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

fill my evening by phoning Xanthe and watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail. At this time of year, it doesn’t get dark until nearly midnight up here, and on my way to bed I sit on the windowsill in my bedroom and look out at the garden for ages, watching the blue twilight grow deeper. I feel strange and nostalgic, not necessarily for all the birthdays of my marriage, but for the years before that, my teens and early twenties when I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. There’s a certain feeling in the air this time of year that always reminds me of revising for my GCSEs. Not that those evenings were as long and light as they are up here, but even at home it doesn’t get dark until gone nine, and we spent a lot of time in the park near the school, in the gathering dusk, drinking illegally obtained cider and smoking.

Something about the quality of the light triggers memories, and for all the Junes since then, it’s that one that feels strongest in my memory, or perhaps the run of five or so when ‘summer’ meant ‘revising’ or attempting to revise. I think of evenings spent at Mark Woodley’s, the first year of my A Levels, his parents out or away, and the things we found to do instead of revision. It seems unimaginable that it’s twenty-seven years since I lost my virginity. What would seventeen-year-old me say if she could see me sitting here, my arm cold against the glass, wearing a pair of pyjamas that belonged to Uncle Andrew, with no real plans or dreams for the future?

Nine

A Thursday, late June. Edward in his green armchair and me perched on the counter. I don’t have a chair, there’s not room for two, so I climb up a step-stool and sit on the counter when we’re not busy. He says it ‘adds an air of youthful informality’, to which I usually roll my eyes.

We’re eating our sandwiches, bought, by me, from the Old Mill. As I chew, I remember something.

‘Your brother’s invited me to a party,’ I tell him.

‘What?’ I don’t answer, assuming he heard me perfectly well. ‘What sort of party? Jesus.’

‘I don’t know. A cocktail party? I’ve never been to a cocktail party.’

‘Did you get a written invitation?’

‘No, he sent me a text. I admit I was a bit disappointed.’ A vision of a printed invitation with curly writing and gold edges floats in the air before me.

‘A text? Good grief. How vulgar. And how does my brother have your phone number?’ He glowers at me. The disapproval in his voice makes me chuckle.

‘He asked for it, last time I saw him.’

‘When was that? Why did you give it to him?’

‘Last week, he called round. He’s softening me up, I think. To sell him the Lodge.’ At least, I assume that’s what he was doing. He’s been round a couple of times recently. Never for long, always polite chat about generalities. Last week we talked about the barn conversion his team of builders are working on. He did twice ask me about Chris, and I was non-committal. I’m not sure who knows about my ‘situation’. Presumably not Charles; I think he was trying to find out if we were separated. I didn’t tell him though. We sat in the garden and drank tea; it was reasonably pleasant. No need to mention any of this to Edward.

‘I told you. He’s desperate to get his hands on it.’

‘He hasn’t asked directly, not since I first got here. He wanted to know if I’d decided what I was going to do and blah blah. You know what he’s like, terribly charming.’

‘He’s a bastard.’ This is more or less what Edward says whenever Charles is mentioned, although he still hasn’t said why he thinks so, and I’m not going to ask him.

‘Whatever. Anyway, what should I wear for a cocktail party? I can’t help but picture something a bit eighties.’

‘A dress.’

I snort. ‘Yes, thanks, Anna Wintour.’

‘Who else is going? Are you sure it’s a party?’

‘He said it was a party.’ I laugh. ‘You think he’s trying to get me there on my own? Oh lordy. Alastair and Jenny are going. And Richard and Catriona, and the Callows, apparently. I asked him; I don’t like going to things where I don’t know anyone, and being single–’ I stop myself, remembering that Edward doesn’t know I’m single, and I don’t want him to know, either. ‘I mean – being by yourself where everyone else is in a couple is awkward.’

‘Can’t you get Mr Mottram up for the weekend? Is he ever going to visit you?’

I’m annoyed with myself for bringing it up. ‘Too busy,’ I say, ‘work’s a nightmare at the moment.’

‘Well, Charles will be by himself, won’t he?’ He rolls his eyes.

‘Will he? I wasn’t sure. I saw him out riding with a blonde.’ I remember Charles saying ‘we’ when he invited me to go and see the house, although he hasn’t done that again since, I’ve noticed.

‘Oh, Miranda, probably. I don’t think they’re… although they might be.’ Edward shrugs, implying a complete lack of interest.

‘But anyway, he’ll be busy being the host and everything, and even if he wasn’t, you know, I wouldn’t want to spend all evening hanging out with your brother.’

He looks at me for a long moment. ‘Wouldn’t you? Why not?’

‘I don’t think we’ve got much in common, to be honest.’

‘No,’ he agrees, ‘probably not.’

‘Anyway, he said there’d be some single people as well. Before you ask, no, I don’t know who. What sort of dress? Not full length, right?’

‘No, that’s evening dress.’

I sigh. ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything suitable. Unless there’s something in the spare room.’ I keep meaning to go through Aunt Mary’s frocks and take pictures so I can put them on eBay. Vintage extravaganza. ‘There might be some amazing fifties thing I could wear. Although vintage looks