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

chatting merrily. I expect him to murmur something and glide off to talk to someone else, but instead he says, ‘I heard you’ve been talking to Gavin McPherson about your bathroom.’

‘Oh, yes. Well. It’s a bit of a pain not having a proper shower, and if I decided to let it – or even sell, to be honest – having a new bathroom wouldn’t hurt, would it? I’m not… I wouldn’t be trying to get more money from you,’ I add. ‘I mean, if I decided to sell it. You’re just one of my options.’

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I suppose I am.’ He smiles, and I think – although I couldn’t one hundred per cent swear to it – that he winks at me.

That’s weird. Maybe he has a twitch. I ignore it, anyway, and continue to blather on about bathrooms. I mention the hideous fireplace in my sitting room, and remember that Edward told me about Charles’s archive and that he might have pictures of the Lodge.

‘Oh, of course,’ he says. ‘There’s a whole room full of plans and photographs.’ He looks round the room at his guests. ‘I’ll show you, come on.’

‘You just said you can’t abandon your party,’ I remind him.

‘I’m sure no one will notice. It’s not far.’ He nods towards a door, not the one we came in through. ‘There’s lots of interesting stuff in there. You’ll like it.’

I follow him. He’s probably right. ‘Yes, but,’ I say, ‘what about your guests?’

‘They’re fine. Look, everyone’s talking, they won’t even notice.’ He holds the door open for me and I hesitate for a moment and then go out into the corridor. He shuts the door behind us, and it’s suddenly rather quiet. The corridor stretches away in both directions, and we turn right, away from the entrance hall. There are various doors on each side, more panelling, more paintings lit by pools of light from lamps on side tables.

‘Charles,’ I say, ‘you really don’t have to show me now.’

‘In here,’ he says, and opens a door. He turns on the light. The room we’re in is small, lined with shelves and drawers, a large desk in the middle with a chair either side. There’s no window, so perhaps it’s more like a giant cupboard.

‘It’s all labelled,’ he says, gesturing. ‘Estate records, invoices, wills, you know, all that sort of thing. The plans of the house are in here. And all the estate buildings.’

There’s a big plan chest against the far wall. He walks over to it and peers at the labels. ‘Haven’t had these out for ages, not since we did the work on the East Lodge.’

I look round the room, fascinated. It’s mad, isn’t it, all this stuff, owning things your family have owned for centuries. My great-grandparents’ dining table can’t really compete.

‘Here,’ he says, pulling a large cardboard file out of a drawer. ‘I think this is photos. And the plans…’ He bends and opens a lower drawer. ‘Yes, here we are.’ He spreads them out on the table top and I move closer to peer at the paper.

‘Let’s shed some light…’ he says, flicking the button on an orange anglepoise. ‘There.’

It’s rather splendid to look at a plan of my house, drawn up in the eighteenth century.

‘Cool,’ I say.

He opens the file. ‘Yes, look, these pictures were taken just before your uncle bought it. And these are from’ – he turns one over – ‘the twenties. That’s the lodgekeeper – Dougie MacNeil. My father used to talk about him. It was when he died that they sold the Lodge.’

I look at the man in the photo, in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, smiling awkwardly at the camera. A black and white cat sits on the doorstep behind him. There’s no wisteria, which makes the front of the building look strangely naked.

‘Been meaning to say…’ Charles pulls out another picture, older, with a woman in a hat standing beside a girl sitting on a kitchen chair. They look pre-First World War, maybe 1910.

‘Hm?’ I prompt him.

‘That dress really suits you. Great colour.’

‘Oh,’ I say, embarrassed and slightly concerned. ‘That’s kind of you. I chose it ’cos of the colour.’

‘Yes, it’s very… striking.’

I look down at myself. ‘I’m not sure “striking” is what I was going for, but thank you. It’s a bit too shiny I think.’

‘No, it’s… it looks… You look great.’

‘Well, thanks. I’m not used to going out anywhere that means dressing up.’ I clear my throat, embarrassed. It’s very warm in here, or is that just me? I don’t much want to be alone with Charles if he’s going to talk about my outfit. ‘And thanks for showing me these. But people are probably wondering where you are; we should get back.’

He looks at me for a long time without saying anything. Then he looks down at the photos.

‘Come up any time if you want to look at this lot properly,’ he says. ‘I can get Lynda to scan some of them if you like.’

‘Who’s Lynda?’

‘Oh – housekeeper.’

‘Does she do your admin?’ I’m surprised by this.

‘She does most things.’ He smiles at me. ‘Like having a wife – without any of the…’ He pauses. ‘Um, trouble.’

I snort – very elegant – but I don’t respond to this. Instead I say, ‘We should get back,’ and he clicks off the lamp and steps back, leaving the contents of the files spread over the chest. I follow him to the door, which he holds open for me, putting his other hand lightly on my back. I speed up slightly, not wanting to look like I’m running away, but equally not wanting to encourage anything. If there’s anything to encourage. God, I hate this stuff. I’d forgotten how much having a husband removes all this… crap from any equation.

Back in the sitting room, I hope no one noticed our absence. Easily long enough for all kinds of bad behaviour. When Jenny walks past, I say, ‘Oh, there’s Jenny, I was going to ask her about…