The Bookshop of Second Chances Jackie Fraser (ebook reader macos .txt) š
- Author: Jackie Fraser
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Itās a large flat, two storeys, big enough for a whole family, easily. And itās lovely. The sitting room overlooks the square and is high-ceilinged and light, south-facing, two huge sash windows, massive sofas and a marble fireplace, paintings; books, of course, everywhere. Iāve noticed a couple of times, on evenings when the light was right, that you get a beautiful slice of sunset across the parquet. There are rugs, and a beautiful Edwardian plantstand, a fat barley-sugar twist in mahogany, with a brass pot containing a large aspidistra. Iād love to live here. Iāve even looked to see if thereās anything similar available on the square with a view of the rooftops, despite quite liking the lack of stairs at the Lodge. I like having a garden, as well, and there wouldnāt be one if I lived in a flat. Edward has a garden, but thatās because he owns the whole building. I asked him once where the money came from ā itās not like selling books is massively lucrative ā and he looked rather hunted, before admitting he and Charles had both inherited āquite a healthy amountā from their grandmother, his motherās mother. Apparently that sort of inheritance was acceptable because it didnāt come with a title or acres of land. When I looked unconvinced, he just reminded me, rather sharply, that he was a hypocrite. And I suppose I am, too; itās not like Iāve never inherited anything.
The dining room is grand, with an elaborate plaster ceiling, and a huge circular mahogany dining table that has enormous feet. Matching sideboard, massive mirror over the dark stone fireplace. The kitchen is long and narrow, with windows in two walls and a table at the back, a big chipped butlerās sink and a built-in dresser. The walls are dark green, the cupboards are white, all handmade, and itās full of stuff, tons of pans and plates and jugs and things hanging up everywhere. Itās untidy but comfortable. He likes cooking, I think, although he has no one to cook for. Thereās a whole shelf of cookery books, and piles of them open on the table.
The window is open, as he suspected, so I pull it closed. Thereās no sign of Holly Hunter but her dishes are empty, so I fill one with biscuits and one with fancy cat food. It looks like something you could easily eat yourself, with a bit of toast. It amuses me that heād buy such a thing. HH is elderly ā twenty at least ā heās had her since he first came back from university. I refill her water bowl and then go to check the other windows.
Iāve never been up the third or fourth flights of stairs, since they lead only to the bathroom and the bedrooms. I realize Iām almost tiptoeing. The stairs up to the second floor are not as wide and sweeping as the lower ones, and instead of bookshelves theyāre lined with framed prints and pictures.
It does seem a shame that Edward lives here by himself. Perhaps heāll ask Lara to move in, I think cynically. I canāt imagine sheād like it, although I may be doing her a disservice. Apparently, she didnāt like the Shed though, when he took her there last year. She complained pretty much the whole time. No electricity or hot water, he must be mad et cetera. āI think sheās a bit glam for the Shed,ā I said, when he told me.
I wanted to ask about her, how long theyād been seeing each other, how āofficialā she was, when they met, whether heād slept with her sisterā¦ but I didnāt. I did ask if she was his ātypeā and he said he didnāt have a type. I said, āexcept for āpeople whoāve been out with your brotherā?ā and he told me to fuck off. Which was fair enough.
At the top of the stairs I pause. Two closed doors and two ajar. And one open ā the bathroom, all clanking but beautiful Victorian sanitary ware, with lots of plants and a heap of white towels abandoned on the floor. Clean though, for a bathroom used only by a man. He doesnāt have a cleaner or anything, or at least Iāve never heard him mention one. He must do his own housework. I canāt picture him dusting but I guess he must do.
I assume the closed doors are to the spare bedrooms ā and a quick poke of my head round the doors confirms this. Neatly made beds, unusual lack of stuff. The others must be his bedroom, and the study. He writes. As one would expect.
āShit poetry,ā is what he said, when I asked him what he wrote. It canāt be that awful, though; heās had some published, apparently.
His bedroomās at the front, over the sitting room. Itās surprisingly white, and surprisingly tidy, although thereās an unsurprising pile of books neatly stacked beside the door. And the window is open, so at least there was a purpose in coming up here. I fight with the sash, which is open at the top. Theyāre never easy; I wonder if they worked smoothly when they were new, but Iāve never used a new sash window, only ancient ones with fraying ropes and overpainted pulley wheels. I manage eventually and fasten the screw, pulling the curtains closed, which means I then have to grope my way back past the bed in the gloom.
It does feel quite odd to be in his bedroom. Bedrooms are personal, arenāt they? His dressing gown, darkly tartan, hangs on the back of the door, and thereās a white-painted chest of drawers with a mirror above that does for a dressing table and houses odds and ends, cards and photographs. I hesitate and then flick the light on so I can look
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