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

‘I don’t know. Let’s not find out, eh?’

I blew a loud and childish raspberry, and went home to get ready.

And now I’m dressed in my finery, waiting. No shoulder pads or little hat with a veil, sadly; instead I’ve had to make do with a sensible black shift dress and a Chinese red silk jacket. Strappy sandals, and I had to buy hold-ups in the chemist. I’m not impressed with them but hopefully they won’t let me down in an embarrassing fashion. I’m dancing in the hallway because I’m in a good mood – I couldn’t explain entirely why this should be because it’s not like ‘dinner with Charles’ is on my bucket list. I wonder whether the staff at the hotel will call him Lord Hollinshaw? If they do, I might laugh.

When the bell rings I have to calm myself. A deep breath, and then I answer the door to a smartly dressed Charles. It’s a fine evening, the last pink-gold streaks of sunset lingering in the sky.

‘Hello,’ I say and, feeling that perhaps a handshake is less suitable this evening, I lean forward so he can kiss my cheek.

We make with the polite chit chat while I lock the front door behind me and follow him out to the car. He has more than one car I think; this evening it’s something German in dark blue with pale leather upholstery. I don’t care much about cars, but it’s certainly comfortable. A Mercedes. Most cars are dark inside, I realize, with black carpet so you can’t really see into the footwell. When it’s pale, you can see everything; it’s quite odd. It’s a bit different from Edward’s knackered old Defender.

‘Have you been across to Knockandry before?’ he asks me.

‘No, there’s nothing much there, is there, except the hotel?’

‘Not much, admittedly. There’s a beach and a golf course.’

I think about asking if he plays golf, but what if he does? I don’t want to talk about golf. Instead, I ask how the building work’s going with the barn conversion, and we talk about that, and about the new bathroom I’ve had put in at the Lodge. I’ve never had a brand-new bathroom, and it’s very exciting. I go and look at it quite often, admiring the slate floor and the beauty of the freestanding bath and the fabulous shower. I probably spent more than I should have done, but it’s great and I love it. Now it’s done, the major inconvenience of having dust everywhere and no loo for a week is easily forgotten.

Talk about builders and plumbing get us through the half-hour drive to the hotel. It’s a very grand building: Victorian, in a rather flamboyant baronial style.

‘My grandparents used to come to dances here, before the war,’ he tells me. ‘And my great-grandparents would go for dinner, you know, before it was a hotel.’

‘Mm,’ I say, unimpressed. Then I remember that these people were also Edward’s ancestors. I tell myself that doesn’t make them any more interesting, but it kind of does. I stand beside the car and look up at the turrets and castellations. It’s huge; no wonder it’s been a hotel for eighty years. How could anyone ever afford to keep it up?

‘Back in those days, of course,’ he adds, ‘everyone had a London house as well, and somewhere in the Highlands for the shooting.’

Jesus. It’s not right, is it? I know I find it fascinating, but it’s still not right.

We crunch across the gravel and round the corner of the building. A wide sweep of drive, a fountain, formal gardens dropping down to the coast, the darkness of the ocean.

‘Can’t see much of the view now it’s getting dark,’ he says, ‘which is a shame – it’s very dramatic.’

A smartly dressed doorman opens the door for us and we walk through to a vast marble-floored entrance hall. In the centre of the room, an enormous display of cut flowers stands in an urn on a huge shiny table. Dozens of mounted antlers demonstrate the deer-killing expertise of the previous owners. There are tweedy drapes in a subtle tartan and large, comfortable leather sofas arranged in front of an immense fireplace. The front desk is so discreet as to barely be there at all. I don’t have much time to look round though, as we’re quickly ushered towards the staircase. The dining room is on the first floor, above the entrance hall, making the most of the views across the gardens and the sea.

‘I always sit in the window,’ Charles says, leading the way between the white-clothed tables. There are a number of other couples here already, and a family party at the far end of the room. The tables are round, there’s carpet, everything’s hushed and elegant. I’m looking forward to seeing the menu. One waiter takes my jacket, and another pulls my chair out for me, flicking the napkin out and draping it across my lap. They bring the wine list and the menu and I look about me with interest.

‘So you come here a lot?’

‘Fairly regularly. It’s the best place this side of Dumfries. In my opinion.’

I nod and return my attention to the menu. I haven’t been out for dinner for ages. The last time I went somewhere special was with Chris – was that our anniversary? Last September, if so; we went up to London and had dinner at Murano. A year ago, but it seems like fifty. Chris bought me a necklace, which I left behind when I took all my stuff. I’d been wearing it before that, but it seemed… well. I left it behind, anyway.

We talk for a bit about food and other places we’ve had dinner. I’m not sure whether he cares about food or whether he just cares about going to places with a good reputation. I find Charles much harder to read than Edward, but that’s probably because I don’t make as much effort.

When our starters arrive, I say, ‘I’ve been wondering why you