The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘Famished.’

  I fiddle with the thermostat and turn up the heating. It begins to clank and thump. I think I should probably get a new boiler, but the rule with boilers is to wait until it’s Christmas Eve or another equally annoying day before they go wrong enough to replace, and then live with no hot water for four weeks.

  ‘Did you stop on the way?’

  ‘Had a coffee at Tebay.’ He yawns, stretching, and follows me into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, distracted, ‘are they open all night?’

  ‘A bit of it is. No scones or artisan bread though, sorry.’

  ‘Well, come and have some breakfast. What do you want? Porridge? Bacon and eggs?’

  ‘Is there bacon?’

  ‘There is. Also tomatoes, if you like?’

  I put the kettle on, and he takes off his jacket and subsides onto a chair.

  ‘God, it’s nice to be back,’ he says.

  ‘But you had a successful trip?’

  ‘Oh yes, very successful. I’ve spent money but also made money.’

  ‘Hurrah.’ I cut three tomatoes in half and put them under the grill, break eggs into a glass.

  ‘Are you having some?’

  ‘It’s a bit early, but I’m up now. So yes.’ I make two mugs of coffee and place his before him. He slowly stirs a spoonful of sugar into it and closes his eyes. ‘I’m quite tired,’ he says.

  ‘I should think so. Are you going to go home to bed?

  ‘Got to drop off the hire car’ – he yawns again – ‘and pick up the Land Rover.’

  ‘Yes, and then?’

  ‘Might have a lie down. We don’t need to open, do we?’

  ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel.’

  ‘I can run the shop without you – I’ve been doing it all week.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll be needed upstairs,’ he says, blinking at me.

  I laugh. ‘Oh right. Stocktake?’

  ‘Don’t do that until January,’ he says, pretending to take me seriously, ‘you know, after the Christmas rush.’

  ‘Expecting a Christmas rush?’

  ‘It’s usually pretty busy.’

  ‘Even though you don’t do the Victorian Shopping?’

  ‘I’m open,’ he says, ‘just not dressed up.’

  ‘Boo. I think you’d look good as a Dickensian shopkeeper.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous thing.’

  ‘Chamber of Commerce seem to think it’s very successful.’ I turn the tomatoes round and lay four slices of bacon in the frying pan. ‘Toast?’

  ‘Oh, yes please. I’ll do it.’ He gets up and unswathes the bread before cutting four slices. He drops them into the toaster. ‘They would say that, though, wouldn’t they.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ I say, ‘I’m going to dress up. Your top hat fits me perfectly.’

  ‘Are you going in drag?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Hot,’ he says, which makes me laugh.

  ‘I’m planning impressive facial hair,’ I say.

  ‘Even hotter. Mutton chops, or a moustache you can twirl?’

  ‘Oh, actually that sounds appealing. I was going for sidies, but who wouldn’t want a twirly moustache?’

  I pour the eggs into the pan, and he takes plates from the cupboard.

  ‘I know two weeks is hardly long enough to get into a domestic routine,’ he says, fetching the butter from the top of the fridge, ‘but one of the things I’ve missed is messing about with you in the kitchen.’

  I turn to look at him as the toaster pops. He jostles the toast onto a plate and begins buttering it. He catches my eye and winks at me.

  My stomach tenses again. This is all very well, isn’t it, but I’m supposed to be talking to him about stuff. Admittedly, I wasn’t anticipating his arrival before 7am. We should at least eat our breakfast. There must be something in my face, though, because he says, ‘Okay?’

  ‘Mm, yes, do you want brown sauce?’

  ‘No. Are you sure? You look…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, tense?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I turn the bacon over again, and plate it up with the tomatoes and eggs, bringing the plates to the table. I extract cutlery from the drawer and we both sit down to eat.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Eat your food,’ I say, and crunch though half a slice of toast.

  * * *

  I’m washed and dressed and driving behind Edward on the way to the shop. He has to go via the car hire place, so I get there before him and open up. I didn’t say anything to him while we ate breakfast, or afterwards for that matter. I don’t know if I’m putting it off or if it’s just more sensible to wait until he’s rested. I wouldn’t want someone landing a big serious conversation on me when I’d been up all night.

  I hear the Land Rover outside and notice, with some cynicism, that just the noise of the engine of his car makes me smile.

  ‘Hey hey,’ he says, pushing the door open and putting his suitcase down by the counter. He turns and goes back outside, returning with two boxes and a carrier bag.

  ‘What did you get, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Got this for you–’

  ‘Oh, Edward, really?’

  ‘Yes, and isn’t it a thrill to know it won’t have to live in the safe for three months like a certain set of napkin rings?’ He hands me a slender parcel, almost as long as my forearm.

  ‘Is it a spoon?’

  ‘You’d better open it.’

  I sigh and carefully unfasten the tape, before unrolling the brown paper. Inside is a ladle, rather beautiful. Initialled on the handle with a very curly E & A. ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I know it’s a bit… soppy,’ he says. ‘But isn’t it handsome?’

  ‘It is, very. Is this older?’

  ‘Eighteenth century, 1750? Or something like that.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘To share,’ says Edward, and my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Ah. Um… look…’

  ‘Thea?’

  ‘There’s some stuff in my brain,’ I say.

  He looks at me, cautious. ‘Stuff?’

  ‘Yes, look, this is where I might say I’m fine,’ I tell him, ‘but not really fine?’

  ‘Please don’t say you’re fine if you’re not. What is it?’

  ‘It’s nearly ten,’ I say, ‘we should–’

  ‘We don’t need to open the shop. What’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re tired–’

  ‘Not so tired I can’t be reasonable. Please, tell me what’s wrong?’ He goes to the door and locks it. ‘Let’s go and sit down,’ he says, gently, and I follow him slowly through to Plays and Poetry, where he turns on the lamps and sits down on the smaller sofa.

  I perch beside him and try to collect myself.

  ‘So. Tell me about the stuff in your brain.’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s really there? At least… this week I’ve been… because you weren’t here,’ I say in a rush, ‘I don’t know what I’ve done; it’s like I couldn’t remember how you were. Now I see you, I see how you are. I think.’

  He looks concerned. ‘Okay? And is that bad?’

  I laugh. ‘No. I don’t think so. Okay, look, I’ll just say it. Are you the Susanna? In other people’s lives? Do you… I’m not sure if I can… The thing is, what happened with Chris and Susanna hurt me terribly. And I don’t think she meant it to. She didn’t think about me at all. But you meant to hurt Charles, didn’t you, when you and Carolyn… And I don’t know if–’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘This is about what kind of arsehole I am.’

  I can’t tell if he’s annoyed. ‘No, it–’

  He waves a hand, dismissive. ‘Yes, it is. I don’t mind. You wonder if it’s worse, that I did what I did without caring. At least Susanna cares. She wanted your husband, and she loves him, and she might not have cared about you, but
she does care about him, or so we assume. But I hurt two people and broke up their marriage and I didn’t even like Carolyn. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  I nod, quite impressed that he should sum this up so effectively without prompting. ‘Well, I know you said Lara’s husband–’

  ‘Oh God, no, he doesn’t give a shit. Let’s not worry about him. But you think I might feel that infidelity is… acceptable.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I do think that,’ I say. ‘But it has been worrying me.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t though.’ He clears his throat. ‘If I’d been in love with Carolyn, um, I might not have done it. Is that worse? It might be. But it wasn’t about her, it was about Charles. I’m not making excuses. You know I’ve barely had anything you could call a normal relationship. Some of those people–’

  ‘Charles’s exes.’

  ‘Charles’s exes, yes. Some of them I saw for a while. I never cheated on any of them though. I’ve never slept with someone else if anyone’s ever thought I was only sleeping with them.’ He frowns at this rather convoluted sentence.

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Corinne–’

  ‘I must take you to meet Corinne,’ he says. ‘I think you’d get on. But Lara didn’t expect me to be… She didn’t think I was hers, you know, or anything. It would have been hypocritical, after all. I mean, I’m not saying Lara is particularly thoughtful about moral equivalency or anything’ – he pulls a face – ‘but it’s not like she doesn’t have sex with her husband. If she wanted me to herself, she certainly never said so. I wouldn’t think it was acceptable, Thea, is what I’m trying to say. I would never sleep with anyone else. I would never be unfaithful.’

  ‘That’s what Chris said though. Saying you wouldn’t is meaningless. I mean, you might mean it this second, but–’

  ‘Would you cheat? Not on me, on anyone?’

  ‘No, I…’ I pause, trying to be honest. ‘I’d like to think I wouldn’t.’

  ‘But you can’t know that either, can you?’ We look at one another, solemn. ‘I can only tell you how I feel, and promise you that I’ll never let any of your friends persuade me that I ought to fuck them.’

  I laugh at this. ‘I don’t think I believe in promises anymore.’

  He pulls at his lower lip, thinking. ‘I don’t want to be put in a position where I can’t tell you anything – where I can’t tell you the truth about how I feel. Or make you believe me. Because I know you think I’m… Well, I don’t know exactly what you think. But you think I might do something awful because I’ve done awful things before?’

  I bite my lip, hard, to stop myself crying.

  He sits back. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever done anything awful except to Charles, or not really. I’ve been absent and uncommitted and lazy with women – but only because I’ve never met anyone I really wanted to be with. And you know that’s because I didn’t try to meet anyone. I know it’s pathetic, and I should probably have had loads of therapy a long time ago. But then again, if I had, I’d be married now, I expect, and probably quite content. Because I think I might have an enormous, untapped capacity for contentment.’ He laughs. ‘If you’d told me a year ago I’d be saying that, I’d have thought you were mad. But it’s true.’

  ‘I’m not special though,’ I say. ‘Why is it different?’

  ‘You’re special to me. I know what you mean. Probably you’re just like loads of people, not unusual. But I think you’re great. I can’t imagine getting bored with this, with you. I love working with you. I love you. I’ve missed you so much this week. It’s unreasonable. I’ve fallen hard.’

  ‘You have, and that worries me too.’

  ‘I think perhaps you shouldn’t worry. You’re right when you say no one knows what will happen next, that we can’t predict anything, and you’re probably right about promises. But here we both are. I lay my heart at your feet.’

  I frown at him, troubled by this.

  ‘You needn’t pick it up if you don’t want to,’ he says, serious. ‘If you don’t think you can believe me–’

  ‘It’s not that. I do believe you.’

  ‘You do?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

  Twenty-Five

  We’ve been together nearly a month before I tell anyone other than Xanthe. I come out of the shop after hours, off to the Co-op for milk, when I bump into Alastair walking the dogs. It’s about half past seven, and cold, an icy fog making the high street look mysterious. The moisture in the air runs down the windows and drips around us.

  ‘Got you working late tonight,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, er, not really.’

  ‘Not really?’

  It’s lucky it’s dark; I’m hoping he can’t see me blushing in the orange light from the streetlights.

  ‘No, I–’

  ‘Thought I saw you yesterday, as well,’ he says. ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ I say, ‘I guess it’s not a secret.’

  He grins at me. ‘Jenny was right then.’

  ‘Why, what did she say?’

  ‘I won’t tell you exactly what she said. But she implied that you and Edward had, er, grown closer.’

  I snort. ‘Oh, did she?’

  ‘She did. So. You know I’m not Edward’s biggest fan…’

  I sigh. ‘No one is, are they? Well. Me, I suppose. I am.’ I shuffle, embarrassed.

  He laughs. ‘But if you like him, good for you. He was in a fantastic mood when I saw him on Saturday – I suppose this explains it.’

  I’m even more embarrassed. ‘Was he?’

  ‘Like the morning after a bad storm, all sunshine and clean pavements. Make sure he treats you kindly.’

  ‘He always has done, so far. You know I don’t mind the way he is.’

  ‘No, Jenny said it doesn’t seem to bother you.’ He shakes his head. ‘Very odd. But good for everyone, if he’s more cheerful. So bring him on Wednesday.’

  ‘Are you sure? I didn’t want to ask. I know you don’t like him.’

  ‘I expect I’ll like him better now. So bring him. Jilly and Cerys are coming too.’

  ‘Okay,’ I nod. ‘I’ll ask him. I don’t know what he thinks about dinner at other people’s houses.’

  In the Co-op, buying milk and looking at the sad remains of the bakery shelf to see if there might be a cake, I try to imagine having dinner at Alastair and Jenny’s with Edward. A perfectly normal thing to do, just as though we were a perfectly normal couple, which I suppose we are.

  * * *

  Jenny says, ‘Are you bringing Edward, then, tomorrow?’

  I nod. ‘He was thrilled to be asked,’ I say, and we both laugh because it’s patently untrue.

  ‘You really do like him then?’ she says, curious.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Better than Charles?’

  ‘Oh God, yes. I don’t like Charles. Well, that’s unfair, he’s okay.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘He’s always been perfectly nice to me. But I like Edward a lot more. Yes.’

  ‘It seems odd to me. But it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Sadly, there’s only one Alastair,’ I tease her, ‘and he’s already spoken for.’

  ‘Oh aye, well. Sorry about that.’ She hesitates. ‘He’s kind to you, though, is he?’

  ‘Of course.’ I’m surprised. ‘I wouldn’t bother otherwise. I mean…’ I pause, unsure of how far to go into this. I like Jenny, she’s probably my best friend here. ‘Chris was kind to me, before he left. I’m not interested in people who are unpleasant.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be offended. I didn’t mean that you were. Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I know it doesn’t seem like that long, since Chris and I split up, and–’

  ‘It was a good while before you came up here though, wasn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘January.’

  ‘That’s nearly a year. Even after a very long relationship, I don’t think you’re, you know, on th
e rebound. Anyway, you seem quite sensible.’

  ‘I am, usually,’ I agree.

  She looks at me, thoughtful. ‘Do you think you’re not being sensible about Edward?’

  ‘I think I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone. So it was unexpected. And he’s…’ I’m not sure what to say, unwilling to expose him too much to the curiosity of his neighbours. ‘He’s very… keen.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘He told Cerys he’d never really been in love before.’

  ‘Oh my God. Did he?’ I’m both horrified and delighted by this.

  ‘Yeah. So. I guess that’s quite impressive.’

  ‘Well, I have been in love before. More than once. But I like him a lot.’

  * * *

  ‘Hello, love, how are you?’ My mother peers at me from the computer screen. ‘Still in Scotland?’

  I usually Skype from the shop because I got into the habit before there was broadband at the Lodge. I’m upstairs today though, in Edward’s sitting room.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s the weather?’

  I glance out of the window at the grey sky. ‘Wintery.’

  ‘Wet?’

  ‘Not today. Or at least not at the moment.’

  ‘It’s cold here,’ she says, ‘I was surprised.’ They’re in Wyoming now, staying with one of her old school friends, who emigrated to the States before I was born. They’re having a marvellous time despite the cold: everyone’s friendly, the scenery amazing, mountains and forest and actual buffalo. Snow. Horses and barns and so on. It does sound fabulous.

  ‘So where are you? That doesn’t look like the shop,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, no, this is upstairs, in the flat. Look.’ I pick up my laptop and turn it so she gets a view of the room. ‘Isn’t it lovely? And quite warm, despite the windows. Because of the fire.’

  ‘Above the shop? Whose flat is that, then? The owner’s?’

  ‘Yes. Edward.’ I clear my throat. I should tell her, shouldn’t I? It’s not like it’s a secret.

  ‘On a Sunday? Are you working?’

  ‘No, I stayed here. Last night.’

  She’s peering at me again. ‘Oh,’ she says. I can see her wondering whether she should ask me about this; I’m famously secretive, or at least, non-forthcoming.