by Jan Ellis
“Don’t leave tomorrow without coming in to say goodbye, will you?” said Erika.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Eleanor couldn’t help smiling as she went back into the shop. The launch party had been a great success: lots of books sold, new customers in the shop and nothing broken. She had made sure that highlights of the evening were pinged off into cyberspace and there would be photos in the local paper thanks to Mr Rowe.
“Need any help down there?” Eleanor looked up from beneath the drinks table where she was putting empty glasses back into boxes to see Jim grinning down at her.
“No, everything’s under control, thanks.”
“Any chance of a drink? You’re my final celebrity exclusive of the day.”
“‘Fraid not. Emma and Erika have finished off the last bottle of Chardonnay.” Eleanor frowned.
“Never mind – I’d actually prefer a pint anyway. Would you like to join me in the pub for a snifter?”
Eleanor hesitated for a moment then thought, why not? She didn’t know Jim Rowe all that well, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. “Okay. But only if you promise to spill the beans on ‘Lavinia’.”
“Deal. Now let me help you with those.”
Together they carried the wine glasses and empty bottles into the office, then Eleanor turned out the lights and locked the shop door.
“Where to?” she asked.
“It has to be the King’s Head,” said Jim, leading the way down the high street to the harbour side.
The town had several pubs, but this was the one with the most character. The heavy oak door opened onto a narrow corridor then another door, beyond which was a stone-flagged room with a log fire in the inglenook. There was a group of locals at the bar and what looked like tourists at another table. As Jim went to the bar to get the drinks, Eleanor looked around the room. On the walls were photographs of the fishing boats that had once worked the seas along this coast, and the lifeboat crews who had pulled so many men out of the water. Weather-beaten men in heavy oil skins stared out from across the centuries. Another photograph showed the high street and the bookshop that was now hers. One of the things that she loved about the town was the sense of history.
The pub was deliberately old-fashioned and completely unreconstructed – thank goodness. In a prominent spot behind the bar was a collection of mobile phones nailed to a board – Gerald, the landlord, insisted that customers should only speak to people in the same room, not somewhere else in the country. Quite right too, thought Eleanor as Jim joined her at the table bearing a pint, a large red wine and two packets of crisps. “Dinner,” he said smiling.
Eleanor suddenly remembered that she’d not eaten since about 1pm and realised that she was ravenous.
“Thanks and cheers!” The red wine on an empty stomach combined with the success of the evening made Eleanor feel giddy and bold. She couldn’t help herself checking out Jim as he stood at the bar: stocky, and older than her with greying hair. What her mother Connie would refer to as a ‘silver fox’. Oh, and quite a nice bum. The wine had gone straight to her head. She took a sip to cover her smile.
“So tell me about Lavinia Threlfall.”
“Oh, there’s not much to tell really. She was quite a looker when she was younger and determined to do well for herself. We worked alongside each other on the local paper for a few years, but she was always very ambitious and determined to go on to bigger and better things as a writer. Her father ran an abattoir, but you won’t find that in any autobiography, I bet.”
“Did you not want ‘bigger and better things’?”
Jim shrugged. “Not really. I enjoy the job and I love this part of the world.”
He sipped his beer and smiled across at Eleanor. “So what’s your story? I know about the shop, but not much else.”
She took another gulp from her wine. “Oh, there’s not much to tell really.” Not until I know you better, she said to herself. “Got married, had kids, got unmarried, bought a bookshop. What about you?”
“Pretty similar really – without the bit at the end. I was married to Margaret for twenty-odd years, and we have a son and a daughter. We split up a couple of years ago, but we’re still good pals.”
“That’s nice,” said Eleanor, peering into her wine glass. “I’m afraid that Alan and I are not quite at the ‘good pals’ stage yet.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get there. More crisps?”
Eleanor looked at the pile of crumbs on the table. “Sorry! I seem to have demolished most of those.”
“That’s okay. I think the fish and chip place is still open if you fancy something more substantial.”
“That sounds great,” she said, licking salt off her fingertips. “But I should probably go home. It has been a long day.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Jim, draining his glass. “I guess it’s a microwave lasagne for me then.”
As soon as she’d turned down the invitation Eleanor felt a pang of regret. Why shouldn’t she have a night out with Jim? She was a free woman, after all.
“Perhaps we could do it on Saturday?” she said at last. “If you like. I’ll be ready for a night out by then.”
Jim perked up immediately. “Okay. It’s a date.”
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