by Sarah Duncan
She looked up and saw Adam looking at her through the window, his thin face curious. She smiled and gave a little wave. He'd not referred to her outburst on the first day, but perhaps one day she'd know him well enough to tell him why a humble payslip could make her both laugh and cry at the same time.
Chapter 19
Michael and Katie agreed: it had to be buttercup yellow. Katie had first gone for purple and Michael wanted camouflage green, but Isabel steered them towards lighter colours.
'Don't you think it's a bit bright?' she asked, blinking at the depth of colour. The night before she had drunk a bottle of wine and stumbled to bed and oblivion, but not before deciding that she couldn't live with a magnolia kitchen any longer. The small square of egg-yolk brilliance was enough to give anyone a headache, even without a crashing hangover, but Isabel still bought the paint, along with brushes and rollers. She paid in cash - her cash - and then took the children for a pizza as a treat. In the market she bought sunflower-printed fabric to make curtains, guessing at the quantity, and yellow gingham for a tablecloth.
When they got back to the house the air smelt different and she realised that Neil had been there. She ran upstairs and, yes, he'd taken more shirts, a suit and some weekend clothes. It seemed infinitely tragic that he'd chosen a time when he knew they would be out at Cubs and ballet, that he felt it was preferable to sneak like a thief into his own house rather than meet her. And she wondered how he could bear not to see the children. She rang his mobile but a metallic voice informed her that the number was unavailable.
The kitchen, with all her bits and pieces piled haphazardly on the kitchen table, was so bland that the yellow paint was like an all-out assault. Perhaps I should have started with something like wheat, or even primrose, Isabel thought as she rollered dramatic arcs of colour over the walls. Luckily they were in good condition and didn't need preparing. Michael got bored quickly and drifted off to play on the computer but Katie diligently worked away in her corner, spattered with yellow freckles, clutching her paintbrush and letting the paint drip over her hand. Isabel hoped the room would look better with another coat.
She did the second coat of paint early on Sunday morning. It was still dark outside but the room shone under the electric light with a nuclear glow. The muscles in her forearm ached, then settled into a dull pain. She finished just as Michael emerged, sleepy in pyjamas, so she laid out breakfast for him in the sitting room and left him watching cartoons with instructions to feed Katie when she came down.
'You'll have to eat on your laps,' she said, looking at the piles of things evacuated from the kitchen. Then she went back to bed herself and slept, for what seemed like hours but merely lasted the duration of children's television.
After a picnic lunch she dragged the reluctant children out for a walk in the country. The fields looked sodden and miserable, stumps of cornstalks flapping stiffly in the bitter wind, the light flat and grey. The children managed a ragged cheer when Isabel announced that they were turning back for home. They were walking into the wind now, the hedges providing little shelter. The wind made her eyes water and her voice wavered as she jollied Katie along.
Michael lagged behind, splashing through muddy puddles, kicking black water over the track.
'I want my Daddy,' Katie whispered and Isabel's heart contracted as she knelt in the mud and hugged her little girl tight.
On the way back they picked up a video and Isabel settled the children down with cocoa to warm them. The kitchen was aggressively yellow, a challenge to depressives everywhere. Isabel moved her possessions back in: the string of Mexican chillies, the Moroccan copper pots. She paused at the photograph of Neil in the Empty Quarter, the desolate sands stretching out behind him, the distant mountains touched with gold. He looked so young. She touched his face and the image of Neil carried on smiling confidently, frozen in time.
Back to work on Monday. Saturday had been a good day, Adam said, and Isabel spent much of the morning helping him put out replacement stock. It was fascinating what people read. Adam said that each year there were books that were bought specifically as presents, usually inoffensive books with a celebrity or television connection, or the latest hardback blockbuster from an established author.
'Even a small shop like this, which can't do much discounting, will shift those.'
'Don't you worry about the big chains taking away your business?' Isabel asked.
Adam shook his head. 'Milbridge is too small for a big chain. And although people can go to Fordingbury for their books we're on their doorstep. It's just a question of playing with the numbers, guessing what will sell at what price, at what point it's worth someone's while to go elsewhere.'
He glanced round the shop, which had one solitary browser ensconced in the Popular Science section. 'Speaking of which, as it's quiet now, I'm going to finish processing Saturday's figures and work out what we need more of, then do the orders. Give me a shout if you need help.'
He clattered down the stairs to his office, leaving Isabel behind the counter. A young mother with a baby in a pushchair came and bought a cloth picturebook. The browser bought a book about gene therapy and placed an order for another. As she handed the book over the shop bell rang and she looked up to see a familiar shape duck his head as he came through the low door. He politely held the door open for the browser to leave, his manners as polished as his shoes.
'Hello, Isabel,' he said as he strolled past the Biography table and came to stand before her.
'Patrick.' It felt strange to see him, his hands resting lightly on the counter. Hands that she had once known well, that she had kissed, that she had let explore her body. She folded her arms across her chest, tucking her own hands out of sight and curling them into fists.
'As you won't come to me, I have come to you.' His voice was as deep and smooth as ever, but controlled as if he knew its power and was searching for a way to find her weaknesses.
Isabel swallowed. 'I suppose Mary told you I was working here.'
'No, Justine. Mary isn't speaking to me at the moment.' He gave a rueful grin. 'Or rather, she has said so much to me that we're both exhausted. Apparently it's all my fault.' He looked at her in a way she'd once found charming, voice confiding.
'And isn't it?' Her own voice sounded metallic.
'C'mon, we're both adults. You knew what you were getting into.'
Isabel turned her head and stared up at the ceiling. Yes, she'd known at the start: he'd made his limits for a relationship clear. And yes, she'd known that she had far more to lose than he did. But he was the one who had said, 'No tears when we part'. He was the one who had tried to blackmail her. She hadn't known about that.
He was leaning forward now. 'Poor baby, you've had a rough ride.' His finger traced the line of her jaw, touched her lips. 'My offer still stands,' he said, his voice a resonant whisper insinuating itself into her being.
She took a step back, out of reach. 'I must have been mad to get involved with you,' she said slowly.
'Darling, I know you're angry with me and I accept things got a little out of hand -'
'Out of hand? Out of hand?' Isabel ran her fingers through her hair. 'My God, have you any idea of the damage we've done?'
He had, at least, the grace to look a little shamefaced. 'You knew the risks. Nobody made you have an affair.'
'So it's all my fault. Is it my fault for making you blackmail me?' The shop bell clanged as the door opened, and a shopper started to look through the books on the front table. Isabel kept her voice low as she said, 'I should have thought more about what I was doing. Not just let myself get swept up into it.'
'But it was fun, though,' Patrick said and their eyes met.
'Expensive fun.'
'Then come with me. You don't have to stay here.'
Isabel gripped the edge of the counter and tried to stay calm. 'I can't just run away, I still have responsibilities, and you are the last man in the world I would run away with. Patrick, it is over. Whatever I
may have felt for you has been wiped out.' She stopped to try and control her breathing, pressing her hand to her upper chest as if she could squash down what she felt. If she let him make her feel angry it meant he could still control her feelings. When she felt able to carry on she said, 'When you sent the photographs to Neil you knew what was likely to happen, and you did it anyway, without thought for me or the children or anyone except yourself.'
Patrick straightened up. 'I didn't send the photographs.'
'Oh, sure.'
'It wasn't me.' His face was a sullen red.
Isabel turned away in disgust. 'Do you really expect me to believe you?'
'I don't lie. You should know that.'
'Go away, Patrick. Just go. I really don't want to see you anymore.'
'No.' He reached across the counter and grabbed her arm. 'I didn't send them.'
Isabel tried to twist away from him. 'Let me go,' She pulled at his hand but he was too strong. She looked around for help and saw the shopper, an elderly woman, looking up from the biographies, her face a picture of genteel horror. In desperation to get free she bent her head and bit his wrist as hard as she could.
Immediately he released her. 'You fucking bitch,' he spat, holding his wrist. 'I offered you everything -'
'I don't want it. I don't want you,' she shouted back. 'Leave me alone.'
'What's going on?' Adam's voice behind her.
Isabel turned, unable to speak. Her stricken eyes met his and he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Adam looked across at Patrick. 'Well?' he said.
Patrick swept his hair back, his eyes narrowed as he looked from Adam to Isabel. 'My, my,' he drawled, 'you are a fast worker, aren't you?'
Isabel gasped. 'How dare you?' She stepped forwards, but Adam stopped her by moving in front of her.
'I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave the shop,' he said to Patrick, his voice neutral. 'You're upsetting my staff and the other customers.'
'Other customers?' Patrick looked round at the elderly shopper, who quickly retreated into Ancient History. 'Hardly.'
Adam sighed. He appeared completely relaxed despite Patrick's threatening demeanour and his refusal to rise to Patrick's insinuation defused the atmosphere. His voice was firm.
'Mrs Freeman has asked you to go; I'm now asking you to leave.'
'And if I don't?'
'Look,' Adam said with a sigh. 'I'm running a business here. If I have to call the police to remove you I will, but it will be a nuisance for all of us. So why don't you just go.'
They stared at each other, Patrick more thick set than Adam, his body tense. Adam tall and lean, apparently unruffled, as comfortable as if he was dealing with a slightly perplexing book query.
'It's over, Patrick,' Isabel said.
He looked at her, his face red with anger. Then he turned and barged out, knocking over a pile of books and slamming the door behind him while the bell rang wildly.
Isabel realised she was trembling. 'I'm sorry, Adam,' she said. 'I had no idea he'd come here.'
Adam raised his eyebrows. 'Monday mornings are certainly interesting when you're around,' he said. 'Sorry about that,' he called out to the elderly shopper who was scurrying to the door. 'Come again soon.' The door shut behind her. Adam started to pick up the books strewn over the floor in Patrick's wake.
'I suppose next time it'll be your husband,' he said lightly.
Isabel felt herself go scarlet. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'My life's in a bit of a mess right now.'
'So you told me last Monday.'
'I'm sorry,' Isabel said again. Her legs were trembling with, she supposed, shock.
'Let's be grateful he didn't choose Saturday afternoon to come.' He rubbed the bridge of his bony nose. 'Think no more about it. Go downstairs and recover, if you want, and I'll hold the fort up here.' As he spoke the door opened. Both of them looked round quickly, as if worried that a rampaging Patrick might burst through, but it was nothing more sinister than a woman with a double pushchair. Adam went to help her negotiate the door and Isabel slipped downstairs, interested that Adam was not perhaps as cool as he looked.
She felt light-headed, as if by confronting Patrick she had released all her anxieties. She rubbed the top of her arm where he had gripped her. She had bitten him. It seemed impossible in retrospect. No wonder he had been so surprised. And she was surprised at herself, the primitive quality of her reaction. She had bitten him! She gave a little giggle, amazed at herself. She shouldn't have bitten him, but then, he shouldn't have held her, shouldn't have come back. She wondered why he was so persistent. Perhaps it was only because she had been the one to ditch him, when he was the one used to doing the ditching. And his refusal to take any blame was strange as no one else could have been responsible for sending the photographs.
'Isabel?' Adam's voice from upstairs. 'Could you please bring me up the figures on my desk?'
She took them to him, along with a mug of tea. There were now several people in the shop.
'Thanks. Okay?' His grey eyes were warm with concern.
She nodded. 'Yes. I'll take over if you want to carry on with these.'
'I don't need a computer for everything.' She watched him run a pencil down a column of numbers and add them up so quickly she could hardly follow.
'Wow. Are you really doing the maths that quickly?'
'Sure. Sign of a misspent youth.'
She watched, fascinated, as he did calculations as fast as he could write.
'Are you sure they're right?'
'Test them if you like. There should be a calculator about somewhere.' He looked around. 'Try that drawer.'
She searched and found the calculator.
'Okay, we'll do that column.'
'On your marks, get set, go!' Isabel punched in the numbers as fast as she could, but she was still slower than Adam.
'That's incredible. You ought to be able to do something with that.'
'Like what?'
'I don't know. Become an accountant?'
Adam laughed, his eyes creasing at the corners. 'No thanks.'
'Seriously, you ought to be able to do something more than -' She stopped, embarrassed at what she had just said.
'More than running a provincial bookshop?'
She nodded. 'I didn't mean to be rude.'
'I know. Don't worry, most people make assumptions.' He doodled on his sheet of figures. 'I used to be a futures trader in the City, playing with numbers. I always said I'd stick it for five years then get out with my stash, but when the time came I thought I'd do just another year. And then another. You get hooked on it, the adrenaline, being faster than anyone else. Then it burns you out.'
Isabel tried to imagine Adam in the City, shouting 'Buy, buy, buy!' but couldn't. 'You're so good at maths, it's like magic,' she said. 'Couldn't you do something else with it?'
'Before I worked as a trader I was a Cambridge academic.' He shot her a look, as if to see how she was taking the information, and grinned at her obvious surprise. 'Pure mathematics is even worse than the City for burn-out. Most people have done their best work by the age of twenty-four. Cambridge in the Eighties and Nineties was full of headhunters after people like me - maths PhDs at a loose end.'
'Why?'
'Speed. At the end of the day, trading is about speed, and the quicker you can do the calculations, the more money you make. When I was in the City, I was doing deals worth my entire year's turnover here every day, and it meant nothing. Pretend money.'
A customer bought a huge stack of books, obviously clearing his Christmas shopping list judging by the range, from a baby picturebook to the latest political memoir. Isabel rang up the money and carefully put the books into two carrier bags, all the while thinking about Adam and mathematics. His curly, dark head was now bent over the figures, pencil scribbling madly.
'Do you miss it?'
He looked up. 'Which? The City or the maths?'
'Either.'
'Both, sometimes. But most
of the time, no. I play around a bit on the markets for fun, there's a poker game that meets once a month, and the shop keeps me sane.'
Poker. Shades of the Wild West. Another Adam that sat strangely with the diffident bookshop owner, in his faded moleskin jeans and soft suede shoes. But, thinking about it, she realised it made sense, the ability to calculate, the calm reserve. She looked at him shyly. 'Lots of people would find working in a shop would drive them mad.'
'But a bookshop like this is different. It's fascinating, like taking part in people's lives, you can tell what's happening to them by what they buy.' He glanced at her. 'I knew who you were, for instance.'
'Me? What did you know?'
'I knew you bought a lot of children's books, so I guessed you have children, and also fiction. There were some other books as well.' He looked sheepish.
Isabel mentally went back over what she had bought recently. Rekindling the Passion, then the divorce book.
'Mmm. I can see how books might be revealing.' She wondered what Adam read himself.
Adam fiddled with his pencil. 'It isn't the first time I've seen you and the man who came in today. A few Sundays ago, I was in the Italian cafe when you were there.'
Isabel thought back. Of course, the man with the newspaper on the next table who'd seemed familiar. 'Were you listening to us?'