‘So, how are you? Are you really feeling much better or just pushing through because you don’t know how to stop?’ Noah asked.
‘I took almost a week off, Noah. I think I know how to stop.’
‘You spent almost a week at home, but I know for a fact you were working for at least half of that. Just not the physical stuff.’
‘It still had to be done. It still needs to be done,’ she said. ‘But if you want an answer to your original question. I’m okay. I’m really feeling better. Not one hundred per cent, but I’ll get there.’
‘Your dad told me about your break-up,’ Noah said, not meeting her eyes. ‘And how are you about that?’
‘Well, I’ll get there too. Actually, I’m pretty much there. It just wasn’t right. He’s a nice guy. He’ll make some lucky woman very happy one day. He’s just not my nice guy.’
She felt uncomfortable with this conversation. She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t push for too much detail. That he wouldn’t ask her what her idea of a nice guy was.
‘Your dad says he was a bit of flashy sort. Big car, fancy house. Good job.’
‘Yeah, well. That just about describes Ant. But he’s generous and gorgeous too.’
Noah looked at her as if trying to make sense of what she had said and of why she’d made the decision to break-up with Ant in the first place.
‘Woah there, Libby. You keep describing him like that and I’ll be asking you for his number myself.’ Noah laughed, then blushed. ‘Not that I’m gay or anything. Not that there would be anything wrong with it if I was…’ He looked so flustered that Libby couldn’t help but laugh and nor could she help but feel herself warm even more to him. Any warmer and she would be in serious danger of combustion.
‘He’s pretty perfect on paper, but we just didn’t gel. Not properly. It was going nowhere and, well, we both deserve more. I’m a romantic at heart, you know. Hard not to be when my first love was Mr Darcy.’
‘Is that the guy Colin Firth played in the Bridget Jones movies?’ Noah said, and for a moment he had her. For a moment she felt a sort of disappointment wash over her that this man did not know who one of the most iconic characters in literature was, then she saw a sly smile on his face. Relief washed over her. His perfect armour remained chink free.
‘You’re a gobshite, Noah Simpson,’ she teased.
‘Yeah, but a loveable one,’ he replied, and that, she feared, was the problem. He was absolutely right.
She shook her head. ‘Anyway, I am far from perfect girlfriend material myself at the moment. The only love affair I’m interested in is the one I’m having with my new shop. I don’t have time for distractions.’
She was proud of her little speech, even though she didn’t one hundred per cent believe what she was saying.
‘I totally understand that – as someone who has been there – who is still sort of there. Having a passion project is great. It will fulfil you in ways you never thought possible. For me, stupid as it might sound, because this is a pub and pubs don’t change the world, this place has given me a sense of achievement nothing else has. It feels like home and not just because I live in the flat upstairs. But a business can’t hug you at night, or ask how you are, or massage your shoulders. So, you know, just keep an open mind.’
‘How’s that approach working for you? Do you keep an open mind?’ Libby raised an eyebrow and he looked at her, directly at her. He didn’t try to avert his gaze, or dodge the question with a witty response.
‘It’s working okay,’ he said. ‘You might not believe this, but I do find it hard to open up to people. To let them in. I’ve been okay with that until now, but recently…’
‘Recently?’ she asked.
‘Recently, I’m starting to wonder if it might be worth taking a chance or two. With the right person, of course.’
All she could see in that moment were his green eyes, open, honest, piercing. She saw how he looked at her as if he could see her in a way no one else ever had. And it scared her and thrilled her in equal measures.
If only, Libby thought, the timing was different.
27
Long Time Passing
Libby found herself doing everything that she could to avoid Noah. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him. She desperately wanted to, but the part of her that was scared of how she felt about him, and afraid it might derail her plans for the shop, forced her to keep her distance.
She always managed to find a reason why she had to go out somewhere whenever he called to the shop, and she told her father that he should refuse any offers of help on the grounds that they didn’t want to take advantage of their neighbours’ goodwill.
As a plan, it worked. But she hadn’t realised just how much she would miss him. Because she did. Very much.
At least, she told herself, she was able to keep distracted from her longing with everything she had to do in the shop. Things had kicked up a gear and while it was exciting to see it start to come together, it was also exhausting.
Most nights, she’d fall asleep with her laptop still open, paperwork in front of her and her to-do list running through her mind on a loop.
No matter how much she seemed to get done, there always seemed to be something else to add to the bottom of the list. She thought she was prepared. She’d done her research, but there were things she had never considered. Not properly – like where she would source the baked goods for the coffee bar. Would she approach a local bakery, go for something like biscotti or pastries, or stick to the basics of scones with butter and jam, muffins and cake? How much should she order – not knowing how busy the coffee bar would be? Would a standard-sized dishwasher be big enough? What exactly would hit the mark with the non-book merchandise? Remembering she wanted to attract creatives, would a selection of pens, quirky literary-inspired gifts and bookmarks be enough? Or should she expand to cards and wrapping paper, notebooks and e-book covers?
When it came to it, making these decisions was hard, even though Jess had resumed her role as supportive friend and they frequently talked over WhatsApp for hours at a time about what Libby should or shouldn’t do.
Occasionally, she would distract herself further by asking Jess if she’d been in touch with Ant, or if he had called her. ‘I’m still not sure it wouldn’t be really weird,’ Jess would tell her, but as time passed, and life got busier, Libby came to realise that it wouldn’t be all that weird after all. Not in the long run anyway.
Jo popped in and out, sometimes bringing over plates of sandwiches and the occasional lunch. ‘We want to make sure you’re eating and these workmen are getting fed too,’ she would say, but Libby would always insist on paying something.
She didn’t dare ask after Noah, even though she wanted to. And when Jo asked her if everything was okay she’d tell her she was just very busy. ‘Come over for a drink sometime though,’ Jo said. ‘We miss you.’
Libby had nodded and said she would and had then spent the best part of the next twenty-four hours trying to analyse the word ‘we’. Had Jo meant Noah too? Surely she had. But did he really miss her? And did she want him to?
She managed to bump into Noah once in Harry’s shop. He had smiled at her and said, ‘Hello stranger! I didn’t think you were allowed out of the shop at all these days.’
‘A girl needs milk for tea and, erm, Maltesers occasionally,’ she’d said, looking at the counter where she had laid her purchases.
‘Don’t work too hard,’ Noah had replied. ‘You don’t want to get sick again. And we’ve still those Guinness lessons to get in sometime.’ He’d smiled and her heart had fluttered.
‘As soon as I have a free hour or two, I’ll let you know,’ she’d told him. ‘Maybe next year sometime?’ If she hadn’t been mistaken she had seen a flash of something, disappointment perhaps, cross his face. When Noah had left, and Libby had started to make a coffee, Harry had leant against the counter and spoke. ‘What’s going on with you two?’
Libby had turned
to look at Harry, fighting the rising heat in her cheeks. ‘There’s nothing going on, Harry. We’re both just very busy.’
Harry had laughed, a deep rumbling belly laugh that boomed around the shop. ‘Bookshop Libby, that’s the biggest load of nonsense I’ve ever heard in my life. There’s no way you look at me the way you look at him, and the same goes for him. I’ve been around a long time and I’ve seen a lot of things. There’s a way you look at someone when you are truly avoiding them and then there’s a look you give someone when you really, really like someone but are scared of something.’
‘You’re wrong, Harry,’ Libby had said, convinced if she said it with enough conviction, she would start to believe it herself. ‘Now, I’m very busy, so if I could just pay for my shopping, I’ll be away out from your hair.’
‘You do that,’ Harry had said. ‘But remember, you can’t kid a kidder.’
She had given him a small smile, even though she wanted to tell him to butt out instead, and she went back to work, where, later that day, she would sign for her new coffee machine and her days of the watery brown water that passed for a coffee from Harry’s shop would be numbered.
Then she’d spent an hour feeling guilty for having angry thoughts about Harry, who was a nice man and the very heart of the Ivy Lane community. She would go and see him later maybe. Take him some of the sample scones she was having delivered.
* * *
After four weeks of hard work, Libby was suffering from extreme work overload coupled with a healthy dose of cabin fever.
Jess told her she was feeling much the same and, in addition, that she was exhausted from the effort of trying to work out whether or not she should contact Ant. She lamented to Libby that Ant had sent her two WhatsApp messages in the last week, asking how she was and if she wanted to meet for coffee, but she’d been unsure of what to reply. Jess wanted to say yes, Libby knew, but she also knew Jess was scared of it not working out.
So, Libby knew that her best friend was very much in the land of the people needing to destress too.
A message from Jess pinged on Libby’s phone.
Fancy going out? Like properly out? Town tonight?
She read it while listening to the clatter and thump of bookshelves being carried into the shop and assembled. With just three weeks to opening now, the shop was really taking shape. Craig was bringing to life his design and, in the matter of a few days, Libby’s stock would arrive. She was feeling absolutely in the mood for letting off some steam.
But she had to contemplate the effort it would require to make herself presentable for any city-centre establishment on a Friday night. She was currently in dusty shorts, a once white T-shirt and her hair was pulled back from her face and neck in a bandana. There was also a foul and mysterious odour in the room, which she strongly suspected may be coming from her own body. The day had been warm, furniture she had started to shift around had been heavy and the hour she had spent mopping and hoovering in the flat – which was actually starting to resemble a habitable space – had left her sweaty. Her body ached and she longed to stand under a hot shower or slip under the suds into a deep bath and feel her muscles relax.
There was something tempting about dressing up and kicking back with her best friend. She’d forgotten the last time she wore full make-up, or heels for that matter. It had been a long time since she’d channelled any other look but Rosie the Riveter and she longed to feel fresh and feminine again. And, God, she longed to just have some fun. Along with Jess, she could show the world exactly what kind of modern, independent sassy lady she was. They could Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones it with the best of them.
Libby called her friend. ‘Okay, Silver Street at eight? We can take it from there?’ she said, before Jess had a chance to say hello.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Jess said. ‘Dress to impress!’
‘And under no circumstances are we to find ourselves anywhere near Ivy Lane, or near the beaches of Inishowen. Do you hear me? No matter how strong the alcohol content!’
‘That’s a deal. And I say we make a deal that no text messages are sent from either of our phones, especially after the consumption of alcohol.’
‘That’s a solid plan,’ Libby laughed, ‘count me in. You’re a good friend, Jess. I hope you know that.’
‘Of course I do. And yes, I am the best,’ Jess said playfully, before they said their goodbyes and Libby set about planning just how she was going to transform herself.
* * *
By the time she was ready, she wasn’t quite a siren, but she felt she looked pretty decent. She’d slipped into a fifties-style strappy swing dress in a pale blue, with a cherry pattern and a red bow at the bust. Teamed with a red headscarf, red ballet pumps and, of course, a streak of red lipstick, she felt confident enough to believe she had captured a casual retro vibe. Pulling her cream bolero cardigan from the drawer, she wrapped it around her shoulders, spritzed herself with some Jo Malone Black Cedarwood and Juniper perfume and padded downstairs, calling to her parents that she was going out with Jess.
‘Going to the Ivy?’ her mother asked – Libby able to sense the hopefulness in her voice. Her mother hadn’t stopped extolling the virtues of Noah since they had met, despite the fact Libby had told her repeatedly that nothing was going to happen.
‘No. We’re going into town for a few. Nothing too wild. Just want to let our hair down a bit – now that the shop is on schedule,’ Libby called back, sticking her head around the door.
‘And the flat, love? How’s that going?’ her mother asked.
‘Well… it’s getting there. The kitchen and bathroom floors were done this morning. They really match the fittings Craig got sorted. It’s looking well now, but, to be honest, I have to focus on the shop to bring that in on time. I’m on that stupid barista training course next week so that will take me away for a few days. But, sure, at least I have a bed here until it’s sorted.’
The look on the face of both her parents startled her a little. They both blushed, looked to each other and down to the ground. Their moves were so in sync, it almost looked as if they had been choreographed.
‘Of course you do, pet,’ her mother spoke first.
‘This will always be your home,’ her father said. ‘But I’m sure you’d love your own space again. No pressure or anything. Just saying, if you need help getting your furniture out of storage, or moving, or anything, you just have to ask.’
Libby smiled. It was so nice for her father to be so caring, but really, she didn’t want to put him to any more trouble than he already had gone to. ‘Dad, honestly. I’ll get to it. You have both done more than enough already, I couldn’t ask any more of you.’
Her mum cleared her throat. ‘Well, the things is, Libby, you’re not asking. We’re offering. With all the love in the world. But, you know, we’d grown used to having the place to ourselves and I think we’d all probably benefit from having our space and our own privacy again.’
Her mother’s face was the colour of beetroot, as was Libby’s as soon as she realised exactly what her mother was saying.
An unbidden image of her parents walking around in the nip slipped into her mind – one she batted away as quickly as she did the following image of, God forbid, them having sex on the kitchen table. She had become a gooseberry in the lives of her own parents. She cringed internally, and maybe even a little externally at the thought. She’d been so blasé about getting the flat ready and so caught up in the shop that’d she’d never considered they might actually want her to move out.
‘Oh God, okay. Right. Well, I’ll get to it. As soon as the shower’s fitted and the carpets are down, I can move. Everything else can be done around me.’
‘Oh, there’s no rush,’ her mother said, her face still crimson.
But Libby knew there clearly was a rush.
* * *
‘It doesn’t necessarily mean they want the house to themselves for sexy time,’ Jess said, as she tried to stifle another fit of gig
gles while she sipped her second strawberry daiquiri of the night.
Libby had told the barman to go heavy on the rum, so they tasted ever so slightly off, but the medicinal effects were already kicking in.
Shuddering at the mental image of her parents enjoying ‘sexy time’, Libby couldn’t help but laugh at the amused expression on Jess’s face.
Jess continued, ‘I mean, maybe they just want to enjoy a nice game of chess on their own or play some croquet on the lawn without you watching over them?’
‘Do you think,’ Libby laughed, ‘that maybe my parents are closet naturists? All this time I’ve been home saving and planning for the shop, do you think they’ve been itching to get their clothes off and wander about in the altogether?’
‘And God, summer’s nearly over, Libby! You’ve robbed them of prime naked time! I can’t imagine it’s too comfortable in the winter.’
‘Not with the way my mother polices the central heating anyway,’ she nodded.
When they moved on to their third drink of the night, without an extra dash of rum, Libby told Jess, in a more serious tone, that she really did have to sort herself out and get the flat in order. ‘I’m really watching the budget now,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll have to do the bulk of the decorating myself. I might start painting on Sunday. If you’re handy with a paintbrush, I’ll treat us to a nice dinner afterwards?’
Jess shifted awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry, Libby. I can’t. I’ve a team-building day to go to in Donegal and it’s definitely going ahead and I definitely can’t get out of it.’
‘Not to worry,’ Libby said, as she bit back her disappointment. ‘I’m a strong, independent woman and I can paint walls on my own.’
‘You know, I’m sure you could find a neighbour or two to help?’ Jess suggested with a raised eyebrow.
The Hopes and Dreams of Libby Quinn Page 21