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

‘What’s to see?’ Xanthe looks unconvinced.

‘Castles. And beaches. It looks quite pretty, a bit like Cumbria. Not so dramatic as the Lakes. Or as touristy.’

‘Cool. I don’t think I can come for a fortnight,’ she says, ‘but I could come up for a week?’

‘That would be brilliant. It might even be fun if you’re there.’

I’ve been a bit worried about going on my own. It’s a long way to go by yourself if you don’t know anyone. I know that’s a silly thing to think; I’m an adult, and from now on I’ll be doing everything on my own, but it’s still nicer to have company.

I wonder if I should hire a van. I might want some of the furniture, perhaps, and there are bound to be bits and pieces that will need to be brought down and added to my storage unit. Or maybe I should wait until I get up there. I don’t want to drive a van to Scotland on the off-chance. And I suppose it doesn’t matter; I’ve got plenty of time and there is, rather excitingly, forty thousand pounds in my current account. I’ve divvied up a further forty-five grand into various savings accounts and fought the temptation to buy something completely ridiculous. I did get some new clothes though, even though I’m unlikely to need summer dresses in Scotland in April. Especially if I’m mostly going to be driving to the charity shop or the tip.

I’ve never had to make so many decisions all at once. I can’t even remember if I’ve ever had to make any on my own before. I must have done, but this all seems almost overwhelming. But not quite. It’s good to have things to think about that have nothing to do with Chris.

The night before we leave for Scotland, my friend Angela phones to tell me she’s been invited to dinner by Chris and Susanna, and do I mind if she goes.

‘It seems so odd that it’ll be at your house,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to upset you. I think it’s awful, Thea, but I feel like I should go. Should I? I like Chris.’ She tuts. ‘I thought I liked Susanna, as well, but now I’m not sure.’

I’m faintly amused by this. I feel she should have asked Xanthe’s opinion, rather than mine, but Angela isn’t tactful.

‘You must go if you’d like to – don’t think about me.’

‘But it’s so awful. I can’t believe she–’

‘It is awful. But it’s…’ I thought I was going to be able to say this without that light-headed feeling of misery and the pricking tears, but apparently not. I clear my throat. ‘But the thing is, she did, they have, it’s – that’s how it is. It’s not my house anymore. It’s their house.’ I wonder if I’ll ever truly believe this.

‘I’d be so angry though, Thea. If it were me.’

I laugh. ‘I am quite angry. And I’ll probably be angrier yet before I feel better. But there’s nothing I can do, is there? And it makes no difference, whether I’m angry or miserable or whatever. If you want to be friends with them, you know, that’s fine. Go to their house and eat their food and… Just don’t tell me about what they’re up to.’ I pause for a moment, thinking about this. ‘Unless I ask.’

‘Well, okay.’

‘And even if I do, you probably shouldn’t, to be honest.’

I’m packed and ready. I just have to collect Xanthe, who is doubtless frantically rushing about, preparing Rob for a week alone with the kids, and then we’re off. It’s a Sunday, so I’m hoping the roads will be empty. We should be in Gretna by half past four.

Six hours in the car. It rains the whole way. We eat sweets and sing along to an exhaustive playlist that Xanthe has compiled, tracks picked deliberately from before I met Chris, songs from our youth. It’s always fun to go on a road trip with a girlfriend. As long as no one gets shot and you don’t have to drive off a cliff, it’s all win, right?

At Gretna, we’re staying in the nicest hotel I could find – sick, as I am, of efficiently bland budget hotel chains. I demand cocktails (although maybe not too many) and a super-king-size bed and fancy chenille sofas. It’s glamorous in a low-key modern way. We toast each other in the bar and make up stories about the other guests. We go to bed early because we’re old and exhausted. I lie awake for a while, listening to Xanthe’s gentle snores. I try to calculate how many different beds we’ve shared but I get muddled around the mid-1990s and fall asleep to dream the sort of oddly complex and anxiety-driven dream that’s not much more relaxing than being awake.

We’re due in Baldochrie for eleven o’clock, which seems quite a civilized time to meet a lawyer. I’m not sure why I’m nervous about it, but I am. It’s an odd thing to be anxious about. It’s not like he can decide I’m not a suitable person to inherit Uncle Andrew’s house. It takes me ages to realize that perhaps I’m not anxious at all, but excited.

Dumfries and Galloway is one of those large, amalgamated counties. It’s not astonishingly beautiful, or wild, not like the west coast further north. It’s quite rural: cattle country and sheep. The towns are small, and the A75 bypasses most of the ones I’ve heard of. We drive past Dumfries itself, Castle Douglas and Kirkcudbright. Sometimes we can see the sea. It’s still raining though, grey and wet, a sharp wind. There are lots of lorries, heading to, or from, Stranraer. Maybe it would be pretty if it wasn’t raining – it’s hard to say. We drive past little cottages and large Victorian villas and untidy farmhouses and caravan parks. There are castles, in various states of ruin. It looks cold out there, and some of it