The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘You were sleeping together for months,’ says Charles.

  ‘We were, yeah, but that doesn’t make what I’m saying less true. It was wrong.’

  ‘And what about the others? Maddy, and Therese? And Poppy and–’

  ‘Yes, all of them,’ says Edward. I’m not sure even I completely believe him, and I notice he hasn’t actually said he’s sorry, but even this is a huge step, surely.

  ‘And you,’ I say. ‘What about you, Charles? Are you sorry about… What was her name?’ I ask Edward. ‘I don’t think you ever told me her name. The one when you were a teenager.’

  ‘Cleo.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Charles. He’s staring at Edward, a trickle of blood dribbling slowly down his lip. ‘Cleo Robertson? Is that… Oh my God.’

  ‘You broke my fucking heart,’ says Edward, ‘the pair of you.’

  ‘Oh my God. Jesus.’

  ‘You didn’t think it was completely random, did you? You see the problem is, Charles, you’ve no self-awareness.’

  ‘But that was a joke,’ says Charles.

  ‘Yes, a joke to you. But very serious to me.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Charles,’ I say, ‘there’s no point “butting”. You did something childish and hurtful and although you were obviously more or less a child at the time and I think Edward could have dealt with it in a… healthier fashion–’

  ‘Thanks, doll,’ says Edward, and I have to concentrate in order not to laugh.

  ‘No one’s saying that sleeping with all your girlfriends was a good idea – but can you at least see what might have put the idea into his mind?’

  ‘Shit,’ says Charles. ‘But it was a joke.’

  ‘I really liked her,’ says Edward. ‘Yes, it all sounds pathetic now, doesn’t it, thirty fucking years later, but at the time I was devastated. And because I spent the next twenty years arsing about and failing to meet anyone, it’s still one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me. I suppose if we’d ever been friends it wouldn’t have happened. But we haven’t, have we?’

  Charles, frowning, doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Try not to bleed on the bed,’ I say. ‘If you can help it. I’ll get you some tissues.’ I look at Edward. ‘No fighting while I’m gone.’

  ‘Okay, boss,’ he says. He shakes his head at me. ‘Was this in your plan?’

  ‘No, it bloody wasn’t.’

  * * *

  I fetch a wet flannel and a towel from the bathroom, as well as tissues, and take it all back to the bedroom. Charles dabs at his face. I sigh heavily.

  ‘I have to go back downstairs,’ I say. ‘I can’t just leave everyone on their own. How do you feel?’

  ‘By face hurts,’ Charles says, indistinctly.

  ‘I should think it does.’ I glance at Edward. ‘Are you coming back downstairs?’

  ‘In a moment.’

  ‘No fighting.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I promise.’

  I shut the door on them and hurry back down to the sitting room.

  * * *

  ‘What’s going on up there?’ asks Alastair.

  ‘Some kind of sibling nightmare.’

  ‘Are they fighting?’

  ‘Not now.’

  Jenny laughs. ‘But they were? We could hear Edward shouting.’

  ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ I say. ‘I’d never have thought getting involved with the minor aristocracy would be so much like a soap opera.’

  She laughs again. ‘Are they talking now?’

  ‘God knows. As long as no one’s getting punched, I don’t care.’

  Louise, the dentist, comes over. ‘We should probably be getting back for the babysitter,’ she says. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’ I glance from her to Robert, her husband. ‘Must you go? I feel bad for abandoning you all.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t feel bad.’ She smiles at me. ‘Entertaining is a tricky business. I can’t believe you even got them both in the same room.’

  ‘Beginning to wish I hadn’t,’ I say, gloomily.

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s quite a coup. And I’m sure it will all work out. Anyway, thank you so much for inviting us. Maybe you’ll be able to get Edward out for Rob’s fiftieth? It’s in May – I’ll send you an invitation.’

  The chat becomes general and several other people mutter about making a move. Soon they’re gathering coats and beginning to descend the staircase.

  ‘Do you need us to help you tidy up?’ asks Cerys. ‘You know we’re trained in this sort of thing.’

  ‘Catering queens,’ agrees Jilly. ‘I can carry five full dinner plates at a time.’

  ‘No, there’s not much to do, is there? Just collecting glasses.’ I look round. It’s true, mostly glasses, on end tables and bookshelves.

  ‘If you’re sure. I hope you don’t have to spend any more of your evening listening to the pair of them talking shit to each other.’ Cerys chuckles.

  I snort. ‘Here’s hoping.’

  ‘D’you want us to take Charles home, aye?’ That’s Gavin, the bathroom man. ‘He’s more or less on the way for us.’

  I hesitate. ‘I don’t know. He can’t drive, that’s for sure. But he can stay here; we’re well supplied with bedrooms.’

  The final guests collect their belongings and I follow them down the stairs and into the shop.

  ‘It was lovely,’ says Jenny, ‘please don’t think it wasn’t. Don’t give up having people round because of this. It was great to spend an evening with you both, and the food was amazing.’

  I smile at her gratefully. ‘It was, wasn’t it? All Edward. He’s a wasted talent.’

  I watch them all out into the street, waving and calling goodbye to each other, and then I lock the front door behind them and go back upstairs. The sitting room seems strangely empty. I pick up some glasses and plates and take them through to the kitchen, and go into the dining room to see what, if anything, is left of the food. I eat two spoonsful of guacamole and some miniature crab cakes, and then, sighing, ascend the second flight of stairs to see what’s going on.

  In the spare bedroom, Charles has taken his shoes off and is propped up on the pillows, a wad of tissues held to his face. Edward is in the armchair by the window and he must have slipped downstairs while I was seeing everyone out because there’s a bottle of Talisker and two glasses on the bedside table. I shake my head.

  ‘Is more booze really what’s required?’

  ‘Medicinal,’ says Charles, rather thickly, like someone with a bad cold.

  ‘Are you still bleeding?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He pulls the tissues away and looks at them. ‘Hardly at all.’

  ‘Good. You’d better stay here,’ I say, ‘if you think Lynda will have gone to bed.’

  He looks at Edward, who shrugs.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Okay, well. I’d better go and load the dishwasher,’ I say. ‘It would be good to get at least one–’

  ‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Charles. He looks up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet my eye. ‘I was being a… I behaved very badly.’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Edward.

  I wave a hand. ‘Just don’t do it again.’

  ‘I apologize though.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I forgive you. If the pair of you could agree to attempt some kind of civil behaviour in the future, that would be enough.’

  They look at each other.

  ‘Can’t promise much more than very basic civility,’ says Edward.

  ‘Willing to make the attempt,’ says Charles.

  ‘I suppose that will do. Well done, welcome to Being an Adult even when you don’t want to be.’ I look at my boyfriend. ‘Are you going to help me with the plates and stuff?’

  Edward gets up. ‘Don’t drink all that whisky,’ he tells his brother. ‘Is there any food left?’

  ‘Not much. A few crumbs. They’ve pretty much picked the carcass clean,’ I tell him as we head
back downstairs. On the landing he puts his hand on my arm.

  ‘Thea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know you’re brilliant, don’t you?’

  I laugh at him. ‘What do you mean? In what sense, particularly?’

  ‘Everything you do is brilliant, and wonderful, and I love you.’

  I look at him suspiciously. ‘Are you drunk as well?’

  He laughs. ‘No. Or not very. Come here.’ He hugs me. ‘He’s an arse, my brother, but I’m going to try not to tell him that to his face.’

  ‘Noble.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I’m sorry he was awful, earlier. I know it’s my fault. Thank you for being so perfect about it.’

  ‘Perfect? I kicked him.’ I snort. ‘And I was quite harsh, even before that.’

  ‘I know. It’s good for him.’

  I lean back so I can see him better. ‘D’you reckon? Did he tell you I kicked him?’

  ‘He did. He told me I was lucky and I said’ – he pulls me closer again and kisses me – ‘that I’m well aware of that.’

  ‘Pah.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve gone off the idea of clearing up. Why don’t we go straight to bed?’

  ‘That’s a terrible–’ but then we’re kissing again, this time for ages. Even though I know I’ll be sorry in the morning, it’s hard not to be persuaded. ‘Okay, not terrible; I meant great idea.’

  ‘There. I said you were brilliant,’ he says, and we go back upstairs to bed.

  Acknowledgements

  I love reading acknowledgements and writing them is even more fun.

  My parents are better than anyone else’s and always have been, so thanks to Pam and Vic for all their support and encouragement, and their willingness to believe that this might actually happen, without adding any pressure. Thanks to Stewart and Tess, too, for their support and excitement about this project, in what has to have been the most intense and weirdest year ever.

  I met lots of writers on the now defunct Authonomy writers’ forum, many of whom have been a great help to me, and some of whom, as members of the Facebook Women’s Fiction Critique Group, read an early draft of The Bookshop (as it was called then) and made useful comments. I’d particularly like to thank Ann Warner, Kate Murdoch, Gail Cleare, Margaret Johnson and Katie O’Rourke, all of whom have been incredibly supportive and all of whom have their own books that you should check out. Angela Elliott gave Fortescue’s its name, and Carla Burgess, Tamsin McDonald, Mick Jones and Leonie Roberts have encouraged me to ‘just get on with it’ on a number of occasions.

  I’d also like to thank friends and erstwhile colleagues Liz Haynes, Donna Wood and Clare Ashton, who’ve all read previous work of mine and have been enthusiastic cheerleaders for my writing for the last eight years, and Denise Laing, who encouraged me to submit my first novel to an agent, more years ago than I care to remember.

  Sarah Albiston, Katie McCallion and Mat Winser have been available to talk about books, writing (and everything else in the world) for more than thirty years and I am eternally thankful to all of them. Mark Manson definitely wouldn’t buy a book like this but he’s an excellent beta reader and his feedback is always appreciated. And thanks to Stephen McConnachie for holding my hand before a Very Important Meeting, and Jimmy Martin for joining me in a celebratory drink afterwards.

  I’m extremely grateful to Sara-Jade Virtue at Simon & Schuster, who read my sample chapter and liked it enough to ask to see the rest. She and my editor, Alice Rodgers, have been brilliant, and the rest of the team of designers, editors, marketers, and the people in the rights department have all done loads of stuff I don’t even know about. Thank you.

  Last but not least, all my love and thanks to Ollie for shopping, cooking and driving me about, and without whom it would all be pointless.

  About the Author

  Jackie Fraser is a freelance editor and writer. She’s worked for AA Publishing, Watkins, the Good Food Guide and various self-published writers of fiction, travel and food guides, recipe books and self-help books since 2012. Prior to that, she worked as an editor of food and accommodation guides for the AA, including the B&B Guide, Restaurant Guide and Pub Guide for nearly twenty years, eventually running the Lifestyle Guides department.

  She’s interested in all kind of things, particularly history (and prehistory), art, food, popular culture and music. She reads a lot (no, really) in multiple genres, and is fascinated by the Bronze Age. She likes vintage clothes, antique fairs and photography. She used to be a bit of a goth. She likes cats.

  www.SimonandSchuster.co.uk/Authors/Jackie-Fraser

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  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020

  Copyright © Jackie Fraser, 2020. All rights reserved.

  The right of Jackie Fraser to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-9626-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.