22
The Ugly Duckling
Libby had been snoring. She knew that as soon as she woke, the echo of her own loud grunting having hauled her from her sleep.
She lay in her darkened room and swallowed, and was delighted to find that her throat felt marginally better. It was the day after she’d started on her antibiotics and they had clearly started to kick in.
That’s not to say she felt well. She still felt absolutely wretched, but the pain had at least lessened.
Her mother had helped her out of bed that morning and had cleaned her room while Libby had stood under the hot pins of water pulsing through the shower and made a half-hearted attempt at washing her hair, and her body. Even the exertion of lifting her hands above her head had been enough to fell her.
She was no sooner dressed in fresh pyjamas than she’d crawled into the fresh linen her mother had put on her bed and lay down.
‘You can’t go to sleep with wet hair,’ her mother had immediately yelled, startling Libby from her already almost comatose state. ‘Here,’ her mum had said, ‘let me.’
Libby had sat, powerless but grateful, while her mother had gently brushed and blow-dried her hair, just as she had done so many times when she was a little girl.
‘Jess phoned,’ her mum had said. ‘To see how you were.’
‘What did you tell her?’ Libby had asked, worried that her mother might have challenged Jess over the falling out.
‘I told her you were still really unwell, and in bed. And she was welcome to come round and see you.’
‘Did she say she would?’ Libby had asked, hopeful.
‘She said she’d be in touch,’ her mother had said, her voice soft. ‘And if she doesn’t, I’ll be calling her back and giving her a piece of my mind.’
Once her hair was dried, Libby had fallen back into a deep sleep. She didn’t even have the energy to worry about the shop. Her dad had told her everything was fine, and in her weakened state, she was content not to push for more details.
She’d no idea what time it was when she woke. The blackout blinds were more than efficient. She became aware of a knock on her bedroom door. There was something about it that was familiar – so familiar that she wondered had she heard it just seconds before. Had it been that, along with her snoring, that had woken her?
Her father’s voice came through the door. ‘Libby, love. Can I come in?’
She croaked a yes and rubbed her eyes to try and shake the sleep from them.
The door creaked open and her father walked in, straight to the window, where he lifted the blinds just a crack. It was enough to make Libby recoil, like a vampire afraid of perishing in the sun.
‘I’ll not open them too far,’ her father said. ‘But I’ve a surprise for you.’ He then went on to mutter the six most terrifying words she was ever likely to hear in her life. ‘I’ve brought Noah to see you.’
Libby tried to say no. She tried to hide under her duvet – but before she could open her mouth or hide herself from view, her father had walked back over to the door and ushered in an uncomfortable-looking Noah.
‘I asked your dad how you were and before I could say anything else he’d invited me for tea and it seems he doesn’t like to take no for an answer.’
‘You’ve worked hard today. It’s the least we can do to feed you a decent meal,’ Libby’s father said, clearly not taking on board the fact that Noah ran a gastro pub and had full access to a plethora of decent meals whenever he wanted. ‘I’ll go and open us a couple of beers and you can tell Libby about how good the shop is looking,’ he said, before turning to Libby. ‘Ach, Libby, you’d be delighted to see the place today. I actually think you’ve a good chance of pulling this off. Oh, and the glazers called and said they’d be ready to refit the windows next Friday. Sure, once that’s done, you’re laughing. And pest control have sealed up all entry points – they think some of the mice were coming in through your attic. But you’re now a rodent-free zone. And this boy here wasn’t one bit afraid to get his hands dirty either – lifting and moving. A real grafter, Noah. That’s what you are. A grafter and a good man!’
At that, Jim Quinn nodded towards the stairs and told Noah he would see him soon. Beer in hand.
Libby just sat, pale-faced and pyjama-clad, in her bed, wishing she had an invisibility cloak.
The only, very slight, consolation to Libby was that Noah looked almost as mortified by the whole situation as she was.
‘Your dad’s a lovely man,’ he said, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘He said you were sick, but I didn’t realise you were as bad as this. I’d have stayed away. Maybe even painted a black cross on the door of the shop in case you left any traces of the plague there.’
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ Libby croaked, her throat aching at the effort of speaking, but she was surprised to find that he had at least put a smile on her face.
‘You’re looking well,’ Noah said, pulling a horrified face, and she laughed a little more.
‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, it hurts,’ she groaned.
‘Well, looking at the state of you is hurting my eyes, if you must know,’ he said with a wink, but his voice was so soft, she had no doubt he was teasing. ‘But I’m going to be honest – I didn’t have you down for a chintzy Laura Ashley kind of a girl? Where are the posters of hot young pop stars that you snogged when you were a teen? I was hoping to get a peek at an even geekier you than you are now.’
‘Afraid you missed your chance,’ she said. ‘The worst of my teenage misdemeanours were hidden away a long time ago – my parents were keen to get their guest suite. I haven’t always lived here, you know – I only came back when I started saving and planning to take on the shop.’
‘Well, you are a remarkable woman,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I really had been hoping to be able to tease you mercilessly about the awkward years, Bookshop Libby. Jo bet me you’d be a Westlife kind of a girl, but I thought maybe more Oasis.’
‘You owe Jo some money, I’m afraid,’ Libby said with a smile. ‘You should know that “cool” has never been a word used about me. Ever.’
‘I should’ve known,’ Noah said with a smile. ‘How’re you doing anyway? Is it fatal? Do I need to be organising a floral tribute? You’re still a new girl, so we will probably only manage the letter L in carnations and not ‘Bookshop Libby’ in roses or the like.’
‘Pee-the-beds will do me.’ Libby laughed.
‘Pee-the-beds?’
‘Dandelions. That’s what we called them growing up. There’s something in them – that has a diuretic property. Or so I was told.’
‘Every day’s a school day,’ Noah laughed, ‘but, seriously, are you okay?’
Libby shrugged. ‘I’ve been better. But I’ll most likely live. This isn’t my first fight with my tonsils. A few days and I’ll be on the mend. Tired, but on the mend.’
‘So, you’ll have to slow down then!’ Noah said, in a stern voice.
‘Hmmm,’ Libby replied, in as non-committal a voice as she could manage. ‘Anyway, you’re very good, helping at the shop. And humouring my dad like this. He’s delighted to be bringing a friend home for tea.’ She laughed.
‘He’s a sound man, Libby. I like hanging out with him.’
‘Just how much have you been helping him?’ Libby asked. ‘You’ve your own business to run.’
‘My business runs itself,’ he said, which was a lie. ‘Jo helped out, and one of the bar staff worked a double shift.’
‘Well, let me pay you for that,’ Libby said. ‘I don’t want you out of pocket on my account.’ She would be mortified if he thought she was taking advantage of his kindness. Some kind of payment would at least assuage her guilt a little.
‘Libby, would you ever stop? I told you. It’s no big shakes. It’s how we work on Ivy Lane. We help each other when we need to. That’s what keeps us all going.’
‘It is big shakes though, to help like that. It’s very kind of you.’
‘I actually enjoyed it. Good company and hard work. Besides, we can’t have you falling behind on your big dream,’ Noah said.
The way in which he spoke made her realise that he really got it. He totally understood how important this was to her. She felt herself well up, and immediately chided herself for being so pathetic that all she seemed to do when she was sick was cry.
‘Oh God, don’t be crying,’ Noah said, his voice soft. ‘I’m a man, I can’t cope with that kind of a thing.’ His expression was one of concern. She realised, again, just how handsome this man was. This man who seemed to understand her need to make a success of the bookshop more than her friends.
She felt something flip in her stomach that she was pretty sure was not an adverse reaction to her antibiotics. Oh no. He had to stop being so nice to her. She didn’t have time for complications. She didn’t want to feel things for him – and yet…
But she was sick. It was just that she was feeling unwell. She didn’t really have any kind of feelings for him other than a casual fondness.
Neither of them spoke.
Thankfully, a call from downstairs that dinner was ready broke the gaze between them.
‘You’d better go. They don’t like waiting for dinner,’ Libby said.
‘Are you going to eat too?’ Noah asked.
Libby shook her head before she lied and told him she wasn’t hungry and actually just needed to sleep. It was much too risky for her to spend more time with him.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep, Libby. We need you back on the street soon.’ With that, he left.
* * *
Libby woke in the dark and the house was silent. Either Noah had left or he had been poisoned by one of her mother’s attempts at a fancy dinner and his corpse was lying downstairs waiting for rigor mortis to set in. Either way, Libby didn’t feel well enough to investigate.
She shivered even though she knew the room was too warm. Glancing at her phone, she saw that it had gone midnight – and that there were two messages blinking at her. One from Ant and one from Jess. Ant sent his ‘best’. It had the feel of a work email more than a message from a lover. Jess said she’d call round the next day. Libby noticed the messages had been sent just minutes apart. She wondered, for a second, while she had the energy to care, if they were together when they sent them, before dismissing that thought as ridiculous. Although there was no denying Jess seemed to have a better dynamic with Ant than she ever had.
She staggered to the bathroom, looked at the horror show she had become in the mirror and wondered how Noah hadn’t run screaming from her room, before she wandered back into bed, pulled the covers up around her and tried to drift back off to sleep to escape all the many confusing and conflicting thoughts that were dancing around her head.
When morning arrived, she decided that she felt better and pushed all thoughts of resting properly from her mind. Libby dragged herself from her bed again – and stood under the hot streams of water from the shower, trying to convince herself that she felt a little more human. However, she took a full twenty minutes to dry herself – during which time she sat on the toilet seat and wondered if she was swaying or the room was spinning or if it was a combination of both.
Dragging her aching limbs back into her bedroom, she looked in her wardrobe for something to wear which weighed as little as humanly possible. She sat on her bed, then lay on her bed – hair wet and limp – naked and shivering even though the room was hot, but too tired to dressed.
It took almost half an hour before Libby finally hauled on a light cotton summer dress over her most comfortable (therefore oldest) underwear. She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail without brushing it and slipped her feet into a pair of battered Converse she normally reserved for wearing around the house when she was doing her cleaning.
The exertion was enough to cause her to break out in a sweat, but she was determined not to give into it. It didn’t matter that her mum had told her she had to rest. It didn’t matter that both her dad and Noah were on top of things at the shop. She needed to feel useful. By the time she reached the kitchen, and needed another sit-down, her head was fuzzy and her limbs like concrete. But she had to get to work – so she hauled herself to her feet and reached for her bag and keys, only to find they felt much too heavy.
She became vaguely aware of a voice fading in and out beside her.
‘Libby, what on earth are you doing?’ she heard and turned her head to see her mum’s face swim in front of hers.
‘Work,’ she muttered. ‘The shop.’
Her mother eyed her up and down, then Libby could hear the sound of her mother’s gentle laughter. ‘Oh, pet, you’re going nowhere.’
She felt herself being led out of the kitchen and towards the bottom of the stairs.
‘But the shop…’
‘Didn’t that big handsome friend of yours say he would help? And your dad has already left. I’m going to nip in later and see if I can help too.’
Libby tried to argue, but she was finding it hard to think of the right words to say, so reluctantly she let her mother guide her back upstairs and into bed.
When sleep finally loosened its grip mid-afternoon, she lifted her phone to find even more messages.
Ant wanted to know if he could call round. But only if she was sure she wasn’t infectious because he had a busy week ahead. ‘I hope you understand,’ he said. At least he had put a solitary ‘x’ at the end of this message. Jess had also messaged, to check if she had been taking her medicine and saying she would be round after tea, and to let her know if she could bring anything with her. Libby took this as a positive sign that there was hope for their friendship after all. If they could both move past all the things they had said.
The next message was a picture from Noah, of him and her dad standing in front of the draper’s counter in the shop – their thumbs raised and cheesy smiles on their faces. She could see that the exposed brickwork behind them had been repointed. It made her smile. Noah wrote:
I hope this makes you feel better. We’ve got it covered. And I’ve changed my mind. You owe me at least 500 shifts in the pub
The Hopes and Dreams of Libby Quinn Page 17