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

felt like… I might get to a point… um. And now I just feel like it must have been my fault. I thought that to start with, but then I thought, no, I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just, it’s just one of those things, stuff like this happens, but now I–’

‘It’s pretty shit, yes. But it’s not your fault. And you will get through it, and you will be all right.’

‘Will I? I don’t know if I will. I don’t know if… I feel like he must just think he wasted all that time. All that time we were together, he could have been with someone else, having babies, and…’

‘Hey. Don’t cry. Come on now.’ He pulls me closer again, but this time he doesn’t hug me; he kisses the tears away instead.

And then we’re kissing, and that’s unexpected but I–

We kiss for ages. I stop thinking after a while and just feel his lips and tongue and his hand on my face. It’s… extraordinarily blissful. I didn’t expect him to kiss me and anyone would agree it probably wasn’t the best time for kissing. I guess I’m at quite a low ebb. Vulnerable, even. But I don’t want him to stop, because – well, for all kinds of reasons.

When we do stop though, and pull away and look at each other, I know at once that he’s sorry, and that it was accidental.

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll just start crying again.

‘I didn’t mean–’

‘I know. It doesn’t matter, please don’t worry.’ I pull myself together. Sobbing, puking, spilling my secrets – the whole thing’s been a mistake, hasn’t it?

His shutters have come down; he drops my hand and stands up. ‘Tea,’ he says, ‘I’ll make some tea.’ Then he’s gone, and I pull my legs up, sitting with my face laid on my knees. I’d cry some more but I think I’m actually all cried out. I close my eyes and think of Alison Moyet. How old was I when she sang that? Quite young. Twelve, perhaps. Certainly too young to understand this feeling of emptiness and exhaustion.

What happens when your boss kisses you and then decides he’s made a mistake? That’s going to be awkward, isn’t it? At least we can both claim emotional… something. My actions must have been because I was upset, and so I needn’t be embarrassed or worry that he’ll think I meant it.

Although I did quite mean it.

I wish I was twelve again. Or twenty-five, or forty. Or dead.

He brings two mugs of tea and puts mine on the table beside the sofa. Then he sits down, but not beside me this time; instead he sits in the armchair by the door.

‘Are you all right to drive? I can take you home.’

‘I don’t need to go home. It’s not even lunchtime. I’ll drink this, and then we can go back and open up.’

He frowns at me. ‘Sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Honestly, I’m… It was just a shock. I’ll get over it, and the best way for that to happen is if I have stuff to think about – you know, keeping busy, like your mum says.’ I sip my tea. I’ve never met his mother, of course. ‘Is that the sort of thing your mum says?’

His expression darkens. ‘My mother says things like, “Oh darling, really? A shop?” and, “I met a lovely girl at a dinner party last week, you’d like her.”’

I laugh, relieved to have something else to think about. ‘Does she?’

‘That sort of thing, yes. I’m a bit of a disappointment, you can probably imagine.’

‘She’d rather you were happy, though?’

He looks at me, intense. ‘She’d rather I followed the rules and didn’t cause any trouble.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not popular, with my family. Or at all.’

I’m not sure what to say to this. I drink my tea, and we sit in silence.

At five-thirty, when he’s cashing up, and I’m getting ready to leave, he says, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better than I did.’ I pick up my bag. ‘Thanks again, for, um’ – I search for the right word – ‘for your kindness, earlier. I really appreciate it.’

He scowls at me. ‘I’m never kind.’ He shuffles, awkward. ‘I’d like to apologize again. For my… inappropriate behaviour.’

I take my keys out of my pocket and fiddle with them. ‘Please just forget about it. It doesn’t matter. I know you didn’t… It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’ll be out, tomorrow,’ he says abruptly. ‘Probably Friday too.’

‘Oh, okay. Are you going to Fort William, then?’

He nods. ‘Might go up to Inverness as well. I’ll call you if – if I need to.’

‘Right you are. Thanks again,’ I say, and leave him in the darkened shop, heading out into the dusk.

I’ve been here six months – the summer’s long gone. It’s the middle of October. I should be thinking about going home, but I don’t want to. I know that’s cowardly. It’s not exactly that I want to stay here – or not entirely. I just don’t want to go back, less so now than ever. I don’t want to see anyone and have them be even more sorry for me than before, and the thought of people talking about it – the baby, which they will, and who can blame them – makes me shudder. It would be a lot easier never to go back, except to fetch my stuff. Do I want to stay here though? I look around at the neat stone houses, lights on, looking cosy in the gathering darkness. I see the lights go off in Alastair’s office, teenagers smoking in the bus stop by the Co-op, the impressive Victorian weightiness of the town hall. This is a nice place; I’ve made the beginnings of a life here. I could stay, easily.

Where else would I go? Anywhere, I suppose, anywhere at all.

Edward is away for the rest of the week. He calls each morning to ask shop-related questions. Apart from that,