposing sometimes, too naked. I read something once that a flatmate had written, pinned to the wall by her desk, about ‘creeping through life avoiding the landmines of love’, or something along those lines – I can’t remember exactly – but I remember it felt so true and naked I found it hard to speak to her afterwards, as though she’d told me a secret. I suppose it was a secret – after all, she didn’t ask me into her room. I used to flit through all their rooms, my housemates, when they were out. I didn’t pry exactly. I’d never have opened a drawer or read a diary. I just liked to stand in their rooms and look at their posters and books, and know they’d never know I’d been in there.

  Won’t

  Can’t

  Mustn’t

  Shan’t

  This is what Edward has written. Feeling foolish and guilty, I roll the sleeve of my cardigan over my hand and lift the pebble, as though afraid of fingerprints. I push the top sheet aside. Underneath is a much smaller piece of paper, on which he’s written:

  Silver strands

  Golden sun

  Golden sand

  Is the sand actually golden? TRY HARDER.

  And sideways on the same piece of paper:

  Limpet/limpid?

  I turn it over.

  Pewter softness

  Rain-washed

  Clouds and lichen

  Just bits, not actual poems; only notes. I’m faintly disappointed. I look at the next sheet, where he’s written:

  ‘COMMON’

  Just like that, with angry quote marks, one of which has gone through the paper. I stare at the word, feeling the blood rise in my cheeks. It’s funny to be embarrassed when you’re alone. Has he written that because of what I said, weeks ago, about his brother’s party? Or am I making connections where none exist? It’s just a word, after all.

  On the next piece of paper, lined this time, torn from an exercise book by the looks of it, he’s written:

  An empty room seems emptier

  A night alone seems longer

  The moon’s cold thumbnail

  More distant

  ‘That’s got potential,’ I say aloud, making myself jump. This is rude, isn’t it? I should go. I restack the paper, looking again at the piece that says, ‘COMMON’. The trouble with snooping is you can’t ask a question about anything you find that you shouldn’t have looked at. I could ask about anything in this room except the writing. I eye a pile of notebooks beside the typewriter. I wonder what’s written in those. Edward is… I suppose he’s a mystery, isn’t he? A faintly glamorous mystery.

  Sighing, I back out of the room without touching anything else, and make my way downstairs.

  * * *

  When he gets home, midway through Tuesday afternoon, I’ve just sold a Harry Potter first edition for four hundred and fifty quid and I’m quite pleased with myself.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘how are you doing, junior bookseller?’

  ‘Selling books like a senior bookseller. Look. You may need to promote me.’ I spin the receipt round so he can see.

  I can tell he’s pleased. ‘Which reminds me. Here.’ He pulls a long flat box out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. ‘Something shiny.’

  I’m slightly agonized at being given a gift I essentially asked for. ‘You didn’t have to get me anything. I was joking.’

  ‘I know. But I saw it and I thought you might like it.’

  I open the box. Inside, there’s a spoon. A large Victorian tablespoon, silver, with my initials, all three of them, ALH, monogrammed on the handle.

  ‘Oh, wow.’ I stare at it, and then at him. ‘That’s amazing! My initials!’

  ‘I know, I’ve never found anything monogrammed with anything useful. Cool, huh?’

  ‘Was this expensive?’ I ask, suspiciously.

  ‘No. Makes ’em cheaper if they’re engraved. Because who wants someone else’s initials?’

  ‘It’s still silver, though.’ I rub my finger over the hallmark. ‘How old is it?’

  ‘I think it’s mid-Victorian. Look it up.’

  ‘Look it up? How?’

  He tuts. ‘Here.’ He sits down at the desk and opens Google. I watch him as he looks up hallmarks.

  ‘Let’s see it then,’ he says. ‘I think it’s Glasgow. Yep, there you are, that’s the Glasgow mark, the head. And this ‘P’ is the year. 1860. And this is the maker: Kerr and Phillips. You could probably look them up too, if you wanted. Find out where their shop was.’

  ‘Wow.’ I stroke the bowl of the spoon, which has a gorgeous soft sheen to it. I spoon imaginary gravy onto a plate of imaginary Victorian Sunday dinner. ‘It’s beautiful. I wonder who ALH was. Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘It must have been expensive, you shouldn’t have. I was only joking. I just said “shiny” because–’

  ‘I know. I just saw it, and it seemed perfect when I remembered your name begins with an A.’

  ‘I’m surprised you remembered my middle initial.’ I frown at him. I’m more than surprised in fact – I’m more or less astounded.

  ‘I did worry I might’ve got it wrong,’ he says, ‘but I was fairly confident. Lucy, right? Althea Lucy.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I shall treasure it,’ I say, and then feel the tips of my ears burning with embarrassm
ent. He doesn’t notice though; he’s turned back to the screen.

  ‘Sell anything else?’ he asks, and we’re back on safer ground.

  * * *

  I google Victorian tablespoons as I sit in the car after work, piggybacking off the town hall Wi-Fi. Eighty to three hundred pounds.

  I don’t know what to think. Perhaps that’s not much money to him? Even the lower estimate seems a significant amount to me. I’m puzzled. It would be silly to read too much – or indeed anything – into this. Wouldn’t it? He saw it and thought of me and can afford to buy a present – whether pricey or properly expensive – without thinking too much about it. That’s all.

  * * *

  Last night, Xanthe rang and told me about a dinner party at Chris and Susanna’s, where Angela, apparently, had a bit too much to drink and asked about me.

  Xanthe goes to these things to keep me in touch with what’s going on. I don’t mind if she wants to be friends with them – she’s known Chris for a long time; longer than I have, in fact. And her descriptions of social events involving the new couple are always funny.

  Anyway, so while they were eating dessert, Angela asked Chris if he’d heard from me lately and how I was doing and everything. (Perhaps a little tactless – she could have asked Xanthe at a more opportune moment, or in fact remembered what I told her myself just last week!)

  Chris said, truthfully, that we hadn’t spoken in a while, and Angela said it was sad that I’d felt I had to actually move away. Chris was annoyed by this and said I hadn’t moved away; I was just spending time somewhere else.

  ‘She’ll stay there, though,’ Angela said. ‘I think it’s a real shame – I miss her.’ Xanthe chimed in to say so did she, and Susanna burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  The five of them all sat and looked at each other, and Rob said, ‘You should probably make sure she’s all right, mate,’ and Jeff, Angela’s husband, said he was sorry if they’d upset her and Angela said, ‘You can’t upset everyone’s lives without people getting upset,’ and all in all it sounded awful, but also… I don’t know.

  Xanthe says she doesn’t think Susanna had ever thought about how everyone else would feel about any of it, and that includes me, rather oddly. If I was sleeping with someone else’s husband, I’d expect them to be upset when they found out. But maybe thinking that would make it harder to do it? Who knows? It’s easy to speculate, but when you’ve never been in that situation, you can’t ever know. I admit I rarely try to get into Susanna’s head or attempt to have any empathy for her. After all, it looks to me like it’s turned out okay for her, living in my house with my husband. But I suppose I would think that. I’m the one people feel sorry for, which pleases me but probably upsets her even more. I doubt she thinks she’s the bad guy; no one ever does.

  I wonder how she justifies it to herself. By thinking things were, what, difficult? Between me and Chris? I can imagine that would seem like the reason and perhaps she’s right. There must have been something wrong, even if I had no idea about it, even if I resent the thought that he could have told me there was a problem, and we might have been able to sort it out.

  But that’s all ancient history. I don’t even know when it might have been fixable. Nothing seemed any different to usual, not to me. It all seemed exactly the same as ever. If I’d noticed, maybe I’d feel better, but I must have failed on every level.

  It’s no good feeling bad about any of that. I’ve more or less stopped running over it all in my mind, wondering where I could have applied the tape. The answer is nowhere. However, none of my sensible thinking means I’m now able to empathize with Susanna, and no one would expect me to.

  I don’t enjoy hearing about things like the dinner party, or how Cora Thwaite’s youngest told Susanna’s daughter Ruby that her mother was a ‘housebreaker’ because of something she’d heard her parents say. Housebreaker – that’s cute isn’t it; a junior school misunderstanding of ‘homewrecker’. Hearing about it is still better than bumping into any of them though; the horror of seeing Susanna in town, perhaps, or at the supermarket. Or maybe that would be a good thing, helping me grow a thick skin of indifference.

  Fourteen

  I’ve been on my own for most of the week. Edward’s been away in Edinburgh again. Sometimes he tells me some of what he’s been up to, but not always. It’s half past five, and the front door’s locked and the Closed sign up, while I sweep. Where does the dirt come from? Off people’s shoes, I guess. You have to sweep pretty much every day. On Monday mornings, I hoover before the shop opens.

  I’ve done the catalogue and thrown out some milk that was past its best. It’s been warm and dry, almost a week of those days you sometimes get in September with beautiful slow heavy light, the Virginia creeper on the back of the shop flaming scarlet. The dry weather means I’ll have to water the garden, or at least the pots on the patio. I like the shop after hours, it’s so quiet and still, dust motes dancing in unexpected shafts of sunlight.

  The clocks tick and there are mysterious creaking noises from the shelves and floorboards. I like to imagine the books are settling down to sleep, although that’s an unusually romantic notion for me. I fiddle about on Twitter, setting up some tweets for the weekend so I don’t have to think about it. I hope Edward has taken some photos while he’s been out and about. People like pictures. Tweets about books are good, but pictures of books go down better. He doesn’t always think about it though, despite me texting him reminders. Which he probably doesn’t even read.

  I’ve closed down the computer and am on my way down the passage to the garden when I hear the key in the door, and turn back to say hello. I wasn’t expecting him, but it’s not like he’s obliged to tell me what he’s up to.

  He pushes the door open and sees me. ‘Oh, hey, Thea, still here?’ He’s carrying a box, which he puts down on the counter.

  ‘Just about to water the pots – Oh, hello, Lara.’

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ she says. Is it me, or does she have the most annoying face ever? I rarely dislike people, but I definitely dislike Lara. Why could that be, I definitely don’t wonder.

  ‘D’you need a hand?’ Edward asks.

  ‘God, no, no, don’t worry. You carry on.’ I back down the corridor, stopping by the staircase. ‘Did you have a productive week?’

  ‘Not bad. There are some more boxes in the car; should be okay until tomorrow. And some stuff coming next week. I bought a lovely set of George Eliot, cloth-bound, from the sixties, dark green, really smart. And a signed first edition Toni Morrison; very exciting.’

  ‘Oh, really? What is it? Beloved? Please say yes.’

  He laughs. ‘It is.’

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘Tempted?’

  Lara’s halfway up the stairs, turned back, sighing at this interruption to her evening.

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.’

  ‘I paid one ninety, probably get two fifty for it.’

  ‘Ugh. I’ll just be looking at it then. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’

  I look at Lara, who isn’t rolling her eyes, but probably only because that would be vulgar.

  He looks up at her. ‘Go on up, I won’t be a moment.’

  ‘Edward…’ she whines.

  Maybe it’s not whiney, that’s probably just me. I glance at him; he looks slightly irritated. I just can’t see why he bothers. I suppose she must be fantastic in bed. Although I can’t believe it; she seems so… uptight. I assume they have angry sex. Maybe he likes that; some people do. Not that I care, or have any interest in what kind of sex he might like. Shit, now I’m blushing, and I haven’t heard anything he’s just said to me.

  ‘Thea?’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I said, I bought some atlases, big ones. Maybe we should put some out, on the map table. A display, sort of. You’re good at that.’

  The map table is a new purchase. I saw it advertised on Facebook and was inspired by the plan chest at Hollins
haw. I love plan chests and map tables, because drawers are great, and map table drawers are so enormous. I said we should get it and keep maps in it, obviously. Everyone loves maps. And we do have some great atlases. And Edward agreed, so now we have – I mean, now he has – a map table.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I agree. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it. Better get on, so I can leave you to it.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘No, really–’ but we’re walking through the back rooms towards the garden. ‘She’ll be annoyed,’ I suggest, glancing at him.

  ‘Oh well. She usually is.’

  There’s nothing I can say to this – it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t approve though – either you like someone, or you don’t. If you do, be nice. If you don’t, what’s the point?

  Out in the garden he begins to fill one of the watering cans for me with the hose. The garden’s quite a surprise, bigger than you’d expect. There are trees and borders and a lawn; it’s comfortable, but pretty, not as neat as the garden at the Lodge. Edward gardens a bit and Jilly’s niece, Wendy, comes in once a week in the summer to mow the lawn and keep it tidy. There are lots of pots, filled with agapanthus and lilies, and some small trees, acers. There are a table and chairs by the house, and benches dotted about. Edward comes out here to read in the evenings, he says, and sometimes we have our lunch out here if it’s not raining. I’d like to get more involved, but there’s not time – the garden at the Lodge keeps me busy enough and I should think the state of it would make Uncle Andrew quite gloomy. I do my best, but I’m working, after all. I had to buy some of that weed-reducing membrane stuff for the vegetable garden. Next year I’ll plant veg.