The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (e books for reading txt) 📗

This morning I’m walking on the beach with Jenny and the dogs. Mags is an enthusiastic golden retriever, great-granddaughter of the dog in the painting in Alastair’s office, and Rollo is a collie cross, needle-nosed and wiggly. It’s sunny, but there’s a cold wind. The beach is quite exposed, a wide sandy strand, and the dogs bound away into the distance before dashing back again, winding back and forth ahead of us, noses to the ground, tails wagging. There’s no one else here, even though it’s a fine expanse of sand and shingle; no picnicking families, no other dog walkers, no children. Perhaps it’s too early – we were out by eight-thirty to make the forty-minute drive, and it’s probably not even ten o’clock yet.

Jenny’s been talking about the plans for her wedding. She and Alastair are getting married in December and everything, more or less, is arranged. She doesn’t seem to be looking forward to it though.

‘I want to be married,’ she says, ‘but I wish we didn’t have to have a wedding.’

It seems like a very long time since my own wedding, memories of which are pin-sharp in places and a blur of confusion in others.

‘I usually advise people to run away,’ I tell her. ‘It’s much easier. And cheaper. Unless you really want a dress and all that stuff.’ I stoop to pick up a bright orange periwinkle shell, and put it in my pocket. There are huge swathes of shells here, in every shade, and rolling banks of those narrow spirals, the ones like miniature unicorn horns.

‘I wish I’d thought of that. We could have just gone somewhere the weekend after we got engaged or something, and now it would all be a distant memory.’

‘I’m sure it will be lovely, though,’ I say. Both families live locally. She’s known Alastair since she was at school, despite the five-year age difference; he was the same year as her eldest brother. They didn’t get together until quite recently though, a couple of years ago. They’re getting married at the church in town, and the reception’s at the town hall, making best use of the municipal Christmas decorations.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Anyway, it’s all over in a flash,’ I tell her, ‘and then you’re off. You don’t even have to stay to the end if you don’t want to.’

‘Aye, that’s true. But still.’ She pokes with her toe at a piece of driftwood. The high tide mark wobbles away from us, crispy black seaweed and plastic bottles, gull feathers, twists of green and orange rope. My eyes are busy, searching for treasure.

They’re going to Skye for their honeymoon, which I found amusing when she told me. I would prefer somewhere warmer, myself, than the Highlands in December, although it’s a beautiful cottage by a loch. It’s a seven-hour drive, which seems incredible, so their first night as husband and wife will be spent in a hotel near Newton Stewart.

We pause, looking out to sea. The breeze is whipping up white horses further out, and white clouds are scudding rapidly across the sky.

‘So,’ she says, ‘is it very insensitive to be talking to you about my wedding?’

I laugh. ‘No, not at all. Why would it be?’

‘Totally none of my business. I like to pretend I’m not nosy,’ she says, ‘but of course I am.’

‘Isn’t everyone? It’s fine. You can ask me,’ I tell her, ‘but I might need you to not talk to anyone else about it.’

‘Did something happen, with your husband? Are you… separated?’

‘I suppose we are, yes. I mean, yes, we definitely are.’ It’s the first time I’ve said this since I came up here. I’m quite surprised by how much easier it is than when I had to tell all my friends back in January.

‘Are you getting divorced then?’ she asks, as we move on up the beach.

‘Not yet. If you leave it,’ I say, ‘and you’re separated for two years, that makes it easier, and no one has to go to court. At least, that’s my understanding. I haven’t really looked into it. Maybe I should.’

‘Are you selling your house?’

I laugh. ‘God, no. No, he lives there with his, er, girlfriend.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve called her that, out loud at least.

‘Oh. But what about you? That’s not right, is it? Is it his house? How does that work?’

‘No, it’s ours. He’s buying me out. Eventually.’

She hesitates. ‘Did he leave you for her, then, aye?’

‘Aye. I mean, yes.’ I tell her a bit about Chris and Susanna, just enough to explain how I come to be here, alone.

‘He sounds like a wee prick,’ she says, disapprovingly, which makes me laugh.

Cerys and I are at Bookers in Dumfries. I think she was quite surprised when I said I’d like to go with her, but that’s because I love a Cash and Carry and you never get to go to them unless you run the sort of business that uses them. We’ve filled a trolley with enormous bottles of olive and sunflower oil, and sacks of rice and couscous and quinoa. Everything’s giant, I love it. Lumps of cheese the size of your head, huge jars of herbs and spices. Tins of tomatoes like barrels. (She doesn’t buy those, disappointingly; they get their vast tins of tomatoes delivered.) I can never decide what I like best: tiny things, like dolls’ house furniture, or giant things, like those comical deckchairs you get at the seaside that make you look like a doll yourself.

‘You’re easily entertained,’ Cerys says, amused by my rapture.

‘I really am though. I think it’s a blessing. I never get bored.’

‘I’ll send you by yourself next time. I can’t say I exactly love coming up here.’

‘It is quite a long way.’ I help her sling various bags of pulses into her car. ‘I always wonder how you work out how much you’ll need of everything.’

‘I leave all that to Jilly; she’s the brains of