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

after all. Because when the person you’ve been sleeping with for the last twenty years leaves you, at least one of the implications is that he doesn’t want to have sex with you anymore, isn’t it? And that’s quite depressing. I’ve never been beautiful or madly sexy, and I got through school assuming no one liked me – that I lacked whatever it takes to be fashionable. I had an inability to conjure a decent haircut, was a bit clever and not very sporty – all of these things coalesce, don’t they, into textbook Low Self-Esteem for Girls. But once away from school – and partly thanks to Mark Woodley and the things we did in his bedroom – my confidence, and also my vision of myself as a person who might be attractive – not to everyone, but to enough people – gathered impetus, and by the time I got to university I was willing to believe I had something, some spark of – whatever it is. And therefore it seemed to be true.

The people you like don’t always like you back the same way, and vice versa, but I knew there were people – boys – men, even – who might look at me and think, yes, there’s something appealing about Thea. Most of that’s gone now, worn away, crumpled – the fresh bloom of youth dissipates, but as a grown-up you have other things in recompense. Except those things can be mislaid or broken when someone decides they don’t want you anymore. I haven’t addressed this side of things, have I? It’s definitely true though, that I’d rather someone ‘just’ wanted to fuck me, however basic that might seem, than have no one ever look at me with desire again.

None of this means I’m going to sleep with anyone any time soon, however. And I absolutely cannot see what any of it’s got to do with my employer.

I look at my hands, nails cut sensibly short, my grandmother’s wedding ring, too big for my ring fingers, on the middle finger of my left hand. I stopped wearing my own ring last month, when I finally stopped using my married name. I still feel strange about it; my hand looks naked without the narrow platinum wedding band and the unmatching antique diamond engagement ring we bought in Brighton a lifetime ago. I’ve put them both away, in a cufflink box buried at the back of a drawer. I might even sell them, buy myself something new. I try to imagine my hands on someone else. Maybe someone I’ve never met? Maybe no one, ever.

I unclamp the books and take off the pads that protect the boards from the clamp’s biting teeth. They look a hundred times better than they did yesterday, when the covers were entirely separate and in danger of being lost for ever. A nice 1950s Alice, given as a school prize, with a bright and jolly illustrated cover, and a rather battered but fun 1896 Every Girl’s Annual. Edward didn’t think it was worth saving – it came in a box of house clearance stuff – but I was determined.

I put the mended books in a box on the sofa and look at the ‘to-do’ pile. There’s a knock at the door and here’s the man himself, Mr Maltravers, looking awkward and holding my handbag out towards me. It’s a rather frivolous basket covered in exuberant fake flowers, and it looks quite funny dangling from his hand.

‘Your phone rang,’ he says. ‘And then you got a text. So I brought your bag.’

‘Suits you. You should get one.’

‘Ha ha.’

I take it from him and slide my phone out of the internal pocket.

‘I thought it might be that man,’ he says, ‘and I didn’t want you to miss it. I was an arse before, and I apologize.’ He sighs.

‘Yeah, well, unless Jilly or Cerys gave him my number – which would seem hugely unlikely – it won’t have been him.’ I roll my eyes. I unlock my phone and look at the message. I laugh.

‘As suspected.’ I hold the phone up. ‘It’s from the bank.’

‘Oh,’ says Edward. He looks embarrassed. ‘Well. Anyway.’

‘Did you lock up?’ I ask him. You can’t just abandon the shop, obviously.

‘No, I went to Plan B.’

Plan B is when you put the till and the laptop in the safe and dig out the emergency notice, which is in a large, curly photo frame and says, The shop is not unstaffed, although there’s no one at the desk at the moment. Please ring the bell, or text this number, and someone will be with you shortly. And remember, smile – you’re on CCTV.

We use it sometimes if only one person is in and they have to go to the loo or something. The CCTV thing is mainly just to stop people from stealing books. Edward says often even nice people are tempted to nick stuff, but most people won’t if they know (or think) they’re being filmed. It seems to work.

‘You’d better go back then,’ I say. ‘Did you make any lunch?’

‘No. I’ll go and get sandwiches from the Old Mill.’

‘Cool. Prawn please, if they have any.’

Edward pulls at his lower lip. ‘Okay,’ he says. For a moment I think he’s going to say something else, but he changes his mind and leaves me alone in the workshop.

Later that afternoon, after eating my prawn sandwiches at the counter, I’m back in the workshop gluing more broken books. I have a terrible headache and matching cramps. I take some painkillers and soldier on, but I feel dreadful. I’m not sure if the headache is a result of being irritated earlier about that stupid conversation with Edward, or whether it’s connected to my cramping womb. My cycle has been all over the place since January. I should go to the doctor, as I don’t know whether it’s been thrown off by the stress of the break-up with Chris, or the peri-menopause, or what.

‘Stupid womb,’ I