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

that because of what I said, weeks ago, about his brother’s party? Or am I making connections where none exist? It’s just a word, after all.

On the next piece of paper, lined this time, torn from an exercise book by the looks of it, he’s written:

An empty room seems emptier

A night alone seems longer

The moon’s cold thumbnail

More distant

‘That’s got potential,’ I say aloud, making myself jump. This is rude, isn’t it? I should go. I restack the paper, looking again at the piece that says, ‘COMMON’. The trouble with snooping is you can’t ask a question about anything you find that you shouldn’t have looked at. I could ask about anything in this room except the writing. I eye a pile of notebooks beside the typewriter. I wonder what’s written in those. Edward is… I suppose he’s a mystery, isn’t he? A faintly glamorous mystery.

Sighing, I back out of the room without touching anything else, and make my way downstairs.

When he gets home, midway through Tuesday afternoon, I’ve just sold a Harry Potter first edition for four hundred and fifty quid and I’m quite pleased with myself.

‘Hey,’ he says, ‘how are you doing, junior bookseller?’

‘Selling books like a senior bookseller. Look. You may need to promote me.’ I spin the receipt round so he can see.

I can tell he’s pleased. ‘Which reminds me. Here.’ He pulls a long flat box out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. ‘Something shiny.’

I’m slightly agonized at being given a gift I essentially asked for. ‘You didn’t have to get me anything. I was joking.’

‘I know. But I saw it and I thought you might like it.’

I open the box. Inside, there’s a spoon. A large Victorian tablespoon, silver, with my initials, all three of them, ALH, monogrammed on the handle.

‘Oh, wow.’ I stare at it, and then at him. ‘That’s amazing! My initials!’

‘I know, I’ve never found anything monogrammed with anything useful. Cool, huh?’

‘Was this expensive?’ I ask, suspiciously.

‘No. Makes ’em cheaper if they’re engraved. Because who wants someone else’s initials?’

‘It’s still silver, though.’ I rub my finger over the hallmark. ‘How old is it?’

‘I think it’s mid-Victorian. Look it up.’

‘Look it up? How?’

He tuts. ‘Here.’ He sits down at the desk and opens Google. I watch him as he looks up hallmarks.

‘Let’s see it then,’ he says. ‘I think it’s Glasgow. Yep, there you are, that’s the Glasgow mark, the head. And this ‘P’ is the year. 1860. And this is the maker: Kerr and Phillips. You could probably look them up too, if you wanted. Find out where their shop was.’

‘Wow.’ I stroke the bowl of the spoon, which has a gorgeous soft sheen to it. I spoon imaginary gravy onto a plate of imaginary Victorian Sunday dinner. ‘It’s beautiful. I wonder who ALH was. Thank you so much.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘It must have been expensive, you shouldn’t have. I was only joking. I just said “shiny” because–’

‘I know. I just saw it, and it seemed perfect when I remembered your name begins with an A.’

‘I’m surprised you remembered my middle initial.’ I frown at him. I’m more than surprised in fact – I’m more or less astounded.

‘I did worry I might’ve got it wrong,’ he says, ‘but I was fairly confident. Lucy, right? Althea Lucy.’

‘Yes. Well, I shall treasure it,’ I say, and then feel the tips of my ears burning with embarrassment. He doesn’t notice though; he’s turned back to the screen.

‘Sell anything else?’ he asks, and we’re back on safer ground.

I google Victorian tablespoons as I sit in the car after work, piggybacking off the town hall Wi-Fi. Eighty to three hundred pounds.

I don’t know what to think. Perhaps that’s not much money to him? Even the lower estimate seems a significant amount to me. I’m puzzled. It would be silly to read too much – or indeed anything – into this. Wouldn’t it? He saw it and thought of me and can afford to buy a present – whether pricey or properly expensive – without thinking too much about it. That’s all.

Last night, Xanthe rang and told me about a dinner party at Chris and Susanna’s, where Angela, apparently, had a bit too much to drink and asked about me.

Xanthe goes to these things to keep me in touch with what’s going on. I don’t mind if she wants to be friends with them – she’s known Chris for a long time; longer than I have, in fact. And her descriptions of social events involving the new couple are always funny.

Anyway, so while they were eating dessert, Angela asked Chris if he’d heard from me lately and how I was doing and everything. (Perhaps a little tactless – she could have asked Xanthe at a more opportune moment, or in fact remembered what I told her myself just last week!)

Chris said, truthfully, that we hadn’t spoken in a while, and Angela said it was sad that I’d felt I had to actually move away. Chris was annoyed by this and said I hadn’t moved away; I was just spending time somewhere else.

‘She’ll stay there, though,’ Angela said. ‘I think it’s a real shame – I miss her.’ Xanthe chimed in to say so did she, and Susanna burst into tears and ran out of the room.

The five of them all sat and looked at each other, and Rob said, ‘You should probably make sure she’s all right, mate,’ and Jeff, Angela’s husband, said he was sorry if they’d upset her and Angela said, ‘You can’t upset everyone’s lives without people getting upset,’ and all in all it sounded awful, but also… I don’t know.

Xanthe says she doesn’t think Susanna had ever thought about how everyone else would feel about any of it, and that includes me, rather oddly. If I was sleeping with someone else’s husband, I’d expect them to be upset when they found out. But maybe thinking that would make it harder to do it? Who knows? It’s easy to speculate, but