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

A weird sense of, I don’t know, potential? Not that there was any potential, or not really. It’s not like Keith asked to see me again. I screw up my face in the dark. All the ways of thinking about this sort of thing have curiously juvenile phrasing. I suppose because the last time I was bought a drink and flirted gently with a stranger, I was young. It makes me sigh, thinking about my younger self. Not that she was unhappy, or even particularly stupid; she was just… It was a long time ago and everything she did was new. Now nothing I do is new, but some of it is unusual. I don’t know. I feel as though I can almost but not quite identify something quite important.

At home I make myself a cup of tea and watch a documentary about Scottish lake villages I downloaded from the iPlayer last week. I go to bed later than usual, but not what anyone would really describe as ‘late’. I can’t sleep, though. I’d forgotten that feeling, of talking to a man who likes you. That’s not quite right. I often talk to men who like me. I mean, that thing where someone’s bought you a drink and made an effort and been perfectly clear that they find you attractive, even if that wasn’t enough to spur them to try and get to know you better. It’s simple, isn’t it, for all we make these things complicated.

And – this is a tiny almost-ignored thought that makes me sigh whenever it presents itself obliquely – Edward’s not really pissed off, is he? Why would he be? He seemed pissed off though. I think again about him glaring at me across the pub. I don’t want him to be annoyed with me, especially after we had such a good time before we went to the pub. Why does he have to be so cross all the time? It’s not like…

I’m slightly anxious about going to work in the morning. And irritated with myself for feeling that way. I fiddle about in the car for ages, emptying receipts out of my purse, putting CDs back in their cases. I can’t put it off for ever though. I’m sure it’ll just be one of those things I’ve worried about for nothing, I tell myself, pushing open the shop door.

Edward’s in his usual seat, reading the news on the laptop. He looks up as I walk to the counter.

‘Morning,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

‘I wondered if you’d make it in,’ he says, abruptly.

‘You wondered if I’d make it in?’ I stare at him. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

He shrugs. ‘Late night.’

‘Good grief. I know I’m ancient’ – I lean past him to put my bag under the counter – ‘but I can just about stay up until half past nine without having to pull a sickie.’

‘Half nine? They were still going at midnight.’

‘Were they? I didn’t stay until midnight.’

‘Oh.’ He’s turned in his chair to look at me. ‘Did you go home with that man?’

‘Jesus Christ. No, I didn’t. Why on earth would you ask something like that?’ ‘Oh. I thought you might. He liked you.’

I consider this. ‘Yeah, I think he did, but not enough to make any attempt to… well, anything. Anyway, I’ve never gone home with a man I just met; it would be wildly out of character. Jesus.’

‘Huh.’

‘Huh yourself. Jesus.’ I shake myself.

‘You seemed to be getting on well. Laughing and–’

‘Yes, he seemed pleasant. Who knows? He lives in Southampton so it’s not like I’m going to get to know him.’

‘He didn’t ask to see you again?’ He sounds disbelieving, which I suppose is a compliment. Sort of.

‘Nope.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, oh.’

‘Did you want him to?’

This is the big question, isn’t it? ‘Not really, no.’

‘Not really? Does that mean yes?’

‘No, no, it’s not that… I just… well, it might be nice, mightn’t it, to think someone might like me.’

‘I didn’t think he was all that,’ he says. ‘Does that sort of thing appeal to you?’

I just look at him.

‘I mean, you know.’ He does at least look vaguely embarrassed, dropping his gaze as I glare at him.

‘Not everyone is lucky enough to be brooding and patrician,’ I tell him. He looks briefly confused. ‘I mean, I’m not exactly’ – I search my mind – ‘Cameron Diaz, am I?’

He brushes this aside with a gesture. ‘If you wonder whether random men might want to fuck you, I imagine the answer is yes,’ he says.

We stare at each other. I feel unexpected tears pricking behind my nose. ‘That’s not very… That’s not exactly what I’m talking about.’ I’m annoyed by this, his attitude. It’s – what? It’s rude, is what it is, and I don’t understand why he has to be unpleasant. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? What would that even mean, something wrong? The whole thing is irritating. ‘Or maybe it is. Anyway. Better get on.’

I walk away through the shop. I fixed some books yesterday, and I need to unclamp them and take pictures if they look okay and the light’s right. It’s quite a grey morning. I open the back door and go out into the garden, twirling through my keys and unlocking the door of the workshop. It’s messy in there – the floor littered with bits of paper, the scarred surface of the worktable covered in linen and cardboard and pieces of leather. There’s a sink, and a hotplate for heating the glue pots, and shelves covered in useful things like lunchboxes full of gold leaf and jars of gesso. There’s a sofa, demoted from a proper room elsewhere, and a tall workshop chair.

I lean on the table and close my eyes. I don’t understand why Edward said that. It might be true, I suppose, or it might not. It doesn’t really matter. Once upon a time it might have been troubling, to think something like that, but now? Even thinking someone might want… that… is a win,