The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘Stressful?’

  ‘Dull, is what I was thinking.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t sound dull,’ I say. ‘It does sound stressful, though. I’d be, er, I might feel weird about meeting people, you’re right. When it’s only been ten minutes.’

  He leans towards me and puts his hand to my face. ‘I don’t really want to spend a week without you though.’

  I laugh. ‘You can do it.’

  ‘I suppose so, grudgingly. But I don’t think I can cancel, really.’

  ‘You shouldn’t anyway, even if you could. I’m not sure I should be the reason you change your plans.’

  He looks at me for a long moment. ‘If anyone would be, it’s you.’

  I’m flustered, again. ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘But I should probably go.’

  * * *

  He’s hired a car because the Land Rover is old and noisy and not ideal for seven hours plus of motorway driving. It’s half past six, Friday morning, and we’re standing on the pavement outside the shop. He looks strangely more like Charles today; I think it’s the car, actually, an unnecessarily large, clean grey Volvo; and also he’s dressed more smartly than usual. He’s selling things, too; there’s a large box of carefully wrapped books in the boot, along with his suitcase.

  It’s cold, and the sun won’t rise for another hour. Even though I’m not travelling myself, I slept badly and have an unsettled feeling.

  ‘Right,’ he says, ‘better get going. I’ll call when I get there.’ He hesitates. ‘Will you stay here? Sleep at the flat?’

  ‘What, tonight? I should think so. Hadn’t really thought about it. Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Speak to you later.’

  We hug, awkwardly, and kiss, hoping (at least I am) none of the neighbours are unexpectedly looking out of their windows. No one knows yet that we’re doing this. Not that it’s a secret. But I’m being discreet about it until I’m used to the idea myself.

  ‘I love you, Thea,’ he says, serious. ‘Please take care.’

  ‘Oh God, and you. Drive carefully, won’t you? Don’t try to drive the length of the country in one go or anything. Look out for other drivers – they’re not to be trusted.’

  He laughs. ‘I promise to be careful.’ We kiss again.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say, ‘it’s freezing out here.’ I touch my finger to his nose. ‘See you soon.’

  And then he’s folding himself into the car, pulling away, looking back to wave. I wave too, vigorously, until he turns the corner and is gone.

  I feel very odd, and go back into the shop, locking the door behind me. I’m used to working by myself, of course; he’s frequently away. It’s not that. I’m not sure what it is. My day is confused, though, because I’m up so early and I’ve already had my breakfast. And it’s cold down here in the gloom, amongst the books. I’m not sure what to do with myself.

  * * *

  It’s very quiet in the shop. The weather is grim – icy rain – and we only have three customers all day. However, there are parcels to post from online sales, and I go to the post office at lunchtime. There are rumours they’re going to close the post office, which would be very inconvenient. If I have to go into Newton Stewart, it will be tiresome. I pop in to see Jilly and Cerys, and then go back to the shop.

  I sit in Edward’s green chair (such luxury!) and read my book as the rain blatters against the windows. The wind’s getting up, too. I wonder what I might have for tea and I also wonder why I feel so peculiar. He’s not even been gone twelve hours; it can’t be that. It had better not be – it’s dangerous to become too attached to people. I think about Paul McCartney. He and Linda never spent a night apart during their marriage. Did that make it easier, I wonder, when she died, or much harder? No one could tell you, could they? I always think it must be worse. I shiver and look at the clock. I had a text at two, saying he’d arrived safely, so at least I can stop imagining car accidents. It’s nearly six now, so I may as well close the shop and go upstairs.

  * * *

  ‘Hey,’ says Edward.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Oh, very quiet. How was the drive?’

  ‘Surprisingly okay, at least until I got to Luton. Traffic was bad from there, but I can’t complain really.’

  ‘How are your friends?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re good. Toby – their son – is enormous, I haven’t seen him for ages. Six foot two.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Not as tall as you though.’

  ‘Ha, no, I think he was annoyed. He’s taller than his dad.’

  I laugh. ‘So what are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m going to see Geoff Whitley, see if I can sell him the Ovid.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you said. Confident?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I laugh again. ‘Good.’

  ‘Has HH had her tea?’

  ‘Yes. She’s sitting at the other end of the sofa,’ I say, turning to look at her.

  ‘Not deigned to sit on your lap?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  We talk briefly about the weather, what I had for my tea and other fascinating subjects. I think this is the first time we’ve had a meandering, pointless chat on the phone. Several times I almost panic, wondering what to say next. It’s fine, of course. Eventually, he says, ‘I’d better go, we’re going out for dinner.’

  ‘Celebrating your arrival?’

  ‘Ha, yeah, I don’t think it’s that, more that Trix has been at work all day. Anyway, I’ll call you tomorrow. Are you going to stay at mine?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll see how it is tonight.’

  ‘Okay. Well. Goodnight then. I might text you when I get back.’

  ‘I might be asleep,’ I warn him.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  * * *

  It’s very odd being alone in Edward’s bed. It’s very large without him. I mean, it’s comfortable, and I’ve put the electric radiator on a timer so it’s cosy enough for Holly Hunter to have ventured in and curled up in the far corner with her back to me. But it feels almost as though I’m here illicitly. I read my book and find my mind slipping away from the words, so several times I have to go back a page and read the same section again. It’s a long time before I feel sleepy enough to turn out the light, and then the wind and rain keep me awake for a while.

  * * *

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, or what wakes me, but the red numbers on the alarm clock tell me it’s half past two. Unlike my bedroom at the Lodge, it’s never properly dark here; the curtains are unlined, and there’s a streetlight near enough to push a narrow silver line across the wall. Being in town it’s noisier too; although Baldochrie is hardly a bustling metropolis, earlier I could hear music from the pub, and people talking as they walked home, the occasional car. At the Lodge all you can hear is the weather, the wind in the trees, sometimes an owl or the terrifying scream of a fox. I might need to put up a blackout blind, although I haven’t had any trouble sleeping here before, so perhaps it’s not the noise and light that bother me. I realize I’m straining to listen, although I don’t know what for. I’m definitely uncomfortable though, and the rest of the night is broken sleep and strange dreams.

  * * *

  Edward has remembered FaceTime exists. Luckily, I now have broadband at the Lodge.

  ‘Where are you?’ He frowns, peering at me.

  ‘Oh, I’m at home. I didn’t sleep very well last night, I thought maybe I should–’

  ‘Were you cold?’

  ‘No, no. It just felt a bit weird.’

  ‘Weird? Weird how?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think – it felt strange without you.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well either. I miss you.’

  ‘You’re busy though,’ I say, turning this aside, uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes, but I wish you were here too. You’d like Geoff. And eve
ryone.’

  ‘Have you told them about me?’ The thought of this makes me oddly panicky. What’s wrong with me?

  ‘Well, not Geoff, I doubt he’d care. But I told Trix and Alan. They were, as you can imagine, delighted.’

  ‘Oh, well–’

  ‘Shocked and astounded also,’ he says.

  I’m trying not to look at the very unflattering image of myself in the corner of the screen. Edward looks unusual too from this angle, mostly chin. ‘Shocked?’

  ‘Well, they’d more or less given me up to a lonely death.’

  ‘Oh, really, come on.’

  ‘What?’ He grins at me. ‘You know it’s true. I think I expounded on your virtues for an hour at least.’

  ‘That must have been a thrill for them.’

  ‘They seemed quite interested, asked a million questions.’ He yawns. ‘Oh, excuse me. God I’m knackered.’

  ‘Hopefully you’ll sleep better tonight. Are you going out again?’

  ‘No, we’re making pizza.’

  * * *

  I sleep better the next night but I’m still awake very early. Something’s nagging at me, and I’m not sure what it is. I feel tense, somehow, a knot of something in my belly. A vague pre-exam-like feeling. I lie in bed thinking about how, sometimes, it would be useful to be able to turn your brain off. I don’t need to think about everything that’s spinning through my head. When should I go home to collect my things? Should I even do that? Should I buy a flat down there? What should I do with my things once they’re up here, if I fetch them? Should I rent the Lodge or continue to live here, even if I decide to spend more time at Edward’s? He wants me to live there – or at least, he said he wanted me to live there, last week. He’s mentioned it several times. He might change his mind though. And I’ve grown accustomed to living by myself. I like living at the Lodge. I like the garden full of birds, the possibilities of the vegetable patch, the fruit cage.

  I realize I could grow veg here even if I lived somewhere else. Or I could grow veg at Edward’s – his garden is big enough. I try to imagine my belongings at his house but can’t quite. It seems perfectly well supplied with furniture. He’s not lacking anything I could bring with me, although I suppose my pictures would fit in, and my pots and bowls and vintage odds and ends. And my books, ha ha, there might be room for them somewhere. My kitchen stuff could all live at the Lodge, couldn’t it? I’m not massively attached to any of it. I could have one of the spare bedrooms at the flat for my sewing things, perhaps. I’m not sure I can imagine a life there though. Can I? Actually I can, of course, I like the flat very much, the size of the rooms, the elegance of the space, and Edward doesn’t own anything I’d discard, given the choice. He has good taste and has always had the money to buy nice things.

  * * *

  I talk to Xanthe. She wants to know how it’s going, and I tell her he’s away, and that I feel weird.

  ‘Weird how?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel anxious.’

  ‘Anxious? What do you think is going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing. I’m not sure. I just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I… I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, this isn’t really getting us anywhere, is it? And I don’t know him, so I can’t really help you. It’s very early days, isn’t it? And unexpected, and you’ve only had one partner for, like, twenty years. I guess he’s quite different to Chris.’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, he is. But Chris isn’t the only boyfriend I’ve ever had, is he? I don’t think it’s that. Maybe it’s…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think there are some things I need to speak to him about. And if he was here, I could, but he’s not, so my stupid brain is causing me trouble. Then there’s this whole thing with his brother,’ I say. ‘I mean I can understand why they fell out – it’s hard to imagine how they wouldn’t have. I get why they hate each other. But how will that work? Charles has always been perfectly nice to me; I’m not going to suddenly stop speaking to him. But that might be really awkward.’

  There’s a long pause, while she considers this. ‘I suppose so. Can’t you get them to sort it out?’

  ‘I don’t know. And is it even any of my business?’

  Again, a pause as she thinks about it. ‘Sort of?’

  ‘Yeah. Is that good enough? I don’t want to meddle.’

  ‘I think you’re worrying about things that might not ever be problems?’

  I have to laugh at this. ‘But that would be so out of character!’

  She laughs too. ‘Wouldn’t it. But this stuff you’re worrying over about Edward–’

  I don’t really want to discuss this with anyone other than Edward – it seems unfair. I change the subject. When the conversation is over, though, I’m thinking about it again. I’m thinking about how different my view of relationships is to Edward’s. He’s had no practice, and he’s been involved in a number of… situations that I would never even contemplate. I know he said this thing we’re doing is permanent and monogamous, but how does he know that? His last relationship was with a married woman – and as far as I can tell, he didn’t even remotely care about the circumstances of that. I know he said Lara’s husband didn’t care either, and I believe him, because why would he lie? But that’s not normal, is it? Or is it? Whenever I’ve said things about posh people and their morals or lack of, he’s never disagreed with me. In fact, I know he sort of thinks people only have morals when it comes to the behaviour of others, and they’ll always be able to reconfigure them when considering their own behaviour. I don’t think that’s true though. Or anyway, it’s not true for me. I’ve never cheated on anyone and I never would, and by that I’d include sleeping with someone who was married, even if I myself were single.

  I think about this for ages, and then I remember that when I was first at university, my sixth-form boyfriend Pete slept with a girl on his course and although I forgave him – or said I had – I felt it had somewhat loosened the agreement between us. That Christmas I got off with – but did not even remotely have sex with, although I certainly thought about it – the flatmate of one of my friends. So my morals aren’t exactly perfect. Of course, that was at the end of something – Pete and I should have been brave enough to split up before we went to college at opposite ends of the country because, as I said to Rory many months ago, it was all entirely predictable that we should split up before our third Valentine’s Day. You can’t expect much different really; teenagers exposed to loads of fresh new opportunities, arriving at uni without any baggage from home. And I was an absolute goddess at university (I laugh to myself at this thought) so I had plenty of… options.

  None of this helps.

  * * *

  I spend the week at work feeling out of kilter and awkward. It continues to be very quiet at the shop, and the only interesting thing that happens is when the people from the Chamber of Commerce come to speak to me – well, they came to speak to Edward really, but obviously he’s not here – about the Christmas Victorian Shopping Festival. Unsurprisingly, Mr Maltravers has never engaged in this particular bit of local branding, which is due to happen in the week before Jenny and Alastair’s wedding, but I’m well up for it and agree at once. I plan the Christmas window display to accompany this event with what can only be described as glee, and I scroll through hundreds of top hats from eBay before it occurs to me that maybe – just maybe – Edward might own one. He seems the type, frankly. He’ll have been to a dozen weddings where a silk hat was required, surely. I’m not going to be crinolined, I’m going to drag up. I’m already very excited about fake mutton chop sideburns and an embroidered waistcoat.

  I text him.

  Have you got a top hat by any chance?

  Er, yes, I think so – why?

  Just wondered. Where is it?

  If it’s at the flat, it’ll be in the cupboard in the green spare bedroom. In a box.

  Cool, thanks. I mean, is it all right if I look for
it and get it out?

  Of course, help yourself. But what on earth for?

  Victorian Shopping Fest.

  Oh Jesus Christ no.

  :D :D It’s OK, you don’t have to do it.

  I’m not going to.

  No, I didn’t think you would. :D

  * * *

  You see, it’s fine. I speak to him, it’s fine; we FaceTime and I look at him and think, Yes, this is a real thing that’s working, it’s fine. I’ll talk to him when he gets back and… and then I feel sick and nervous and unsure. I don’t want to, but I know I can’t be with someone who would happily cheat.

  * * *

  Friday morning, and he’s home. He drove through the night despite the weather being awful. At 6.30, he’s banging at the front door, to my surprise and astonishment, brandishing a lovely-looking bunch of flowers.

  I peer blearily at him, and open the door wider. ‘Those aren’t from an M&S at the services. Fancy London flowers?’

  ‘Of course. Hello.’

  ‘You should have phoned; I’d have got up.’

  ‘You are up.’ He grins, enfolding me in a bear hug. ‘Anyway, I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘I am surprised. I thought you wouldn’t be back until this evening.’

  ‘Yeah, seemed pointless going to bed, so I didn’t. God, I’ve missed you,’ he says, his face in my hair.

  ‘You smell of the city,’ I say, nose pressed against his shirt.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, I assume you do.’ He seems very solid and real, standing in my hallway, and I wonder exactly how I’ve managed to create another version of him in my head. Is that what I’ve done?

  He kisses me and I immediately feel less tense and more…

  ‘Oh God, Thea,’ he says. ‘Darling Thea.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, ‘calm down. Are you hungry?’