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

As an adult, I have to believe that he meant what he said – that we’re not friends – because what would be the point of saying it unless it was true?

My insides hurt, and so does my brain.

I think I’ve failed at everything. What am I going to do now? I was angry earlier, and that was kind of a positive feeling but now I’m drained and empty and cold. I suppose I should leave, shouldn’t I? I don’t want to be here anymore. I’ll run away again. I could just keep doing that for ever. Pick a little town at random. Or maybe a city would be better; it’s easier to avoid meeting people if you live in a city. I could run away to Inverness or Sheffield and get a job in a supermarket or something, and never speak to anyone except for work.

The phone rings, making me jump. I answer it unwillingly. It’s Jenny.

‘Are you okay? Cerys just rang and said someone told her you had a massive fight with Edward this morning.’

I close my eyes. Jesus Christ, can people not mind their own business? ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We did.’

‘What was that about? Are you all right? I tried to call your mobile.’

‘The signal’s shit out here.’

‘I know, that’s why I thought you were probably at home.’

‘Yes.’ I know I should say more than this, form a sentence, but really.

‘What happened?’

I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to tell her. It’s pathetic. Keep it plain and unvarnished. ‘I’m sacked.’

‘Bloody hell. It’s true, then? That’s what Cerys said, but I didn’t believe her. Or I thought she must’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick or something. She said Micky Doolin was in the shop.’

‘Oh, he might have been. I don’t know. There were some customers. Anyway, yes, no, it’s true.’

‘What the hell happened?’

I can picture Jenny’s face, outraged on my behalf, angry, lips pursed. Perhaps she is my friend. I was just being negative before. I sigh. I suppose I’ll have to explain this to a million people. And I really can’t be arsed. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Edward.’

‘I’ve been in there already – he won’t speak to me.’

‘How mature.’

She laughs. ‘Isn’t it? But Jesus, he’s in a foul mood. He told me to piss off and that was it.’

‘Yeah, well, I hope he’s miserable. I hope it chokes him.’

‘Well, screw him. The man’s a twat, aye. I did tell you not to work for him,’ she adds.

‘Yes. I should have listened.’

There’s a pause.

‘If you want to come over this evening…’ she says.

‘Oh, I can’t. Well I could, I suppose. I mean, I left my car in town… Anyway, thanks, but I don’t feel much like socialising.’

‘If you’re sure. If you want to talk to someone, or anything… I can’t believe he sacked you.’

‘No, neither can I. Only I can really,’ I add. ‘Actually, thinking about it, it’s completely inevitable.’ I get an image of the bookshop, of the comfort of it, the gentle smell of the books, sunlight on the flagstones. My throat aches. I like the shop as much as I like Edward. Although I don’t like him at all, do I?

‘Anyway, don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s probably for the best, and other clichés.’

‘Hm. Okay. If you’re sure. Phone me, though, if you want.’

‘Thanks.’

I fetch a blanket from the bedroom, and my book, and go out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I think for a moment that I might want something stronger instead; there’s half a bottle of Gordon’s in the cupboard, although I don’t have any lemons, or, worse, any tonic. I can’t drink utterly raw gin at my age, which is a quote from somewhere, I think. I have a list of things in my head that I’m trying not to think about. It’s difficult, though, when you’re on your own. I’d better watch a film or something.

I don’t want to think about how my husband’s having a baby, or how I just lost my job – for the second time this year, as well – or how I might have to move, or how I’ve managed to lose a friend, or how apparently I didn’t even have that friend to lose. I feel like such an unbearable idiot. I’m achingly embarrassed and mortified.

God, it’s depressing. I open the cupboard, looking for something to cheer myself up. There’s a box of Tunnock’s wafers but they remind me of him.

This is shit. How can I be so upset about this? You wouldn’t think I’d have room, after everything else that’s happened this year, to even care about it.

It’s a good job I haven’t allowed myself to think about what it was like to kiss him.

I’ve fucked this up so badly.

Now I’m crying again. I do quite hate myself.

When I wake up in the morning there’s a split second when I’ve forgotten everything and I’m thinking about what I might need to do at work. There’s a pile of books in the workshop and – oh yeah.

Shit.

Despite all the practice I had during what I no longer have to think of as Quarter One, I still don’t have a reliable method for dealing with feeling like this. I lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling. It’s quite dark; the clock radio tells me it’s only half past six, which is much too early to get up when you’re unemployed.

I can hear the rain singing in the gutters. Apart from that, it’s very quiet; the heating doesn’t come on until seven. Maybe I should look again at those flats. If I moved back… but really, what’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? If I could choose anywhere in the country to live, where would I choose? This is my chance to move to Brighton or Cornwall or the Outer flipping Hebrides, isn’t it?

I should have sold the Lodge to Charles