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

when you’ve never been in that situation, you can’t ever know. I admit I rarely try to get into Susanna’s head or attempt to have any empathy for her. After all, it looks to me like it’s turned out okay for her, living in my house with my husband. But I suppose I would think that. I’m the one people feel sorry for, which pleases me but probably upsets her even more. I doubt she thinks she’s the bad guy; no one ever does.

I wonder how she justifies it to herself. By thinking things were, what, difficult? Between me and Chris? I can imagine that would seem like the reason and perhaps she’s right. There must have been something wrong, even if I had no idea about it, even if I resent the thought that he could have told me there was a problem, and we might have been able to sort it out.

But that’s all ancient history. I don’t even know when it might have been fixable. Nothing seemed any different to usual, not to me. It all seemed exactly the same as ever. If I’d noticed, maybe I’d feel better, but I must have failed on every level.

It’s no good feeling bad about any of that. I’ve more or less stopped running over it all in my mind, wondering where I could have applied the tape. The answer is nowhere. However, none of my sensible thinking means I’m now able to empathize with Susanna, and no one would expect me to.

I don’t enjoy hearing about things like the dinner party, or how Cora Thwaite’s youngest told Susanna’s daughter Ruby that her mother was a ‘housebreaker’ because of something she’d heard her parents say. Housebreaker – that’s cute isn’t it; a junior school misunderstanding of ‘homewrecker’. Hearing about it is still better than bumping into any of them though; the horror of seeing Susanna in town, perhaps, or at the supermarket. Or maybe that would be a good thing, helping me grow a thick skin of indifference.

Fourteen

I’ve been on my own for most of the week. Edward’s been away in Edinburgh again. Sometimes he tells me some of what he’s been up to, but not always. It’s half past five, and the front door’s locked and the Closed sign up, while I sweep. Where does the dirt come from? Off people’s shoes, I guess. You have to sweep pretty much every day. On Monday mornings, I hoover before the shop opens.

I’ve done the catalogue and thrown out some milk that was past its best. It’s been warm and dry, almost a week of those days you sometimes get in September with beautiful slow heavy light, the Virginia creeper on the back of the shop flaming scarlet. The dry weather means I’ll have to water the garden, or at least the pots on the patio. I like the shop after hours, it’s so quiet and still, dust motes dancing in unexpected shafts of sunlight.

The clocks tick and there are mysterious creaking noises from the shelves and floorboards. I like to imagine the books are settling down to sleep, although that’s an unusually romantic notion for me. I fiddle about on Twitter, setting up some tweets for the weekend so I don’t have to think about it. I hope Edward has taken some photos while he’s been out and about. People like pictures. Tweets about books are good, but pictures of books go down better. He doesn’t always think about it though, despite me texting him reminders. Which he probably doesn’t even read.

I’ve closed down the computer and am on my way down the passage to the garden when I hear the key in the door, and turn back to say hello. I wasn’t expecting him, but it’s not like he’s obliged to tell me what he’s up to.

He pushes the door open and sees me. ‘Oh, hey, Thea, still here?’ He’s carrying a box, which he puts down on the counter.

‘Just about to water the pots – Oh, hello, Lara.’

‘Yeah, hi,’ she says. Is it me, or does she have the most annoying face ever? I rarely dislike people, but I definitely dislike Lara. Why could that be, I definitely don’t wonder.

‘D’you need a hand?’ Edward asks.

‘God, no, no, don’t worry. You carry on.’ I back down the corridor, stopping by the staircase. ‘Did you have a productive week?’

‘Not bad. There are some more boxes in the car; should be okay until tomorrow. And some stuff coming next week. I bought a lovely set of George Eliot, cloth-bound, from the sixties, dark green, really smart. And a signed first edition Toni Morrison; very exciting.’

‘Oh, really? What is it? Beloved? Please say yes.’

He laughs. ‘It is.’

‘How much is that?’

‘Tempted?’

Lara’s halfway up the stairs, turned back, sighing at this interruption to her evening.

‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.’

‘I paid one ninety, probably get two fifty for it.’

‘Ugh. I’ll just be looking at it then. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’

I look at Lara, who isn’t rolling her eyes, but probably only because that would be vulgar.

He looks up at her. ‘Go on up, I won’t be a moment.’

‘Edward…’ she whines.

Maybe it’s not whiney, that’s probably just me. I glance at him; he looks slightly irritated. I just can’t see why he bothers. I suppose she must be fantastic in bed. Although I can’t believe it; she seems so… uptight. I assume they have angry sex. Maybe he likes that; some people do. Not that I care, or have any interest in what kind of sex he might like. Shit, now I’m blushing, and I haven’t heard anything he’s just said to me.

‘Thea?’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said, I bought some atlases, big ones. Maybe we should put some out, on the map table. A display, sort of. You’re good at that.’

The map table is a new purchase. I saw it advertised on Facebook and was inspired by the plan chest at Hollinshaw. I love