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

he can best be described as ‘distant’. I feed Holly Hunter, but I don’t go into any of the rooms of his flat except the kitchen.

I miss him. It’s dull when he’s away; even bad-mood Edward is company at least.

I don’t think about the kiss, or not much, anyway. There’s no point, is there? Best ignored and forgotten.

On Monday morning I’m running late. I slept badly, and missed my alarm. I rush about, drinking coffee and eating toast while I do my hair. I found a lovely pale cream cashmere twin set among Aunt Mary’s clothes, which just about fits, because I seem to have lost some weight – which is surprising, but useful – and decide to wear that with a smart pencil skirt that I bought in the charity shop. I don’t usually dress up for work, it’s not necessary, but today I feel the need to make myself look respectable and together. I am not the woman who collapsed into hysterical sobbing, or kissed someone she shouldn’t have.

As I open my front door, I notice an envelope on the mat. The post hasn’t been, so it must have been hand-delivered (that’s an odd phrase isn’t it; it’s not like Becky the postwoman doesn’t use her hands).

It says Ms T Hamilton on the front but no address. I open it as I walk to the car.

Thea

I regret to inform you that on consideration I have decided to terminate your employment at Fortescue’s Books. Please consider this letter in lieu of notice and find enclosed a cheque for your month’s wages.

I would appreciate it if you could return the keys to me at your earliest convenience.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for the work you have done for the past six months, and to wish you all success for the future.

Yours sincerely

Edward Maltravers

I stare at the paper. Once again a ball of horrified anguish gathers in my belly. I can’t say this will go down as one of my better weeks.

This is because he kissed me, isn’t it? Anguish is replaced almost instantly with anger. I’m furious. My hands are shaking. Absolutely fucking livid. In fact, as I get into the car, throwing my bag at the passenger seat, I can’t think of a time I’ve ever been angrier.

I shove the shop door open so hard it bangs against the back of the bookshelf. The bell jangles loudly. I storm – something I’m sure I’ve never done before – into the shop, and turn sharply to the counter. There he is, tapping away at the laptop as though everything’s normal. He looks up, startled, and is unfolding himself as I begin.

‘What the fuck is this?’ I shout, brandishing the letter. ‘What the actual fuck is this?’

He gathers himself, the scowl already firmly in place. ‘I think it’s perfectly clear.’

‘Yes, it is. Yes, it’s perfectly fucking clear. Is this about Wednesday? You fucking arsehole.’

I realize there are two customers in the shop, both caught in embarrassment, staring. I don’t care, though.

‘Thea–’

‘I thought we were friends,’ I say. My voice breaks and I cough, ashamed at sounding upset.

There’s a pause, and then he says, ‘We’re not friends.’

I step backwards, shocked.

‘Events… events have reminded me of my employment policy,’ he says. He turns and opens the desk drawer, then holds up the laminated sheet he showed me on that long-ago morning when I came in to ask about the job.

REMEMBER, NO GIRLS

‘No girls,’ I say, ‘is that right?’ I step towards him and lean on the counter. ‘Because they fall in love with you? Well, I’m not in love with you,’ I hiss, although whether this is the truth or not, I couldn’t tell you. ‘And you can’t seriously expect me to believe that you’re in love with me.’

He glares at me. ‘I don’t care what you believe.’

‘Oh really?’

‘It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me,’ he says coldly.

‘Oh, come on. You’re surely not suggesting you’d want to fuck me, are you?’

There’s a very long pause.

‘Maybe ten years ago,’ he says, ‘but no. I wouldn’t.’

Although I was expecting something like this, I’m still horrified that he’d say it. He could just have said no, it’s not like I’d have been surprised. There doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?

‘Well, that’s lucky. Because I wouldn’t fuck you if you begged me.’ I tear up the letter and the cheque, inefficiently, and throw the resulting, rather chunky, confetti in his face.

‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘Enjoy the rest of your miserable life.’

I pull the shop keys from my bag and throw them on the floor, followed by the Shed key. Then I stalk out, slamming the shop door behind me. I stand on the pavement, chest heaving, and realize I’m crying at about the same time I realize it’s started to rain. I turn randomly and walk blindly away.

We’re not friends.

I think that’s the cruellest and most hurtful thing anyone’s ever said to me, at least since I left school. When Chris told me he was leaving, it wasn’t cruel. It was tragic and awful, but it wasn’t cruel. He tried hard not to say anything hurtful, to make it as civilized as possible. I wipe my face on my sleeve and walk faster. Then I run, wildly and not well in my smart shoes. I turn down side streets without thinking or planning and then I’m not sure where I am. There’s a bus shelter though, and now it’s properly raining, so I go and stand under it, sobbing. I feel like I’ve done nothing but cry for the last nine months and, really, what’s worse than the sight of a forty-four-year-old woman crying in public. It’s humiliating, or it would be if I gave a toss what anyone thinks.

It’s quite a slap in the face, to think you’re friends with someone and find out that you’re not. I think of all the time we’ve spent talking, and the time at the Shed, and all those