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

plan chests and map tables, because drawers are great, and map table drawers are so enormous. I said we should get it and keep maps in it, obviously. Everyone loves maps. And we do have some great atlases. And Edward agreed, so now we have – I mean, now he has – a map table.

‘That’s a good idea,’ I agree. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it. Better get on, so I can leave you to it.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘No, really–’ but we’re walking through the back rooms towards the garden. ‘She’ll be annoyed,’ I suggest, glancing at him.

‘Oh well. She usually is.’

There’s nothing I can say to this – it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t approve though – either you like someone, or you don’t. If you do, be nice. If you don’t, what’s the point?

Out in the garden he begins to fill one of the watering cans for me with the hose. The garden’s quite a surprise, bigger than you’d expect. There are trees and borders and a lawn; it’s comfortable, but pretty, not as neat as the garden at the Lodge. Edward gardens a bit and Jilly’s niece, Wendy, comes in once a week in the summer to mow the lawn and keep it tidy. There are lots of pots, filled with agapanthus and lilies, and some small trees, acers. There are a table and chairs by the house, and benches dotted about. Edward comes out here to read in the evenings, he says, and sometimes we have our lunch out here if it’s not raining. I’d like to get more involved, but there’s not time – the garden at the Lodge keeps me busy enough and I should think the state of it would make Uncle Andrew quite gloomy. I do my best, but I’m working, after all. I had to buy some of that weed-reducing membrane stuff for the vegetable garden. Next year I’ll plant veg.

If I’m still here.

I water pots and Edward fills the second watering can. Then he wanders about, looking at his plants. It’s a lovely evening, very still, and the sky very blue. I might eat my dinner outside if it’s still warm enough when I get home. I finish my task and begin to roll up the hose. I fear if this was my garden I’d leave it untidily spread out ready for next time.

‘Right then,’ he says, ‘better face the music, I suppose.’

I pause, one hand on the door. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘A personal question?’

‘Be my guest.’ He looks amused. ‘Unlikely to be edifying.’

‘I just wondered – and this is horribly nosy – why you brought her here, if you don’t want to spend time with her?’ We’re in the back room now, and I lock the door behind us. It’s warm and quiet in here with the Local History. ‘You needn’t answer – it’s none of my business.’

‘I often wonder myself,’ he says.

‘I mean, have you been together all week?’

‘Oh, no. No, I picked her up this morning. I don’t usually bring her here – she doesn’t like it.’

‘Doesn’t she?’

‘Hates books, hates the ghastly provinces. Isn’t that fond of me.’

I stare at him. ‘So why–’

‘No idea.’

‘O-kay…’

‘I said I was coming home, she said she’d come with me. I think her usual fella’s away.’

‘Her usual fella? I thought you were–’

‘Oh, no. She lives with someone.’

‘Does she? Oh, okay. Okay.’

‘He knows about me; assume he doesn’t care.’

I’m gawping at him. ‘Goodness. Well, it’s none of my business, like I said. I just wondered.’ We walk along the passage, past the room full of plays and poetry, towards the stairs. ‘She’ll be cross you didn’t go straight up.’

‘Yes, probably.’ He shrugs.

‘Do you… Will you have a row?’

‘Maybe. I don’t usually rise to it. Which makes her even crosser.’ He grins, suddenly. ‘It’s quite perverse, isn’t it?’

‘A bit.’ I’m disappointed. I couldn’t tell you why, though. That grin suggests he’s fine with it, and maybe I was right earlier; maybe that’s the whole point.

‘Have a nice evening anyway,’ I say, pulling the curtain aside so I can collect my cardigan from the hook by the sink.

‘You too, Thea. Any plans?’

‘Oh, no. Just the usual. See you later.’

‘You’ll lock up?’

I nod. He climbs the stairs away from me and I watch him for a moment. He doesn’t look back but raises his hand in farewell. I go out into the front room and pick up my bag from behind the counter. I feel awful, and I’ve no idea why. Sometimes it comes in waves though, being sad. I take a deep breath and try not to think about them, upstairs together, bickering.

I lock the front door behind me and watch the swallows darting over the town hall. Time to go home. There’s salad for tea, and then I might watch a film. Something comforting but unsentimental.

Why would you want to spend time with someone you don’t even like much? It’s all a bit beyond me. I wonder about this man Lara lives with. How can he not mind about her and Edward? Perhaps I’m just not very sophisticated. I’d assumed she was single, wanting a similar thing to him, whatever that is exactly. I can see it might be useful to have a friend you can… sleep with. But they’re not friends, are they?

The sex must be great, though, or why would they bother?

When I get to work in the morning, I can hear them yelling. Or her, anyway. I stand motionless in the passage, half out of my jacket. I guess they didn’t hear me come in. Or they don’t care – that seems more likely.

‘… pay any bloody attention,’ Lara screams.

I can hear the rumble of his voice but not what he’s saying.

‘As if I give a SHIT,’ she yells.

I’m embarrassed. Should I hide behind the curtain? What if they come down and they’re still fighting? I hear footsteps on the stairs and she’s hammering down them in a fury. She nearly runs into me, but clearly doesn’t care;