Why did he have to kiss me? It’s a double whammy, isn’t it, because it’s made him hate me and it’s made me think about things I shouldn’t.
Maybe I should be angry about it. How dare he kiss me? Yes, that’s better. How dare he and then decide it was all a mistake, a mistake so bad he had to sack me! I should have resigned, shouldn’t I? Sexual harassment, or something. I mean I didn’t ask to be kissed; I wasn’t expecting it. I should have pushed him away, told him to fuck off, not melted pathetically like some stupid girl in a romantic novel.
He’s really good at kissing though.
Shut up, what are you, fifteen?
God, I’m so miserable.
I get out of bed and wrap myself in my dressing gown. Time for coffee and lighting the fire.
* * *
It rains all day. If it stopped, I might go and get the car, but it doesn’t stop. Instead, I sit and look out of the kitchen window. The plants drip, the leaves are falling. Everything seems extremely symbolic. I haven’t done anything today. I had a bath and put on woolly socks and clean pyjamas – another pair of Uncle Andrew’s. They’re probably thirty years old. Blue and white striped flannel old man’s pyjamas. I love them. There are six pairs and I don’t plan on wearing anything else in bed, ever.
Then I lay on the sofa and watched videos. Uncle Andrew had quite the collection of war films and musicals. I’ve watched The Longest Day, Ice Cold in Alex, Calamity Jane and Meet me in St Louis. I ate toast for breakfast and again for lunch. I think about phoning Xanthe, but then I decide against it. I’ll send her an email tomorrow. I wonder if it will stop raining enough for me to get the bus to town. I know Charles said he’d give me a lift, but I don’t want to ask him.
* * *
At tea time, I look at my phone, and there are two missed calls from the shop.
I look at the number for ages. I wonder why he called. He didn’t leave a message. I’m not calling back. If it’s important, he’ll call again. I’m not interested in talking to him about my P45 or whatever.
I spend the rest of the evening determined not to phone and furious with myself for wanting to.
* * *
On Wednesday, it’s still raining. I wonder what would happen if I just never went to get the car. I’d starve to death eventually. This thought makes me laugh; I can’t imagine I’d be stubborn enough to die of hunger. Okay, I’ll get dressed and go to town.
Walking to the bus stop in a pair of sensible boots is much quicker than trying to do it in heels. I’d been thinking about going home to collect all my winter clothes – and everything else – but now I’m not so sure. Luckily Jenny gave me these wellies, which are surprisingly comfortable, as long as you wear them with two pairs of socks. I wear Uncle Andrews’s fishing jacket, which is just the right size and fantastically waterproof and full of pockets. It’s only drizzling, and I feel okay, striding along the road and splashing through the puddles. It’s cold and grey but so what?
I forgot to check the bus times, so I have to sit in the shelter for nearly half an hour. You can randomly get a connection up here though, so I spend my time on Facebook, catching up with what everyone’s been doing.
In town, I deliberately walk round the back way, coming out by the Co-op, so I don’t have to walk past the shop. I don’t look towards it either; I imagine a section of the Square cut out of existence and behave as if there’s nothing to look at anyway. I toy with the idea of going into the Old Mill but I’m not ready for curiosity or sympathy. I’m pretending to be fine but if Cerys asked me anything I’d get upset, and who can be bothered with that. Instead, I go into the baker’s and buy two custard slices and a loaf of bread, and then I collect my car and drive home, carefully avoiding looking at the shop as I drive past.
I hope he’s as miserable as I am.
It seems unlikely.
I go home and read Sherlock Holmes in the bath until the water gets cold, and then I put my pyjamas back on and make a bacon sandwich for lunch. Then I sit in the corner of the bedroom, which is the only place I can get a signal, and write Xanthe an email.
* * *
On Thursday, I go to the beach, even though it’s still raining. It’s ridiculously wet, but I don’t care. I’m pretty well freezing by the time I get home though, so it’s another afternoon bath for me.
* * *
At half past three, the doorbell rings. I’m surprised – the only time anyone knocks unexpectedly is when something is delivered. I didn’t hear a car, but then I wasn’t paying attention. I’ve been watching Acorn Antiques because I suddenly remembered that comedy existed and might be helpful. I bought the DVD for 50p in the charity shop, months ago, and I’m grateful to past Thea for this foresight.
I pause the laptop and go to answer the door.
It’s Charles, which is unexpected.
‘I thought I’d pop round and see how you were,’ he says.
‘Oh! Hello. I’m sorry, I’m not dressed, isn’t it shocking? Do you want to come in?’ Then I think that sounds rude. ‘I mean, come in, won’t you? Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Thanks. I brought you these,’ he adds, offering me a wrapped flat box, which I anticipate contains chocolates.
‘Oh, how kind, thank you. Come through to the kitchen.’ I’m glad I bothered to wash up this morning, even though I didn’t want to. The kitchen is suitably tidy and doesn’t look too much as though it belongs to someone whose life has collapsed. I put the kettle on, and then open the parcel. My guess about chocolate was correct. Locally made; I’ve driven past the little factory, just outside Dumfries, and they sell them in the farm shop out by Wigtown.
‘I dropped Alexa off at her mother’s this morning,’ says Charles. ‘Drove past the shop.’
Alexa’s his daughter. I’ve seen her from a distance, but never met her. I’ve never seen the other one, Duncan, his son.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. I open the box. ‘Ooh. They do look excellent.’
We sit down to drink our tea and have two chocolates each. Charles asks me how I am, and I tell him I’m fine.
‘You got your car then?’
‘Yeah, went in yesterday.’
‘You should have called me – I’d have taken you.’
I shrug. ‘Hardly got wet at all, it wasn’t a problem.’
We sit in slightly awkward silence.
‘Have you decided what you’re going to do? About work?’
‘God, no. No, I’ve no idea. I should see if I can find something else,’ I say, ‘or maybe I should just go home.’
‘You mean back to Sussex?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Oh. Don’t rush into anything,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’d be able to find something.’
‘Yes, well. We’ll see.’ I clear my throat. I don’t know what to say to him; it’s not like I didn’t see him earlier in the week. I know he wants to ask about Monday, but I’m not going to tell him.
‘You know he’s not worth being upset about,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what happened, but–’
‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Thanks. It’s not important, I’ll be fine, I just need to make a plan. I’d prefer not to have been sacked, but it doesn’t matter. I know it looks bad that I’m sitting here in my PJs, but I’ve been out today and everything. I’ve just been watching films, you know. It’s like being on holiday,’ I lie, ‘so I thought I’d make the best of it.’
‘I saw Jilly at the farm shop, she said–’
‘I’m sure everyone’s deeply fascinated,’ I say. ‘It’s a shame there were customers in.’
He frowns at me. ‘Did something happen last week? Between you and Edward? Is that why he sacked you?’
I sigh. ‘Charles, I don’t want to be rude, you’ve been so kind, and I appreciate that, honestly. But I don’t want to talk to anyone about any of this, least of all you.’
‘Only, you know, he–’
‘Charles.’
He opens his mouth and then shut
s it again.
‘Good.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Well look, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all…’
I finish my tea. ‘Thank you. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.’ I smile at him. ‘If you could sort the weather out, that would be great.’
‘Sadly I can’t do much about that.’ He puts his mug down. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got people coming to dinner.’
‘Are you cooking?’ I can’t imagine he is.
‘No. No, Lynda’s in charge of all that.’
‘Oh, of course. I always forget about Lynda.’
‘I’d be completely buggered without her,’ he says, and stands up. ‘I hope you feel better anyway.’
‘Oh God, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the chocolates.’
In the hallway he hesitates. ‘Look. You mustn’t let him upset you.’
‘Charles.’
Frowning, he says, ‘He’s got no idea about women – he never has had.’
‘Look, it’s none of your business, is it? I told you I didn’t want to be rude, but I also told you I didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘I wish you would though,’ he says.
There’s quite a long pause.
‘You should get going,’ I say, ‘or you’ll be late for your dinner.’ I open the door. ‘Still raining,’ I add, peering out into the gathering gloom.
‘Yes. All right. Please don’t be sad – I don’t like to see you so down.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’m a grown-up,’ I say, but it is quite sweet of him, so I let him kiss my cheek as water drips around us.
‘Have a good evening,’ I say, and wave as he hurries across to his shiny red car.
I’ve barely sat down when there’s a hammering at the door. I’m startled; I live essentially in the middle of nowhere, it’s not like people call round, and now I’ve had two visitors in one day. Or perhaps Charles has forgotten something? I hurry back into the hallway, retying the belt of my dressing gown, and open the door.
To a furious Edward, face like thunder.
Twenty-Two
‘What the hell was he doing here?’ he snarls. I take a step backwards, and he looms at me, dripping raindrops onto the flagstones. He looks at my dressing gown. ‘And why the hell aren’t you dressed?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, ‘you need to get a grip. What’s it to you anyway?’ I step backwards again. ‘And who the hell do you think you are, shouting at me in my own home? You’ve got a bloody nerve.’
‘Why was he here? Are you sleeping with him?’
‘Oh my actual God.’ I grip the top of my head with both hands. ‘I suppose that would make me more appealing, would it?’
I surprise myself, with this. I guess I’m still angry with him. It’s inflammatory though. He basically growls at me and I retreat further.
‘He pretty much asked me if I was sleeping with you as well,’ I add. ‘How about I’m not sleeping with either of you and have no fucking wish to? Jesus. He just came round to see if I was okay.’
‘Why wouldn’t you be okay?’
‘Jesus Christ. I had a bloody awful day on Monday, didn’t I?’
He steps forward again, and I step backwards. I’m not frightened, but he’s quite wet.
‘How does he know that? Did you phone him?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever phoned him. He gave me a lift from the bus stop.’
‘The bus stop? What?’
‘Stop asking me questions!’ I glare at him. ‘I left my car in town.’ I blink rapidly and press my lips together. I’m sick of weeping. I’m not going to cry. I cried for hours yesterday, and I’ve done quite well today, hardly any tears at all. No.
‘You left it in town?’ He’s incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe that? And how come you’re in your dressing gown?’ He jabs a finger towards me.
‘You don’t have to get dressed if you don’t have a job,’ I say. ‘What’s the point of getting dressed? And I don’t care whether you believe me or not. It doesn’t change the facts. I came home on the bus on Monday, and I got very wet walking from the bus stop, and Charles drove past and stopped to pick me up.’
‘Why on earth did you come home on the bus?’ He looks almost as astonished as Charles was. It must be nice to live the sort of life where buses are just like trees or pigeons. They exist, you see them, but they’re just part of the scenery.
‘I was a bit upset,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘I got sacked, and someone was really bloody rude to me. So I ran off.’ I flap my arms, miming someone running pathetically. ‘And cried in a bus stop, and then I forgot I had a car, so I got on a bus and came home. But I had to walk, like, half a kilometre with no shoes on, and your brother kindly stopped and gave me a lift. If you must know.’
‘With no shoes on?’
‘I broke a heel.’ I scowl at him. ‘Weirdly I wasn’t dressed for a hike in the country.’
He’s calmed down a bit. Now he’s just staring at me.
‘So what the hell are you doing here anyway? Lurking in the bushes to see who comes to the house? You’re soaking.’
‘No, I… No.’
‘Great, very helpful. Such a way with words.’
‘No, I… Look, Thea–’
‘Look, Thea,’ I mimic. ‘I don’t want to look. I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t want to talk to you.’ I think of something else. ‘Who’s minding the shop?’
‘I closed early. I wanted to see you,’ he says, crossly. ‘You didn’t answer your phone – I was worried–’
‘How odd that I didn’t want to speak to you. Anyway, what do you care? I thought I was sacked. None of your business, is it?’
‘Thea–’
‘What? Stop saying “Thea”.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ he says. He pushes his hands through his hair. ‘This is all wrong. Look, I’m sorry. I came to apologize–’
I almost laugh. ‘You came to apologize? You’ve been yelling at me since I opened the door.’
He briefly puts his hands over his face, and then looks up at the ceiling. ‘I know. I’m such a… I’m sorry. Can we start again?’
‘Good grief, you’re very stupid. Go and sit down.’ I gesture towards the kitchen. ‘And take your coat off, you’re dripping all over the floor.’
I watch him, arms folded, as he hangs his coat on the hall stand, and then follow him down the passage.
He sits at the splay-legged kitchen table. It seems like a long time since he was last here, when he gave me a lift home that time. We sat in the sitting room, then, so it’s odd to see him here in the neat kitchen with its ice-blue Formica cupboards and speckled worktops, the yellow table with its jolly red vinyl chairs.
The shouting has warmed me up, so I take off my dressing gown and hang it over the back of a chair.
I roll up the sleeves of my old man pyjamas and put the kettle on. Edward watches me gloomily. I get myself a glass of water, make a pot of tea, fetch milk from the fridge. After a moment’s thought, I bring out the box of caramel wafers from the cupboard. I’m not sure why I think he deserves one. I shake the remaining five onto a plate – biscuits on a plate is a thing from my youth, and I like to follow this tradition in honour of aunts and old ladies long dead.
I put the plate on the table in front of him and sit down opposite. ‘Have a biscuit.’
He hesitates, probably thinking it seems wrong to have one after the shouting, but tempted.
‘Go on,’ I say, ‘I know you want one.’ Finally, a smile. I shake my head at him. ‘Okay then,’ I say, ‘so you came to apologize. About something specific, or generally?’
‘Oh God. I suppose it should be generally, shouldn’t it? I mean, for everything.’
I shrug. ‘Off you go then.’ I close my eyes for a moment. ‘I can’t believe you accused me of sleeping with your brother.’
He groans and rests his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t even like your brother. As I keep saying. Alth
ough maybe that’s harsh. I don’t hate him or anything. He was kind to me on Monday. And look, he brought me some chocolates today. They’re fancy.’
He looks at the box but doesn’t rise to it. ‘I know. I was just… I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not like you, you know. I don’t have sex with people for weird convoluted reasons.’ I take a biscuit myself and unwrap it, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m so surprised he’s here, and I can’t imagine what he’s going to say next. I have butterflies, but I’m not exactly nervous.
‘I know. I know. I didn’t know what to think, and it’s easy, isn’t it, to say stupid, horrible things. Easier than saying anything meaningful or true.’
‘Is it? I don’t know, Edward, it seems to me the easiest thing to do is tell the truth or say nothing. I’m not sure why you’d want to hurt people who like you.’ I feel the tears pricking behind my eyes again, and blink rapidly to ward them off.
‘Do you like me?’
‘Well, I did,’ I say. Then I laugh. ‘Why do you think I was so upset? Honestly, you saying we’re not… friends–’ There’s the catch in my voice again. I sip my water and clear my throat. ‘I thought we were. That made me feel stupid.’ I look at him briefly, and then away. ‘I’ve been feeling quite stupid.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I always get this stuff wrong. I never manage to do the right thing, the sensible thing. I always misunderstand or fuck up.’ He looks miserable, and pauses to unwrap his caramel wafer. He folds the wrapper in half lengthways, and then in half again, and again, smoothing the folds with his finger.
I wait.
‘If we’re not friends, it’s my fault,’ he says.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 24