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

‘No, I’ll cook out here. I could boil a kettle on the Emergency Primus. Need a cuppa.’

‘That might be better. Although it’s up to you,’ I add. ‘I’m not trying to boss you.’

‘Are you not?’ He grins at me. I wonder if it’s being outdoors that makes him less… combative, or our sort-of skiving.

I widen my eyes and shake my head. ‘I never boss anyone.’

‘No, no, of course not.’

I watch as he carries the shutters away, one at a time, back round the side of the house to the smaller shed. He returns with a beautiful Indian parasol, bright purple, with glittering beads hanging from it. He leans it against the wall and goes back for the stand.

‘It gets stupidly hot out here, and there’s no shade,’ he explains, putting the parasol up and going off again, returning this time with a wheelbarrow full of wood.

‘If I get all this done now,’ he says, ‘we won’t have to do it later when it’s really warm.’

‘Let me help,’ I say, and he asks me to unpack the hamper.

‘It’s a bit early for booze, d’you think?’ he says.

I nod. ‘It is for me, yes.’

‘So bring the wine out here and I’ll show you the fridge.’

‘Fridge? But there’s no electric.’

‘All will be revealed.’

I go inside and unbuckle the lid of the elderly Fortnum’s hamper he’s put on the worktop. Inside I find two bottles of white wine and four bottles of sparkling water, as well as various ingredients for lunch and dinner. I load up with bottles. I’m no expert, but the wine looks expensive. I trot outside again.

‘Did you buy this specially? I should give you some money.’

‘Oh no, don’t be ridiculous. Okay, so look – this is the shady side, because of the trees. And under here…’ He rolls a rock, much like the other rocks piled around the place, to one side. Under it is a piece of tarpaulin, and under that, rather thrillingly, a trapdoor. He pulls this up and shows me a square hole in the earth, neatly lined with slate, creating a cool place, just tall enough for a large wine bottle. There’s something in there, wrapped in a carrier bag.

‘Huh,’ he says, ‘I forgot about that.’

‘What is it?’

‘Champagne.’ He pulls it out and unwraps a bottle of Perrier Jouet.

‘Get you,’ I say, amused. ‘Essentially abandoning bottles of champagne.’

‘Profligate.’

‘Just a bit. Anyway, that’s clever, the fridge. Did you make it?’

‘Yeah, I built it when I was at school.’ He grins at me. ‘I’m pretty proud of it, to be honest.’

‘It’s very cunning.’

‘Yeah, it used to drive my mother mad that you had to put the milk in a bucket of cold water. And no ice for her G&Ts. Still no ice, but you can keep your tonic cold, especially if you put the ice packs from the cool box in here. Right then. What’s next? I think I’m going to go for a swim. Did you get a costume?’

‘Of course not. But it’s okay, I can paddle.’

‘You’re missing out. Could skinny dip? It’s very quiet…’

‘Yeah, d’you know what, I don’t think so. I’m afraid I require quite substantial support and buttressing.’

This makes him laugh. ‘Fair enough. I’ll go and get changed, anyway,’ he says, and heads back indoors. I stand outside on the grass and close my eyes. Apart from the sound of the waves, it’s totally silent. The sun on my face is heavenly. I stretch out my arms and soak up the warmth. I should probably put on some sun cream before I’m burnt to a crisp.

Should I lie on the grass and read while he’s swimming, or walk on the beach? If I was even five years younger, I’d have been on the beach already. I smear myself with factor thirty, remembering, this time, to do the back of my neck. Then I put my hat on and stuff an empty linen tote bag into the pocket of my skirt. I’m pleased with myself for remembering this, so I won’t have to try and hold any results of beachcombing in my hands. I look back towards the door into the hallway. Edward is still inside; I’m not sure whether to wait for him.

It suddenly seems a bit odd that we’re out here together. It’s not as though we’re… Are we friends? Not exactly. I mean he’s my boss, isn’t he? Would he have brought Rory with him? Maybe he would have. Maybe he did. He doesn’t seem to have any proper friends, although I’m not sure why.

I walk to the edge of the lawn and look down at the sand, and then clamber over the rocks, until I’m standing amongst the pebbles. I stoop to take off my sandals and leave them on a rock, and then begin to walk slowly along the beach, heading to the left, where a long spur of rock juts out into the bay.

I love a beach. A beach with shells and driftwood, sand and rockpools. I like things to look at, and things to collect. A good beach has beach glass, worn smooth, in unusual colours; and pieces of Victorian china, with patterns on; interesting shells. There are certainly lots of shells here. As my eyes adjust, I’m amazed. Different to the ones at the beach where Jenny walks the dogs, here there are huge heaping swathes of limpets and mussels and, caught up amongst them, the same bright yellow and orange periwinkles, deepening to maroon. I’m further down the beach now, the intertidal zone, on firm sand that was underwater earlier. I look back at the faint impressions of my footsteps. There’s a slight breeze and the endless whisper of the waves.

What a gorgeous day. I feel my spirits lift further. You could almost say I was happy. I don’t like to address this thought head on, though, because if you look at happiness it usually disappears, a shy creature. And also – it’s just a layer, isn’t it, a moment’s joy, come from nature, sunshine