The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  And – this is a tiny almost-ignored thought that makes me sigh whenever it presents itself obliquely – Edward’s not really pissed off, is he? Why would he be? He seemed pissed off though. I think again about him glaring at me across the pub. I don’t want him to be annoyed with me, especially after we had such a good time before we went to the pub. Why does he have to be so cross all the time? It’s not like…

  * * *

  I’m slightly anxious about going to work in the morning. And irritated with myself for feeling that way. I fiddle about in the car for ages, emptying receipts out of my purse, putting CDs back in their cases. I can’t put it off for ever though. I’m sure it’ll just be one of those things I’ve worried about for nothing, I tell myself, pushing open the shop door.

  Edward’s in his usual seat, reading the news on the laptop. He looks up as I walk to the counter.

  ‘Morning,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d make it in,’ he says, abruptly.

  ‘You wondered if I’d make it in?’ I stare at him. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

  He shrugs. ‘Late night.’

  ‘Good grief. I know I’m ancient’ – I lean past him to put my bag under the counter – ‘but I can just about stay up until half past nine without having to pull a sickie.’

  ‘Half nine? They were still going at midnight.’

  ‘Were they? I didn’t stay until midnight.’

  ‘Oh.’ He’s turned in his chair to look at me. ‘Did you go home with that man?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. No, I didn’t. Why on earth would you ask something like that?’ ‘Oh. I thought you might. He liked you.’

  I consider this. ‘Yeah, I think he did, but not enough to make any attempt to… well, anything. Anyway, I’ve never gone home with a man I just met; it would be wildly out of character. Jesus.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Huh yourself. Jesus.’ I shake myself.

  ‘You seemed to be getting on well. Laughing and–’

  ‘Yes, he seemed pleasant. Who knows? He lives in Southampton so it’s not like I’m going to get to know him.’

  ‘He didn’t ask to see you again?’ He sounds disbelieving, which I suppose is a compliment. Sort of.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, oh.’

  ‘Did you want him to?’

  This is the big question, isn’t it? ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Not really? Does that mean yes?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that… I just… well, it might be nice, mightn’t it, to think someone might like me.’

  ‘I didn’t think he was all that,’ he says. ‘Does that sort of thing appeal to you?’

  I just look at him.

  ‘I mean, you know.’ He does at least look vaguely embarrassed, dropping his gaze as I glare at him.

  ‘Not everyone is lucky enough to be brooding and patrician,’ I tell him. He looks briefly confused. ‘I mean, I’m not exactly’ – I search my mind – ‘Cameron Diaz, am I?’

  He brushes this aside with a gesture. ‘If you wonder whether random men might want to fuck you, I imagine the answer is yes,’ he says.

  We stare at each other. I feel unexpected tears pricking behind my nose. ‘That’s not very… That’s not exactly what I’m talking about.’ I’m annoyed by this, his attitude. It’s – what? It’s rude, is what it is, and I don’t understand why he has to be unpleasant. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? What would that even mean, something wrong? The whole thing is irritating. ‘Or maybe it is. Anyway. Better get on.’

  I walk away through the shop. I fixed some books yesterday, and I need to unclamp them and take pictures if they look okay and the light’s right. It’s quite a grey morning. I open the back door and go out into the garden, twirling through my keys and unlocking the door of the workshop. It’s messy in there – the floor littered with bits of paper, the scarred surface of the worktable covered in linen and cardboard and pieces of leather. There’s a sink, and a hotplate for heating the glue pots, and shelves covered in useful things like lunchboxes full of gold leaf and jars of gesso. There’s a sofa, demoted from a proper room elsewhere, and a tall workshop chair.

  I lean on the table and close my eyes. I don’t understand why Edward said that. It might be true, I suppose, or it might not. It doesn’t really matter. Once upon a time it might have been troubling, to think something like that, but now? Even thinking someone might want… that… is a win, after all. Because when the person you’ve been sleeping with for the last twenty years leaves you, at least one of the implications is that he doesn’t want to have sex with you anymore, isn’t it? And that’s quite depressing. I’ve never been beautiful or madly sexy, and I got through school assuming no one liked me – that I lacked whatever it takes to be fashionable. I had an inability to conjure a decent haircut, was a bit clever and not very sporty – all of these things coalesce, don’t they, into textbook Low Self-Esteem for Girls. But once away from school – and partly thanks to Mark Woodley and the things we did in his bedroom – my confidence, and also my vision of myself as a person who might be attractive – not to everyone, but to enough people – gathered impetus, and by the time I got to university I was willing to believe I had something, some spark of – whatever it is. And therefore it seemed to be true.

  The people you like don’t always like you back the same way, and vice versa, but I knew there were people – boys – men, even – who might look at me and think, yes, there’s something appealing about Thea. Most of that’s gone now, worn away, crumpled – the fresh bloom of youth dissipates, but as a grown-up you have other things in recompense. Except those things can be mislaid or broken when someone decides they don’t want you anymore. I haven’t addressed this side of things, have I? It’s definitely true though, that I’d rather someone ‘just’ wanted to fuck me, however basic that might seem, than have no one ever look at me with desire again.

  None of this means I’m going to sleep with anyone any time soon, however. And I absolutely cannot see what any of it’s got to do with my employer.

  I look at my hands, nails cut sensibly short, my grandmother’s wedding ring, too big for my ring fingers, on the middle finger of my left hand. I stopped wearing my own ring last month, when I finally stopped using my married name. I still feel strange about it; my hand looks naked without the narrow platinum wedding band and the unmatching antique diamond engagement ring we bought in Brighton a lifetime ago. I’ve put them both away, in a cufflink box buried at the back of a drawer. I might even sell them, buy myself something new. I try to imagine my hands on someone else. Maybe someone I’ve never met? Maybe no one, ever.

  I unclamp the books and take off the pads that protect the boards from the clamp’s biting teeth. They look a hundred times better than they did yesterday, when the covers were entirely separate and in danger of being lost for ever. A nice 1950s Alice, given as a school prize, with a bright and jolly illustrated cover, and a rather battered but fun 1896 Every Girl’s Annual. Edward didn’t think it was worth saving – it came in a box of house clearance stuff – but I was determined.

  I put the mended books in a box on the sofa and look at the ‘to-do’ pile. There’s a knock at the door and here’s the man himself, Mr Maltravers, looking awkward and holding my handbag out towards me. It’s a rather frivolous basket covered in exuberant fake flowers, and it looks quite funny dangling from his hand.

  ‘Your phone rang,’ he says. ‘And then you got a text. So I brought your bag.’

  ‘Suits you. You should get one.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  I take it from him and slide my phone out of the internal pocket.

  ‘I thought it might be that man,’ he says, ‘and I didn’t want you to miss it. I was an arse before, and I apologize.’ He sighs.

  ‘Yeah, well, unless Jilly or Cerys gave him my number – which would seem hugely unlikely – it won’t have been him.’ I roll my eyes. I unlock my phone and look at th
e message. I laugh.

  ‘As suspected.’ I hold the phone up. ‘It’s from the bank.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Edward. He looks embarrassed. ‘Well. Anyway.’

  ‘Did you lock up?’ I ask him. You can’t just abandon the shop, obviously.

  ‘No, I went to Plan B.’

  Plan B is when you put the till and the laptop in the safe and dig out the emergency notice, which is in a large, curly photo frame and says, The shop is not unstaffed, although there’s no one at the desk at the moment. Please ring the bell, or text this number, and someone will be with you shortly. And remember, smile – you’re on CCTV.

  We use it sometimes if only one person is in and they have to go to the loo or something. The CCTV thing is mainly just to stop people from stealing books. Edward says often even nice people are tempted to nick stuff, but most people won’t if they know (or think) they’re being filmed. It seems to work.

  ‘You’d better go back then,’ I say. ‘Did you make any lunch?’

  ‘No. I’ll go and get sandwiches from the Old Mill.’

  ‘Cool. Prawn please, if they have any.’

  Edward pulls at his lower lip. ‘Okay,’ he says. For a moment I think he’s going to say something else, but he changes his mind and leaves me alone in the workshop.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, after eating my prawn sandwiches at the counter, I’m back in the workshop gluing more broken books. I have a terrible headache and matching cramps. I take some painkillers and soldier on, but I feel dreadful. I’m not sure if the headache is a result of being irritated earlier about that stupid conversation with Edward, or whether it’s connected to my cramping womb. My cycle has been all over the place since January. I should go to the doctor, as I don’t know whether it’s been thrown off by the stress of the break-up with Chris, or the peri-menopause, or what.

  ‘Stupid womb,’ I mutter to myself, and stand up, stretching. My back aches and I’m exhausted. I suppose I’ve had more excitement in the last twenty-four hours than I’m used to. I might go and make a cup of tea. Or I might just sit down on the sofa for a moment.

  * * *

  ‘Thea. Thea. Wake up.’

  ‘Not asleep,’ I mumble. ‘Resting m’eyes.’

  ‘Of course you are, sweetheart. Now come on, wake up, I’ve made you a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘God, have you?’ I open my eyes and try to raise my head. I’ve slumped down onto the arm of the sofa and my neck is as stiff and uncomfortable as it’s possible to be.

  ‘All right?’ Edward’s crouching on the floor beside the sofa, a mug of tea in his hand.

  ‘Urgh.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. Now sit up, and drink your tea.’

  I smile at him. ‘Thank you. I was going to come and make one.’

  ‘I wondered where you were. When it got to half past three I thought you might have died or something.’

  ‘I’ve only been asleep for a moment. Is it really half three?’ I take the mug from him. ‘Oh God.’ I close my eyes. ‘Thank you, that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just tired, and I’ve got a bit of a dake,’ I say. ‘Dake’ is a shop word, it means headache. I expect everyone who works in a very small team has a private language; we’re just developing one. If we carry on working together, eventually we’ll be impenetrable to outsiders.

  ‘Taken some pills?’

  I nod.

  ‘Want me to take you home?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘It’s gone four. I’ll take you home and come and get you in the morning.’

  ‘That’s mad.’

  ‘No it isn’t, you look rough as biscuits.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  He laughs. ‘Drink your tea. I’ll go and cash up.’

  I bleat feebly, but he’s already gone. I lean back against the cushions and close my eyes again. The thought of being driven home is extremely tempting. I could drive, of course, but it’s nice not to have to. I sigh and finish my tea and tidy up, checking the hotplate’s turned off, removing my apron, collecting my bag and locking the workshop door behind me.

  ‘All ready?’ asks Edward as I come back into the front of the shop.

  ‘Yes. Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m perfectly okay to drive. And you’ll have to come and get me in the morning. It all seems too tedious.’

  ‘It’s no problem. Come on.’ He holds the door open for me. ‘You’re very pale; are you sure you’re not coming down with something?’

  ‘No, no, it’s just… you know.’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘It’s time to choose from a colourful variety of euphemisms,’ I say, yawning.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the shedding of the lining of one’s womb,’ I say. ‘Isn’t womb a funny word?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it horrid, actually menstruating in your shop. I know you hate that.’ I laugh.

  He tuts. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Quite bad today for some reason. It’s a bit random at the moment. Too much information; I do apologize.’

  He opens the car door for me and I climb up into the seat, closing my eyes once my seatbelt is fastened.

  ‘Very kind,’ I murmur, but he ignores me.

  * * *

  I must have been dozing in the car; I jerk awake as we crunch to a halt on the gravel. Opening my eyes, I blink at the front door of the Lodge with a feeling of relief. It’s nice to be home.

  ‘Keys,’ says Edward.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Keys, give me your keys. So I can open the door.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure I can–’

  He holds out his hand, sighing.

  I paw meekly though the contents of my handbag, extract the keys, and hand them to him. He gets out of the car and comes round to open the passenger door. This isn’t down to feebleness on my part, but because there’s something wrong with the lock. He releases me and I clamber awkwardly down and follow him as he unlocks the front door.

  ‘Thanks for driving me,’ I say.

  He waves this away irritably, and drops the keys onto the hall stand. ‘Are you all right? Got pills and so forth? What are you having for your tea?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Did you want a cuppa?’ I feel I should ask, although I’d rather just lie on the sofa for a bit and not think about entertaining.

  He looks at me, considering. ‘I’ll make it. Stuff’s all logical, is it? In the kitchen?’

  ‘Logical?’ I wonder if it is. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Go and sit down, then,’ he says, and puts one finger against my shoulder, pushing me into the sitting room. I don’t know why, but this makes me laugh. ‘All right,’ I say, ‘no need to bully me in my own home.’

  ‘Just do as you’re told for once.’

  Dropping my bag by the door, I lean against the wall and take off my shoes. Late afternoon sunshine puddles on the mossy green carpet and I sink, exhausted, onto the sofa. I can hear various bangs and rattlings from my kitchen as he looks for teaspoons and mugs. I close my eyes for a moment.

  ‘Here you go,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you. Two cups of tea you’ve made me today – I could get used to this.’

  ‘I make you tea all the time,’ he objects, frowning. ‘Honestly.’

  I bend my head over my cup to hide my smile. ‘I know you do. Thanks.’

  He doesn’t sit down; instead he’s wandering about, looking at the things I’ve rearranged on the bookshelves, poking at a pile of DVDs and videos. Then he’s over by the table.

  ‘What’s all this? Are you writing a book?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, God no. No, that’s all Andrew’s stuff. His memoir, or whatever. Did you know he’d written loads of notes?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About his life’ – I wave a vague hand – ‘and so on. Stories about his parents – my great-grandparents. And their parents. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘O
h, right. He did say something about that. Said he had loads of diaries and bits and pieces.’

  ‘Yes, there’s loads of it. My great-grandmother kept a diary; it’s a bit weird really.’

  ‘Weird how?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I think – I suppose they were reasonably middle class? Maybe she was a bit of a cut above? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s all morning calls and flower arranging and the Boer War and stuff. Some of it reminded me of – have you ever read any Molly Keane?’

  ‘Good Behaviour. And’ – I see him tracking through the files in his head – ‘Devoted Ladies–’

  ‘I read that one when I was sixteen,’ I tell him, ‘and found it appalling and terrifying.’

  He laughs. ‘They are a bit, aren’t they. Her characters. Horsey. Emotionally abusive–’

  ‘Yes, everyone’s horrible and pathetic in a grotesque way. I do like them. The books. But anyway, some of it reminded me of that, although obviously they weren’t as…’ I flap my hand again.

  ‘Posh.’ He looks at me, a grin lurking.

  ‘Yes, thank you, they weren’t as posh as the people in Molly Keane books. It has mostly been quite rubbish,’ I add, ‘to be a woman.’

  ‘Yes.’ He pulls out one of the dining-room chairs and sits down. ‘How is it to be a woman right now at this moment?’

  ‘Are you asking me about Fourth-Wave Feminism or my personal womb experience?’

  He snorts with laughter. ‘I meant, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  He’s still laughing, shaking his head. He sips his tea and turns to look at the papers on the desk, pushing photographs around in the shoebox lid I’m using to corral them.