The Bookshop of Second Chances Jackie Fraser (ebook reader macos .txt) 📖

Rory introduces me to Holly Hunter, the shop cat, an ancient half-Persian who leaves clumps of pale fur around the place and sleeps on a pile of towels on top of the radiator in the hall. He shows me how to work the till – both of us pretending it’s complex and technical – and explains how the catalogue works. This feeds through to the website so the listings are up to date. Most of the sales, especially of the antiquarian books, come through the internet; making careful parcels and going to the post office is also part of the job.

Rory’s already on study leave, so he brings his revision into the shop every day, although he ought to be at home. In term time during the week he usually only works from four-thirty until six. I ask him lots of nosy questions whenever we stop for coffee, which he mostly answers.

I quite like being middle-aged; if I was his age I wouldn’t know what to say to him, but it’s easy enough to ask him questions, and he’s willing to talk to me, probably because I’m a stranger. I talk about my own university adventures, without expecting him to pay much attention, and he tells me about Chloe, his girlfriend, who’s off to Edinburgh in September. He’s worried about what will happen when they’re both away meeting new people, and I don’t blame him.

‘Everything expands when you go to university. It’s hard not to let it go to your head. And it’s hard not to take it personally, the stuff that happens. But everyone’s selfish when they’re your age. That’s not a criticism.’

‘I love her though.’ He picks at a price sticker that someone has stuck on the marble counter top.

‘I know, and I’m sure she loves you. It’s not really about that.’

He looks at me, serious. ‘Is this one of those horrible things that adults take for granted, aye?’

‘Sort of. I know I was furious when someone told my boyfriend that we’d split up when I went to university.’

‘B-but you did?’

‘In the end.’ I sigh. ‘And in the end, it didn’t even matter that much.’

‘It makes me s-s-s-sad,’ he says, his face flushed, ‘to think the things that seem important to me now might n-not in the future.’

‘Yes, it is sad. But – and this won’t help much – I think if you always lived as intensely as you do between, I don’t know, sixteen and twenty-four, you’d be dead by the time you were twenty-five. I was relieved when everything calmed down.’

‘Is that when you got married?’

‘I met my husband when I was twenty-five, yes.’

‘You d-didn’t want to talk to Edward about him, the other day. Your husband.’

Perceptive, young Rory. I think for a moment before replying. ‘No, I didn’t. He’s a bit obnoxious, isn’t he, I don’t particularly want to talk about myself to him.’

‘Why n-not?’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t want to give him ammunition.’

‘Is your husband ammunition?’

I laugh. ‘Sort of. We split up in January.’

‘Oh. I’m s-sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘B-but why’s it a secret?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I hesitate. ‘It isn’t, really. But I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone. Sometimes it’s better to appear to be a married person. Easier.’

I don’t expect him to understand, but he nods. ‘That makes s-sense. And Edward’s weird. About women.’

‘I thought he might be. Although I expect I’m too old for him to be weird about.’

‘Yeah, I dunno,’ says Rory.

So now I have a job. I quite like it. Although the hours are long, it’s not taxing. The shop never gets too busy, and it is, of course, endlessly interesting. I don’t think Edward expected me to be interested, but when he returns from Glasgow and Rory’s left to concentrate on his revision, we have lunch at the Old Mill and talk business.

We sit in the conservatory, which is a beautiful, light-filled room even on a grey day like today. Cerys brings us our food – their cheese toasties are amazing – and then retreats to the counter. Every now and then I look round and see her watching us; wondering, I suppose, why on earth I’d want to work with Edward. For a while we eat in silence, and then I say, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to learn things, about books or bookselling or whatever. So don’t think I won’t care, if there’s anything you’d tell someone who might be staying longer.’

He looks at me for a long time, chewing thoughtfully, and then nods. ‘Okay, I can teach you stuff. Are you handy?’

‘Handy?’

‘I mean, are you neat, with an eye for detail and a steady hand? I fix things sometimes.’

‘Ooh, with clamps, and glue made from rabbits? I know you shouldn’t mend books with Sellotape.’

He shudders. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘Yeah, I was a librarian at junior school. We had special tape for fixing the books.’ I think fondly of the shady classroom, always quiet, where I learned about the Dewey Decimal System and spent break times by myself twice a week, fixing books for Mr Thompson.

‘Okay, good. Yeah, I can show you how to do that, and what to look for online and in sale catalogues and so on. If you’re sure.’ He returns his attention to his plate, eating two final slices of tomato.

‘Yes please. I like to get involved. You must tell me if that’s annoying.’

‘Why would it be annoying?’ He pours water into his glass and, after a questioning look, into mine too.

‘Well, it’s your shop, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want you to think I was interfering.’

He looks amused. ‘Do you want to interfere?’

I see this as an opportunity, and say, ‘No, I just… I wondered about the window displays…’

He sighs heavily. ‘Go on then. We can discuss it.’

‘We could have – I mean, you could have – a different theme every month. Like international month of whatever, maybe? I’ll come up with some ideas for you to look at.