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

my laptop and turn it so she gets a view of the room. ‘Isn’t it lovely? And quite warm, despite the windows. Because of the fire.’

‘Above the shop? Whose flat is that, then? The owner’s?’

‘Yes. Edward.’ I clear my throat. I should tell her, shouldn’t I? It’s not like it’s a secret.

‘On a Sunday? Are you working?’

‘No, I stayed here. Last night.’

She’s peering at me again. ‘Oh,’ she says. I can see her wondering whether she should ask me about this; I’m famously secretive, or at least, non-forthcoming.

‘Yes,’ I say, feeling sorry for her. ‘Edward and I… I suppose we’re seeing each other.’

She’s searching my face, difficult at this distance.

From the doorway, Edward says, ‘You suppose? That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.’

‘It feels weird saying it,’ I explain. I turn back to my mum. ‘He’s here, would you like to say hello?’

‘Of course! Yes! Let me get Dad–’

‘Oh no, no need to–’

I can hear her shouting, though, and then my dad appears, looking confused.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I ask Edward. ‘I know meeting people’s parents is the worst thing.’

‘No, because I’m keener about this than you are,’ he says, ‘and would be happy to tell any stranger that you’re my lover or even girlfriend.’

‘Don’t say “lover” to my parents, you freak.’

He laughs at me and comes to sit down.

‘Er, hello, Dad, how are you?’

‘Good, thanks, Thea. Now, what’s going on? I can’t understand what your mother’s on about.’

‘I just wanted you to meet someone.’ My parents are squashed together, staring at their screen. ‘This is Edward… he owns the shop. Where I work?’

‘Oh yes, the bookshop.’ Dad nods, adjusting his specs. ‘Nice to meet you, Edward.’

‘Hello, Mr Hamilton. And Mrs Hamilton.’

My mother’s beaming at him. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m Carol. And this is Roy.’ She nudges my dad, who seems confused.

I clear my throat. ‘Dad, Edward and I are–’

‘Engaged,’ he interrupts, and I put my hand over my eyes.

‘Not engaged,’ I say, ‘that would be madness. But we are–’

‘Going out,’ Edward interrupts again. He’s grinning at my mum, who looks delighted.

‘Seeing each other, yes.’

‘Well, that’s lovely,’ says Mum. ‘I’m pleased for you both.’

‘We’re absolutely not engaged though,’ I say, ‘I’d just like to make that clear.’

‘Yet,’ says Edward, and yelps as I pinch him.

‘No need to rush things,’ says Mum, smiling happily at me. ‘Just be kind to each other.’

‘That’s the plan,’ says Edward.

‘So you’ve known each other a while,’ says Mum.

‘Yes, since I first arrived, more or less. Of course I wasn’t in any fit state to–’

‘No, well, things have been difficult, haven’t they? I’m glad you’ve met someone. I’ve been worried about you, up there by yourself, not knowing anyone.’

‘I do know some other people,’ I object. ‘I’ve got friends up here now.’

‘I know. But all the same. It’s good to have someone special.’

Edward squeezes my hand. ‘It is,’ he agrees. ‘Good to meet you both. Hopefully we’ll meet in person one day. I’ll leave you to it.’ He pats my leg, and gets up.

‘Only say nice things about me,’ he says in a stage whisper, and I roll my eyes at him.

‘Idiot. How am I going to be able to do that?’

He laughs, leaving the room. I turn back to the screen.

‘So have you been seeing each other long?’ My mum’s excited. ‘You’ve hardly mentioned him.’

‘Yeah, no. A couple of weeks.’

‘And that’s okay? Working together?’

‘It is so far, yes. He’s quite easy-going. Er…’

‘I thought you said he was grumpy?’

‘Oh, yeah. He is. I don’t mind that, though. He just does it to stop the customers bothering him. I’m much better with the punters than he is.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ my dad says. ‘Never had you down for customer service.’

‘I know, but we don’t get crowds and crowds. It’s not like when I worked in HMV. Anyway, we get on well, so far.’

I don’t like to tempt fate, so I’m cautious when I talk about it. I don’t want to jinx it. I want it to be fun for as long as possible.

Introducing him to my folks reminded me that I’d wondered about the semi-bohemian sixties life of his parents, so I look them up. They’re almost famous, after all, hovering on the periphery of Swinging London. There are newspaper photographs. His mother getting into a car outside a nightclub, all beehive and false eyelashes. His dad with Brian Jones and Paul McCartney, about 1965, raffishly handsome, his arm round an unseen someone. A set of pictures from a shoot, ‘Mayfair’s brightest slumming it’, sitting on the steps of one of those dilapidated Georgian houses, pre-gentrification, Notting Hill or somewhere; empty milk bottles, peeling paint, his mother all kohl eyes and kaftan, his dad in paisley. Another picture of his mother, earlier on, perhaps late fifties, standing behind Princess Margaret, the flash making her dress blankly white.

They make me slightly uncomfortable, those pictures, a reminder that if things were different, and not much different, he’d be someone else entirely. That fifty years ago our relationship would have been impractical, and eighty years ago impossible, more or less. I know he’s not a duke or anything but even so. We’d never have met, would we, unless I was a servant, or perhaps the wife of an employee. I don’t want to meet his mother, elegant and well preserved. I’m certainly not one of the lovely girls she finds at dinner parties and wants to introduce him to.

Twenty-Six

It’s January. I’m not sure how – the last two months have whizzed past in a rush of cold beach walks and poetry and love. I’m all aglow with the pleasure of it.

Finally – at last – I’m shifting Local History to the front of the shop. Sing hallelujah. I can’t help feeling it’s some kind of prize for good behaviour, but when I say this Edward laughs and says, ‘More like bad behaviour.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Pretty sure you know exactly what I mean.’

I look at him, hands on hips. ‘I shall pretend I have literally