‘Yes,’ I say, feeling sorry for her. ‘Edward and I… I suppose we’re seeing each other.’
She’s searching my face, difficult at this distance.
From the doorway, Edward says, ‘You suppose? That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘It feels weird saying it,’ I explain. I turn back to my mum. ‘He’s here, would you like to say hello?’
‘Of course! Yes! Let me get Dad–’
‘Oh no, no need to–’
I can hear her shouting, though, and then my dad appears, looking confused.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I ask Edward. ‘I know meeting people’s parents is the worst thing.’
‘No, because I’m keener about this than you are,’ he says, ‘and would be happy to tell any stranger that you’re my lover or even girlfriend.’
‘Don’t say “lover” to my parents, you freak.’
He laughs at me and comes to sit down.
‘Er, hello, Dad, how are you?’
‘Good, thanks, Thea. Now, what’s going on? I can’t understand what your mother’s on about.’
‘I just wanted you to meet someone.’ My parents are squashed together, staring at their screen. ‘This is Edward… he owns the shop. Where I work?’
‘Oh yes, the bookshop.’ Dad nods, adjusting his specs. ‘Nice to meet you, Edward.’
‘Hello, Mr Hamilton. And Mrs Hamilton.’
My mother’s beaming at him. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m Carol. And this is Roy.’ She nudges my dad, who seems confused.
I clear my throat. ‘Dad, Edward and I are–’
‘Engaged,’ he interrupts, and I put my hand over my eyes.
‘Not engaged,’ I say, ‘that would be madness. But we are–’
‘Going out,’ Edward interrupts again. He’s grinning at my mum, who looks delighted.
‘Seeing each other, yes.’
‘Well, that’s lovely,’ says Mum. ‘I’m pleased for you both.’
‘We’re absolutely not engaged though,’ I say, ‘I’d just like to make that clear.’
‘Yet,’ says Edward, and yelps as I pinch him.
‘No need to rush things,’ says Mum, smiling happily at me. ‘Just be kind to each other.’
‘That’s the plan,’ says Edward.
‘So you’ve known each other a while,’ says Mum.
‘Yes, since I first arrived, more or less. Of course I wasn’t in any fit state to–’
‘No, well, things have been difficult, haven’t they? I’m glad you’ve met someone. I’ve been worried about you, up there by yourself, not knowing anyone.’
‘I do know some other people,’ I object. ‘I’ve got friends up here now.’
‘I know. But all the same. It’s good to have someone special.’
Edward squeezes my hand. ‘It is,’ he agrees. ‘Good to meet you both. Hopefully we’ll meet in person one day. I’ll leave you to it.’ He pats my leg, and gets up.
‘Only say nice things about me,’ he says in a stage whisper, and I roll my eyes at him.
‘Idiot. How am I going to be able to do that?’
He laughs, leaving the room. I turn back to the screen.
‘So have you been seeing each other long?’ My mum’s excited. ‘You’ve hardly mentioned him.’
‘Yeah, no. A couple of weeks.’
‘And that’s okay? Working together?’
‘It is so far, yes. He’s quite easy-going. Er…’
‘I thought you said he was grumpy?’
‘Oh, yeah. He is. I don’t mind that, though. He just does it to stop the customers bothering him. I’m much better with the punters than he is.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ my dad says. ‘Never had you down for customer service.’
‘I know, but we don’t get crowds and crowds. It’s not like when I worked in HMV. Anyway, we get on well, so far.’
I don’t like to tempt fate, so I’m cautious when I talk about it. I don’t want to jinx it. I want it to be fun for as long as possible.
* * *
Introducing him to my folks reminded me that I’d wondered about the semi-bohemian sixties life of his parents, so I look them up. They’re almost famous, after all, hovering on the periphery of Swinging London. There are newspaper photographs. His mother getting into a car outside a nightclub, all beehive and false eyelashes. His dad with Brian Jones and Paul McCartney, about 1965, raffishly handsome, his arm round an unseen someone. A set of pictures from a shoot, ‘Mayfair’s brightest slumming it’, sitting on the steps of one of those dilapidated Georgian houses, pre-gentrification, Notting Hill or somewhere; empty milk bottles, peeling paint, his mother all kohl eyes and kaftan, his dad in paisley. Another picture of his mother, earlier on, perhaps late fifties, standing behind Princess Margaret, the flash making her dress blankly white.
They make me slightly uncomfortable, those pictures, a reminder that if things were different, and not much different, he’d be someone else entirely. That fifty years ago our relationship would have been impractical, and eighty years ago impossible, more or less. I know he’s not a duke or anything but even so. We’d never have met, would we, unless I was a servant, or perhaps the wife of an employee. I don’t want to meet his mother, elegant and well preserved. I’m certainly not one of the lovely girls she finds at dinner parties and wants to introduce him to.
Twenty-Six
It’s January. I’m not sure how – the last two months have whizzed past in a rush of cold beach walks and poetry and love. I’m all aglow with the pleasure of it.
Finally – at last – I’m shifting Local History to the front of the shop. Sing hallelujah. I can’t help feeling it’s some kind of prize for good behaviour, but when I say this Edward laughs and says, ‘More like bad behaviour.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Pretty sure you know exactly what I mean.’
I look at him, hands on hips. ‘I shall pretend I have literally no idea,’ I say, disapprovingly, and he laughs again.
‘No, you’ve persuaded me,’ he says. ‘You’re probably right. I can’t think of anything you’ve ever been wrong about.’
‘Calm down,’ I tell him. ‘Won’t your brain fuse if you’re too pleasant?’
He looks at me for ages, then shakes his head. ‘Why on earth did I not meet you years ago? Why didn’t you do your degree in Edinburgh?’
‘I didn’t want to do a four-year degree,’ I say, seriously. ‘I did look at the course.’
‘Oh God. Just think.’
‘Yes, you’d have looked down your nose at me, I imagine, from the dizzying heights of your final year, and I’d have thought you were a twat, and we might potentially have had sex and never spoken again,’ I say. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Nonsense.’
‘You’d have missed out on all those girlfriends of Charles’s, quelle horreur.’
‘Can’t think of a single one I wouldn’t swap for the opportunity of having known you for twenty-five years.’
I’ll never get tired of hearing him say things like this, but I like to pretend to be unaffected by it. ‘You’d have messed it up, I expect; you don’t sound like you were the most emotionally intelligent young man ever to grace the streets of Edinburgh.’
He snorts. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Anyway, are you going to help me with this?’
He looks at the shelves. I’ve already put Local History (all eight feet of it) into boxes and shifted those boxes to the front of the shop. I’ve put Children’s Collectable and Military and Art History where the Local History used to be. I’ve shifted Contemporary Scottish Fiction to where the children’s books were, Military History to where that was, and now I have to move Cookery/Craft/Gardening from the front of the shop, and put Local History in there. I’m a bit dusty, and to be honest, knackered. I probably should have done all this when the shop was shut, but meh.
‘I suppose I could take them out of the boxes for you,’ he says. ‘Shall I put
the kettle on first?’
‘Oh, I’ll do that. Tea?’
‘Yes please.’
It’s quiet, has been all day – unsurprisingly, since it’s a Wednesday in January. The lamps are lit and outside it’s raining in a relentless sort of fashion. I go out to the kitchenette and put the kettle on. It’s gloomy in there behind the curtain; the window is narrow and looks out (not that you can see through the frosted glass) on an equally narrow piece of outside space that’s overshadowed by the wall and the building. To get to it you have to go behind the workshop and shuffle. There’s nothing much down there: some random flowerpots, an old gate. Despite this lack of view, and the icy rain, I’m happy. I’m happy every day at the moment and keen to note it. The comparison to this time last year – yesterday was the anniversary of discovering exactly what Chris had been up to – is almost unfathomable.
I wake up in Edward’s bed and he brings me coffee and says nice things to me and we look at our phones as is the modern way and then we have breakfast and go to work. I am not yet bored of this, despite his fears. I still get time by myself when he goes to sales and, though I miss him, I know this is a good thing. It’s all working rather well. I make a pot of tea and try to remember if there are any biscuits left in the tin behind the counter. As I wait for the tea to brew, I hear the shop bell ring and wonder whether we might sell something.
I get the milk out and tap my fingers on the worktop. When Edward puts his head round the curtain, it makes me jump violently.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, ‘you scared me.’
‘Sorry. Er, Thea.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’d better come through.’
‘I’m just waiting for the tea; I won’t be a moment.’
‘I know. But…’
I turn to look at him. He sounds peculiar. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Something unexpected,’ he says.
‘Unexpected? What do you mean?’
He screws up his face. ‘Chris is here.’
‘What?’ I gawp at him.
‘Clistopher,’ he says. This makes me choke with laughter. It’s a quote from a Diana Wynne Jones book, The Lives of Christopher Chant. It’s how the mermaids say Christopher’s name, and it’s generally how he refers to Chris since we first remembered it, even though I told him not to, because Christopher Chant is much, much cooler than Chris Mottram.
‘What are you talking about?’ I say.
‘He’s here. He’s just arrived. In the shop.’
‘By himself?’ I have a horrid vision of an enormously pregnant Susanna in my shop.
He nods.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘He told me it was,’ he says. ‘I presume he’s not making it up. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?’ He almost laughs at this idea, but then he looks serious again.
‘Well, bloody hell.’ I look round the kitchen, although I’m not sure what for. ‘What on earth does he want?’
‘I don’t know, Thea, you’ll have to ask him.’
I frown. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this. I gesture at the teapot. ‘I only made a small pot,’ I say, vaguely.
Edward says nothing. I brush dust from the front of my shirt, and try (unsuccessfully) to see my reflection in the window. It’s been said – by Jenny, who sees me daily, and by Xanthe, who has to peer at me in FaceTime, that I am looking my best at the moment, glowing with joy. I hope this is true. With luck it will be more noticeable than the dust all over me and the multiple layers I have to wear in the shop during the winter.
It’s childish to want to look your best in front of your ex. I know that.
Deep breath then. ‘Are you coming?’ I ask him.
‘Do you want me to?’
I’m not sure. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Just let me know if you want me to leave you on your own.’
‘He’s definitely by himself, though?’
He nods.
‘Okay. Okay.’
I duck round the curtain and turn right into the front room of the shop. Chris is standing by the fireplace, a vintage detective novel in his hand.
‘Thea,’ he says. ‘Hello.’ He pushes the book back into the stack on the mantelpiece and comes towards me.
I’m surprised by how much he looks like himself. I don’t know why this is surprising. What else would he look like? It’s so odd to see him. I haven’t seen him for, what, ten months? It seems like for ever.
I glance back at Edward. ‘Er,’ I say, ‘hello. So this is Chris–’
‘Yes,’ says Edward, ‘he introduced himself.’
I ignore him. ‘And this is Edward.’
‘Yes,’ says Chris, ‘hi.’
They look at each other, two pairs of eyes steadily regarding one another, weighing each other up. It’s almost exactly as awkward as you might imagine introducing your husband and your – boyfriend – might be. After a pause that lasts a couple of seconds longer than I’m quite comfortable with, I realize that I need to say something else.
‘So, hey, this is… I wasn’t expecting to see you. You should have said you were coming; I’d have taken the day off or something.’
‘Yeah, I… It was a bit spur of the moment.’
‘A long drive for spur of the moment,’ I say, frowning at him. ‘And – well, you didn’t drive up today, surely?’
‘Yeah, no. Came up yesterday. It’s further than I thought. I’ve got an Airbnb place in Newton Stewart.’
‘Right.’ There’s another awkward pause.
‘You look well,’ he says.
Edward, who’s gone behind the counter and is pretending to work, snorts loudly, turns it unconvincingly into a cough, rattles things.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘do you want a cup of tea or something? I was just making one when you arrived. Maybe we should…’ I glance over at Edward again, but he’s looking at the computer. ‘Maybe we should pop over to the Old Mill? Then we could have a drink and sit down.’ We could go upstairs, but I don’t want to invite him up to the flat. ‘That is why are you here? That sounds rude, sorry. But–’
‘Yeah, I… Well, I wanted to talk to you, and you know I hate talking on the phone, and email’s not the same, and…’
It’s all rather odd. He’s not good on the phone, it’s true, or at least, he doesn’t like it, and God knows we haven’t had a proper conversation since I came up here. But I can’t see what we need to have one about, not really. There’s the house, I suppose, and the money. I assume it must be that. I’m suspicious now that he’s going to try to get out of paying me somehow. But that’s unfair and based on nothing but paranoia.
‘Could we close?’ I ask Edward. ‘It’s not busy, is it?’
He looks from me to Chris and back again. ‘If you like,’ he says, ‘or – d’you want me to come with you?’
‘Yes,’ I say decisively.
* * *
It’s quiet in the Old Mill, which is lucky. I don’t particularly wish to be the subject of curiosity, although it’s usually unavoidable.
‘We’ll go out the back,’ I say, waving at Cerys. They don’t usually do table service, but she mimes taking an order at me, head on one side, and I nod. That will be easier than one of us going up to the counter and leaving the other two to make awkward conversation.
The conservatory is empty, raindrops chasing each other down the windows, the winter garden folded in on itself. We have one of those ‘What about here? Yes that’s fine’ conversations and I slide onto the bench beside Edward. Chris has had a recent haircut, and he hasn’t shaved in maybe a week. I don’t recognize the top he’s wearing, or the jacket he’s just taken off. I look down at myself, wondering if I’m wearing something he’d recognize, but it’s one of my many generic white linen shirts, and even I can’t tell if it’s an old one. This cardigan is definitely new though; Edward gave it to me for Christmas.
Cerys brings us menus, and goes away again, consumed, I can tell, with curiosity.
> ‘It’s bigger than I imagined,’ Chris says. ‘Baldochrie, I mean. How far out is your house? I couldn’t remember.’ He looks from me to Edward and back again. ‘Do you still live there?’
‘It’s about five miles away,’ I say, ‘not far. And yes.’ This isn’t exactly a lie, I suppose. I’m not sure why I don’t want to just tell him I more or less live at the shop.
‘And this is where you’re from?’ he asks Edward.
‘Yep. Well, the family home is about five miles away. Just up the road from the Lodge, actually. That’s where I was born.’
‘Were you?’ I say, surprised I’ve never asked about this. ‘You were born there?’
‘Yes, of course. Traditional, isn’t it?’ He smiles at me. ‘Charles was born in Dumfries, though, because he has to be different. Although it’s always annoyed him that he wasn’t born at Hollinshaw.’
‘You don’t sound local, though – I thought you’d have an accent,’ says Chris.
‘It’s a disappointment to everyone,’ agrees Edward.
There’s another slightly uncomfortable pause.
‘So how are you?’ I ask. I think he looks tired – but that’s not something you say, is it? I wonder if it’s the house full of children and the pregnant girlfriend.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good, yeah. And you? You look really well,’ he says, again.
‘Thanks, yes.’ I put my hand on Edward’s thigh. He puts his hand over mine and squeezes.
Cerys comes back to offer drinks, and we talk about the weather, and Chris’s journey north, and the progression of the new development in the town centre back home. Chris asks about my parents; I ask about his. He asks about the shop.
‘Never imagined you working in a shop,’ he says.
‘I know, it’s quite funny,’ I agree. ‘But I like it.’
‘The shop’s not how I imagined it, either. I thought it would be smaller, for some reason. I don’t think Xanthe described it very well.’
‘You could have looked it up,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of photos on the website.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know why I didn’t,’ he says, frowning. ‘And it’s your shop? I mean, you own it?’ he says to Edward.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 30