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

as soon as he asked me to; that would have solved a lot of problems. I’d be on my way to a new life somewhere else if I’d done that, or back in Brackwell getting on with things.

I put my head under the duvet for a while, but it’s no good, I can’t go back to sleep. I’ll have to get up, and it’s cold, and I’ve nothing to get up for.

I should do one of those tasks I’ve been meaning to get on with for months, like photographing Aunt Mary’s clothes for eBay. It’s hardly an ideal day for photography, though. Maybe I should start boxing up books in the library. At least I know some other book dealers now. I can still sell my books – I don’t need Edward for that. Maybe I should open my own bookshop. That would be amusing, wouldn’t it?

I’d thought about giving him the Orwell for his birthday. I hadn’t decided for sure, because it’s worth a lot of money, but I’d thought about it. Giving someone something you already have is not the same as buying a gift, but obviously I wouldn’t be buying anyone a gift that costs thousands of pounds – it would be impractical. I feel like a dick for even contemplating this. Luckily the truth came out before his birthday, or else I would have made a complete arse of myself. It makes me shudder to think of it.

Why did he have to kiss me? It’s a double whammy, isn’t it, because it’s made him hate me and it’s made me think about things I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should be angry about it. How dare he kiss me? Yes, that’s better. How dare he and then decide it was all a mistake, a mistake so bad he had to sack me! I should have resigned, shouldn’t I? Sexual harassment, or something. I mean I didn’t ask to be kissed; I wasn’t expecting it. I should have pushed him away, told him to fuck off, not melted pathetically like some stupid girl in a romantic novel.

He’s really good at kissing though.

Shut up, what are you, fifteen?

God, I’m so miserable.

I get out of bed and wrap myself in my dressing gown. Time for coffee and lighting the fire.

It rains all day. If it stopped, I might go and get the car, but it doesn’t stop. Instead, I sit and look out of the kitchen window. The plants drip, the leaves are falling. Everything seems extremely symbolic. I haven’t done anything today. I had a bath and put on woolly socks and clean pyjamas – another pair of Uncle Andrew’s. They’re probably thirty years old. Blue and white striped flannel old man’s pyjamas. I love them. There are six pairs and I don’t plan on wearing anything else in bed, ever.

Then I lay on the sofa and watched videos. Uncle Andrew had quite the collection of war films and musicals. I’ve watched The Longest Day, Ice Cold in Alex, Calamity Jane and Meet me in St Louis. I ate toast for breakfast and again for lunch. I think about phoning Xanthe, but then I decide against it. I’ll send her an email tomorrow. I wonder if it will stop raining enough for me to get the bus to town. I know Charles said he’d give me a lift, but I don’t want to ask him.

At tea time, I look at my phone, and there are two missed calls from the shop.

I look at the number for ages. I wonder why he called. He didn’t leave a message. I’m not calling back. If it’s important, he’ll call again. I’m not interested in talking to him about my P45 or whatever.

I spend the rest of the evening determined not to phone and furious with myself for wanting to.

On Wednesday, it’s still raining. I wonder what would happen if I just never went to get the car. I’d starve to death eventually. This thought makes me laugh; I can’t imagine I’d be stubborn enough to die of hunger. Okay, I’ll get dressed and go to town.

Walking to the bus stop in a pair of sensible boots is much quicker than trying to do it in heels. I’d been thinking about going home to collect all my winter clothes – and everything else – but now I’m not so sure. Luckily Jenny gave me these wellies, which are surprisingly comfortable, as long as you wear them with two pairs of socks. I wear Uncle Andrews’s fishing jacket, which is just the right size and fantastically waterproof and full of pockets. It’s only drizzling, and I feel okay, striding along the road and splashing through the puddles. It’s cold and grey but so what?

I forgot to check the bus times, so I have to sit in the shelter for nearly half an hour. You can randomly get a connection up here though, so I spend my time on Facebook, catching up with what everyone’s been doing.

In town, I deliberately walk round the back way, coming out by the Co-op, so I don’t have to walk past the shop. I don’t look towards it either; I imagine a section of the Square cut out of existence and behave as if there’s nothing to look at anyway. I toy with the idea of going into the Old Mill but I’m not ready for curiosity or sympathy. I’m pretending to be fine but if Cerys asked me anything I’d get upset, and who can be bothered with that. Instead, I go into the baker’s and buy two custard slices and a loaf of bread, and then I collect my car and drive home, carefully avoiding looking at the shop as I drive past.

I hope he’s as miserable as I am.

It seems unlikely.

I go home and read Sherlock Holmes in the bath until the water gets cold, and then I put my pyjamas back on and make a bacon sandwich for lunch. Then I sit in the