I stand there for twenty minutes and I’m crying hard enough that not one but two teenage girls, slender creatures in sportswear with perfect eyebrows, ask me if I’m okay. One of them offers me a cigarette and the other one says, ‘Aye, they’re all bastards, hen.’ I don’t know if they know who I am, they don’t look like bookshop regulars, but it’s a small town, after all. I don’t care though. I don’t care at all.
Twenty
When the bus comes, I get on it. I ask the bus driver where he’s going and am pleasantly surprised, through my misery, that he’s going to Castle Douglas via the road that passes the turning for the Lodge. So I buy a ticket.
When I get off the bus, I realize it’s a lot further from my house than I thought. When you drive it’s hard to judge. This is also when I realize I’ve managed to forget I drove to town this morning, and my car’s parked by the church. Which is no use to anyone.
I have to retrace my steps as the bus stop’s further along than I remembered. Then it’s further down the turning to the Lodge. It’s raining harder, and I’m pretty pissed off with myself for forgetting I’ve got a bloody car. My shoes are rubbing and I’m soaked. When I catch my heel awkwardly in a pothole and it snaps entirely off, I think quite seriously about sitting in the ditch and waiting to die.
Instead I take off my shoes and limp on in stockinged feet. I’ve always wondered where those single shoes you see at the side of the road come from. Now I guess I know. It’s tempting to fling them away, but maybe it can be fixed, so I carry them. I’m soaking wet, filthy, exhausted from weeping and now holding a broken pair of shoes. Give me strength.
I hear a car behind me and step up onto the verge, which is muddy but cool and strangely soothing to my feet. I must be a tragic sight. The car, which is red and shiny, drives past and stops almost immediately. I look up and see Charles climbing out, rather awkwardly (it’s a sports car, low slung).
‘Thea? Oh my God. I thought it was you. Are you all right? You’re drenched.’
‘Oh, hello, Charles. Yeah, I got the bus, and–’
‘Where’s your car? Come here, let me drive you home.’ He opens the passenger door for me and ushers me inside.
I sit damply in the car. It’s a Porsche or something and usually I’d find it interesting to be in a car like this. As it is, I’m shivering and self-conscious about the upholstery.
‘What on earth were you doing on the bus? Is there something wrong with your car?’
I suppose Charles has never been on a bus. I can’t picture him on one anyway. Maybe when he was at university. My mind drifts and I pull myself back into the moment with some effort.
‘I forgot I had it with me.’
He turns to look at me, astonished. ‘You forgot?’
I’m not sure what to tell him. I definitely don’t want to talk to him about Edward. ‘Yes, I… It’s been… I didn’t have a very good morning.’
‘At work?’
I hesitate. ‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
We’re at the Lodge now, pulling off the Drive.
‘I had a fight with my boss. Thanks for the lift, it’s…’ but he’s out of the car already, coming round to open the door for me. ‘Thanks.’
‘You need to get into dry things,’ he says. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’
I’m not sure how to put him off without sounding rude. After all, he gave me a lift and now his passenger seat is wet and there are muddy footprints on the expensive carpet. I unlock the front door and let him in.
‘What happened to your shoes? My God, Thea, you’re bleeding.’
We both look at the muddy bloodstains on the flagstones.
‘Oh. Sorry, I probably bled in your car. I guess I cut myself on the road or something. My shoe broke.’ I hold it up to show him. ‘I’m not having the best day.’ I’m conscious of my extremely laddered stockings and the splashes of mud I’ve kicked up my legs.
He looks horrified. ‘You ought to wash your feet. Does it hurt?’
I stand on one foot and try to look at the sole of the other. ‘Not really. A bit. But my feet are like ice; I can’t feel anything much. You’re right, I should probably wash it.’
‘You go and do that. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘You needn’t,’ I say, ‘I can do that myself–’
‘Don’t argue,’ he says, sternly. Jesus, maybe he and Edward are more alike than they realize. It’s that patrician assumption that people will do as you say, isn’t it? When Edward was ordering me upstairs on Wednesday, it was fine. I’d probably do all kinds of things if he told me to firmly enough. I’m more resentful of being ordered about by Charles, though.
Mind you, he’s right, I should get changed. I’m freezing.
* * *
When I come back in my pyjamas and dressing gown, with my feet washed and a plaster on the cut, covered with a pair of woolly socks, my stockings thrown away, outfit in the washing basket, Charles is in the sitting room, where he’s got the fire going, and there are two cups of tea on the coffee table.
‘Oh, that’s better,’ I say, standing by the fireplace, stretching my hands to the flames. I’m surprised he can light a fire. He must have people for that sort of thing, surely. ‘Ugh. What a grim day. Thanks.’
‘You’re quite welcome. And next time you abandon your car somewhere, Thea, you should ring me.’
I laugh. ‘And you’ll come and pick me up? That seems like it might be inconvenient for you. Anyway, I don’t plan on doing it again. I can’t believe I did it today. Who forgets they have their car with them? I’m an idiot.’
I pick up my tea and sit down in the armchair. My hands are still cold, and I’m strangely weary.
He clears his throat. ‘What were you fighting with Edward about?’
‘Oh, just… I’d rather not talk about it. If you don’t mind. It’s not important.’
He crosses his legs, and then uncrosses them. He seems uncomfortable, which is unusual, he’s one of those supremely ‘at home’ people who always fits in with his surroundings. I assume that’s something they teach you at expensive schools.
He puts his cup down on the coffee table. ‘Are you and he… I know you said before that you weren’t, um… but…’
Ah, okay, he’s unnerved by a personal question. ‘Are we what?’ He can ask me if he wants to know. I’m not going to do the work for him. Anyway, I can’t see why he’s still interested, not really.
He shifts again, leaning back against the cushions. ‘Er. People seem to think that–’
‘People?’
‘It’s a small town, Thea, people talk.’
‘And people are still talking about me and Edward? You’d think they’d have better things to worry about.’
‘I know it’s none of my business.’ He reaches for his tea again. ‘But my brother’s a shit.’
‘Mm. I can see why you’d think that,’ I agree. ‘But I’ve heard the same thing about you.’
‘From him? Well.’ He clears his throat again and continues. ‘I just… I’d hate to think you might be involved with someone who–’
‘I’m not sleeping with your brother,’ I say. I’m not sure whether he believes me or not.
‘People are bound to talk, aren’t they? He’s not known for’ – his mouth twists – ‘behaving appropriately. And when you work with someone, just the two of you, and–’
‘You needn’t concern yourself. Our relationship, such as it is, or was, is entirely platonic.’
‘So what were you fighting about?’
I consider. I suppose everyone will know soon enough. There were people in the shop, after all, and if I’m not there anymore, people will ask where I am.
‘He sacked me.’ I drink my tea, calmly.
‘He sacked you?’
‘Mm.’
‘But what on earth for?’ He’s astounded by this, staring at me.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ I say, mendaciously. ‘He told me months ago that he doesn�
��t usually employ women. I suppose it was that. I was quite annoyed. So we had a fight.’
‘And – are you still sacked?’
I nod.
‘What an idiot. So you… What will you do? Do you – I do beg your pardon for asking – will that be awkward? I mean financially?’
I laugh. ‘He wasn’t paying me an enormous fortune. It will make me focus, I suppose. Time I decided whether I’m going to stay up here or go back to Sussex. I suppose I should go home. Don’t worry,’ I add, ‘if I decide to sell the Lodge, I’ll let you know.’
‘Oh, well. Thank you. But you can stay, can’t you? There are other places you could work. There are even other bookshops,’ he says. ‘Wigtown’s full of them. If you want to work in a bookshop. Although surely that’s not making full use of your abilities.’
Is that a compliment? I suppose it is. I finish my tea. ‘I haven’t decided what I want to do. It was never the plan to stay. So, we shall see. I do like it here, so I might keep the house and let it.’ I turn to look at him. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear.’
He makes an impatient gesture. ‘You must do as you wish – you’re under no obligation to sell.’
‘No, that’s true.’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, I don’t know. We’ll see.’ I stand up. I want him to leave, and he’s finished his tea. I’m hoping that manners will bring him to his feet. Which they do.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says. ‘Make sure you keep warm. And if you need someone to take you to collect your car, just give me a ring. I’d be happy to help.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind. Thanks. And thanks for the lift and the tea and everything,’ I say as I lead him out into the hall. I open the front door and shiver, wrapping my arms round myself. There’s a cold wind and the rain throws itself against the front of the building.
‘Oh, you’re absolutely welcome, no need to thank me. Right then.’
I think he’s about to kiss my cheek, but I put my hand out for him to shake instead, which he does.
‘Goodbye,’ I say, and close the door as he’s getting into the car. I hear the roar of the engine as he drives away, and go back to the sitting room, which is now deliciously cosy.
Twenty-One
After Charles leaves, I’m not sure what to do. I sit and stare at the fire. It’s a miserably grey day and it’s dark, even in my sitting room, which is such a lovely bright space when the sun shines.
I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to get to a place where someone new can hurt me like this. What the hell was I thinking? Imagining I was making a home, somewhere I could be happy? Stupid. Thinking I’d made friends here? People are curious about new residents in a small town, but that doesn’t make them your friends. Probably none of them are my friends. After all, why would they be? If the person I’ve been spending most of my time with doesn’t even like me… You can’t blame him though, can you? I’m not interesting or worthwhile. I’m just a stupid middle-aged woman whose husband left her for someone else, and that’s probably not surprising either.
Not entirely sure why you’d kiss someone you don’t like. Maybe he finds weeping women a turn-on, although that doesn’t seem likely. Then again, he’s just spent God knows how long sleeping with someone he didn’t like, so who’s to say.
As an adult, I have to believe that he meant what he said – that we’re not friends – because what would be the point of saying it unless it was true?
My insides hurt, and so does my brain.
I think I’ve failed at everything. What am I going to do now? I was angry earlier, and that was kind of a positive feeling but now I’m drained and empty and cold. I suppose I should leave, shouldn’t I? I don’t want to be here anymore. I’ll run away again. I could just keep doing that for ever. Pick a little town at random. Or maybe a city would be better; it’s easier to avoid meeting people if you live in a city. I could run away to Inverness or Sheffield and get a job in a supermarket or something, and never speak to anyone except for work.
The phone rings, making me jump. I answer it unwillingly. It’s Jenny.
‘Are you okay? Cerys just rang and said someone told her you had a massive fight with Edward this morning.’
I close my eyes. Jesus Christ, can people not mind their own business? ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We did.’
‘What was that about? Are you all right? I tried to call your mobile.’
‘The signal’s shit out here.’
‘I know, that’s why I thought you were probably at home.’
‘Yes.’ I know I should say more than this, form a sentence, but really.
‘What happened?’
I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to tell her. It’s pathetic. Keep it plain and unvarnished. ‘I’m sacked.’
‘Bloody hell. It’s true, then? That’s what Cerys said, but I didn’t believe her. Or I thought she must’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick or something. She said Micky Doolin was in the shop.’
‘Oh, he might have been. I don’t know. There were some customers. Anyway, yes, no, it’s true.’
‘What the hell happened?’
I can picture Jenny’s face, outraged on my behalf, angry, lips pursed. Perhaps she is my friend. I was just being negative before. I sigh. I suppose I’ll have to explain this to a million people. And I really can’t be arsed. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Edward.’
‘I’ve been in there already – he won’t speak to me.’
‘How mature.’
She laughs. ‘Isn’t it? But Jesus, he’s in a foul mood. He told me to piss off and that was it.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope he’s miserable. I hope it chokes him.’
‘Well, screw him. The man’s a twat, aye. I did tell you not to work for him,’ she adds.
‘Yes. I should have listened.’
There’s a pause.
‘If you want to come over this evening…’ she says.
‘Oh, I can’t. Well I could, I suppose. I mean, I left my car in town… Anyway, thanks, but I don’t feel much like socialising.’
‘If you’re sure. If you want to talk to someone, or anything… I can’t believe he sacked you.’
‘No, neither can I. Only I can really,’ I add. ‘Actually, thinking about it, it’s completely inevitable.’ I get an image of the bookshop, of the comfort of it, the gentle smell of the books, sunlight on the flagstones. My throat aches. I like the shop as much as I like Edward. Although I don’t like him at all, do I?
‘Anyway, don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s probably for the best, and other clichés.’
‘Hm. Okay. If you’re sure. Phone me, though, if you want.’
‘Thanks.’
* * *
I fetch a blanket from the bedroom, and my book, and go out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I think for a moment that I might want something stronger instead; there’s half a bottle of Gordon’s in the cupboard, although I don’t have any lemons, or, worse, any tonic. I can’t drink utterly raw gin at my age, which is a quote from somewhere, I think. I have a list of things in my head that I’m trying not to think about. It’s difficult, though, when you’re on your own. I’d better watch a film or something.
I don’t want to think about how my husband’s having a baby, or how I just lost my job – for the second time this year, as well – or how I might have to move, or how I’ve managed to lose a friend, or how apparently I didn’t even have that friend to lose. I feel like such an unbearable idiot. I’m achingly embarrassed and mortified.
God, it’s depressing. I open the cupboard, looking for something to cheer myself up. There’s a box of Tunnock’s wafers but they remind me of him.
This is shit. How can I be so upset about this? You wouldn’t think I’d have room, after everything else that’s happened this year, to even care about it.
It’s a good job I haven’t allowed myself to think about what it was like to kiss him.
I’ve fucked this up so badly.
Now I’m crying again. I
do quite hate myself.
* * *
When I wake up in the morning there’s a split second when I’ve forgotten everything and I’m thinking about what I might need to do at work. There’s a pile of books in the workshop and – oh yeah.
Shit.
Despite all the practice I had during what I no longer have to think of as Quarter One, I still don’t have a reliable method for dealing with feeling like this. I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling. It’s quite dark; the clock radio tells me it’s only half past six, which is much too early to get up when you’re unemployed.
I can hear the rain singing in the gutters. Apart from that, it’s very quiet; the heating doesn’t come on until seven. Maybe I should look again at those flats. If I moved back… but really, what’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? If I could choose anywhere in the country to live, where would I choose? This is my chance to move to Brighton or Cornwall or the Outer flipping Hebrides, isn’t it?
I should have sold the Lodge to Charles as soon as he asked me to; that would have solved a lot of problems. I’d be on my way to a new life somewhere else if I’d done that, or back in Brackwell getting on with things.
I put my head under the duvet for a while, but it’s no good, I can’t go back to sleep. I’ll have to get up, and it’s cold, and I’ve nothing to get up for.
I should do one of those tasks I’ve been meaning to get on with for months, like photographing Aunt Mary’s clothes for eBay. It’s hardly an ideal day for photography, though. Maybe I should start boxing up books in the library. At least I know some other book dealers now. I can still sell my books – I don’t need Edward for that. Maybe I should open my own bookshop. That would be amusing, wouldn’t it?
I’d thought about giving him the Orwell for his birthday. I hadn’t decided for sure, because it’s worth a lot of money, but I’d thought about it. Giving someone something you already have is not the same as buying a gift, but obviously I wouldn’t be buying anyone a gift that costs thousands of pounds – it would be impractical. I feel like a dick for even contemplating this. Luckily the truth came out before his birthday, or else I would have made a complete arse of myself. It makes me shudder to think of it.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 23