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

lunches and drinks after work and the times we’ve laughed enough to bring tears to my eyes. He bought me a spoon, for God’s sake. Two spoons, even. I was pretty confident we were mates. But we weren’t. We’re not. It’s devastating.

I stand there for twenty minutes and I’m crying hard enough that not one but two teenage girls, slender creatures in sportswear with perfect eyebrows, ask me if I’m okay. One of them offers me a cigarette and the other one says, ‘Aye, they’re all bastards, hen.’ I don’t know if they know who I am, they don’t look like bookshop regulars, but it’s a small town, after all. I don’t care though. I don’t care at all.

Twenty

When the bus comes, I get on it. I ask the bus driver where he’s going and am pleasantly surprised, through my misery, that he’s going to Castle Douglas via the road that passes the turning for the Lodge. So I buy a ticket.

When I get off the bus, I realize it’s a lot further from my house than I thought. When you drive it’s hard to judge. This is also when I realize I’ve managed to forget I drove to town this morning, and my car’s parked by the church. Which is no use to anyone.

I have to retrace my steps as the bus stop’s further along than I remembered. Then it’s further down the turning to the Lodge. It’s raining harder, and I’m pretty pissed off with myself for forgetting I’ve got a bloody car. My shoes are rubbing and I’m soaked. When I catch my heel awkwardly in a pothole and it snaps entirely off, I think quite seriously about sitting in the ditch and waiting to die.

Instead I take off my shoes and limp on in stockinged feet. I’ve always wondered where those single shoes you see at the side of the road come from. Now I guess I know. It’s tempting to fling them away, but maybe it can be fixed, so I carry them. I’m soaking wet, filthy, exhausted from weeping and now holding a broken pair of shoes. Give me strength.

I hear a car behind me and step up onto the verge, which is muddy but cool and strangely soothing to my feet. I must be a tragic sight. The car, which is red and shiny, drives past and stops almost immediately. I look up and see Charles climbing out, rather awkwardly (it’s a sports car, low slung).

‘Thea? Oh my God. I thought it was you. Are you all right? You’re drenched.’

‘Oh, hello, Charles. Yeah, I got the bus, and–’

‘Where’s your car? Come here, let me drive you home.’ He opens the passenger door for me and ushers me inside.

I sit damply in the car. It’s a Porsche or something and usually I’d find it interesting to be in a car like this. As it is, I’m shivering and self-conscious about the upholstery.

‘What on earth were you doing on the bus? Is there something wrong with your car?’

I suppose Charles has never been on a bus. I can’t picture him on one anyway. Maybe when he was at university. My mind drifts and I pull myself back into the moment with some effort.

‘I forgot I had it with me.’

He turns to look at me, astonished. ‘You forgot?’

I’m not sure what to tell him. I definitely don’t want to talk to him about Edward. ‘Yes, I… It’s been… I didn’t have a very good morning.’

‘At work?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

We’re at the Lodge now, pulling off the Drive.

‘I had a fight with my boss. Thanks for the lift, it’s…’ but he’s out of the car already, coming round to open the door for me. ‘Thanks.’

‘You need to get into dry things,’ he says. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea.’

I’m not sure how to put him off without sounding rude. After all, he gave me a lift and now his passenger seat is wet and there are muddy footprints on the expensive carpet. I unlock the front door and let him in.

‘What happened to your shoes? My God, Thea, you’re bleeding.’

We both look at the muddy bloodstains on the flagstones.

‘Oh. Sorry, I probably bled in your car. I guess I cut myself on the road or something. My shoe broke.’ I hold it up to show him. ‘I’m not having the best day.’ I’m conscious of my extremely laddered stockings and the splashes of mud I’ve kicked up my legs.

He looks horrified. ‘You ought to wash your feet. Does it hurt?’

I stand on one foot and try to look at the sole of the other. ‘Not really. A bit. But my feet are like ice; I can’t feel anything much. You’re right, I should probably wash it.’

‘You go and do that. I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘You needn’t,’ I say, ‘I can do that myself–’

‘Don’t argue,’ he says, sternly. Jesus, maybe he and Edward are more alike than they realize. It’s that patrician assumption that people will do as you say, isn’t it? When Edward was ordering me upstairs on Wednesday, it was fine. I’d probably do all kinds of things if he told me to firmly enough. I’m more resentful of being ordered about by Charles, though.

Mind you, he’s right, I should get changed. I’m freezing.

When I come back in my pyjamas and dressing gown, with my feet washed and a plaster on the cut, covered with a pair of woolly socks, my stockings thrown away, outfit in the washing basket, Charles is in the sitting room, where he’s got the fire going, and there are two cups of tea on the coffee table.

‘Oh, that’s better,’ I say, standing by the fireplace, stretching my hands to the flames. I’m surprised he can light a fire. He must have people for that sort of thing, surely. ‘Ugh. What a grim day. Thanks.’

‘You’re quite welcome. And next time you abandon your car somewhere, Thea, you should ring me.’

I laugh. ‘And you’ll