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

no idea,’ I say, disapprovingly, and he laughs again.

‘No, you’ve persuaded me,’ he says. ‘You’re probably right. I can’t think of anything you’ve ever been wrong about.’

‘Calm down,’ I tell him. ‘Won’t your brain fuse if you’re too pleasant?’

He looks at me for ages, then shakes his head. ‘Why on earth did I not meet you years ago? Why didn’t you do your degree in Edinburgh?’

‘I didn’t want to do a four-year degree,’ I say, seriously. ‘I did look at the course.’

‘Oh God. Just think.’

‘Yes, you’d have looked down your nose at me, I imagine, from the dizzying heights of your final year, and I’d have thought you were a twat, and we might potentially have had sex and never spoken again,’ I say. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Nonsense.’

‘You’d have missed out on all those girlfriends of Charles’s, quelle horreur.’

‘Can’t think of a single one I wouldn’t swap for the opportunity of having known you for twenty-five years.’

I’ll never get tired of hearing him say things like this, but I like to pretend to be unaffected by it. ‘You’d have messed it up, I expect; you don’t sound like you were the most emotionally intelligent young man ever to grace the streets of Edinburgh.’

He snorts. ‘Maybe not.’

‘Anyway, are you going to help me with this?’

He looks at the shelves. I’ve already put Local History (all eight feet of it) into boxes and shifted those boxes to the front of the shop. I’ve put Children’s Collectable and Military and Art History where the Local History used to be. I’ve shifted Contemporary Scottish Fiction to where the children’s books were, Military History to where that was, and now I have to move Cookery/Craft/Gardening from the front of the shop, and put Local History in there. I’m a bit dusty, and to be honest, knackered. I probably should have done all this when the shop was shut, but meh.

‘I suppose I could take them out of the boxes for you,’ he says. ‘Shall I put the kettle on first?’

‘Oh, I’ll do that. Tea?’

‘Yes please.’

It’s quiet, has been all day – unsurprisingly, since it’s a Wednesday in January. The lamps are lit and outside it’s raining in a relentless sort of fashion. I go out to the kitchenette and put the kettle on. It’s gloomy in there behind the curtain; the window is narrow and looks out (not that you can see through the frosted glass) on an equally narrow piece of outside space that’s overshadowed by the wall and the building. To get to it you have to go behind the workshop and shuffle. There’s nothing much down there: some random flowerpots, an old gate. Despite this lack of view, and the icy rain, I’m happy. I’m happy every day at the moment and keen to note it. The comparison to this time last year – yesterday was the anniversary of discovering exactly what Chris had been up to – is almost unfathomable.

I wake up in Edward’s bed and he brings me coffee and says nice things to me and we look at our phones as is the modern way and then we have breakfast and go to work. I am not yet bored of this, despite his fears. I still get time by myself when he goes to sales and, though I miss him, I know this is a good thing. It’s all working rather well. I make a pot of tea and try to remember if there are any biscuits left in the tin behind the counter. As I wait for the tea to brew, I hear the shop bell ring and wonder whether we might sell something.

I get the milk out and tap my fingers on the worktop. When Edward puts his head round the curtain, it makes me jump violently.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, ‘you scared me.’

‘Sorry. Er, Thea.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’d better come through.’

‘I’m just waiting for the tea; I won’t be a moment.’

‘I know. But…’

I turn to look at him. He sounds peculiar. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Something unexpected,’ he says.

‘Unexpected? What do you mean?’

He screws up his face. ‘Chris is here.’

‘What?’ I gawp at him.

‘Clistopher,’ he says. This makes me choke with laughter. It’s a quote from a Diana Wynne Jones book, The Lives of Christopher Chant. It’s how the mermaids say Christopher’s name, and it’s generally how he refers to Chris since we first remembered it, even though I told him not to, because Christopher Chant is much, much cooler than Chris Mottram.

‘What are you talking about?’ I say.

‘He’s here. He’s just arrived. In the shop.’

‘By himself?’ I have a horrid vision of an enormously pregnant Susanna in my shop.

He nods.

‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘He told me it was,’ he says. ‘I presume he’s not making it up. That would be strange, wouldn’t it?’ He almost laughs at this idea, but then he looks serious again.

‘Well, bloody hell.’ I look round the kitchen, although I’m not sure what for. ‘What on earth does he want?’

‘I don’t know, Thea, you’ll have to ask him.’

I frown. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this. I gesture at the teapot. ‘I only made a small pot,’ I say, vaguely.

Edward says nothing. I brush dust from the front of my shirt, and try (unsuccessfully) to see my reflection in the window. It’s been said – by Jenny, who sees me daily, and by Xanthe, who has to peer at me in FaceTime, that I am looking my best at the moment, glowing with joy. I hope this is true. With luck it will be more noticeable than the dust all over me and the multiple layers I have to wear in the shop during the winter.

It’s childish to want to look your best in front of your ex. I know that.

Deep breath then. ‘Are you coming?’ I ask him.

‘Do you want me to?’

I’m not sure. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Just let me know if you want me to leave you on your own.’

‘He’s definitely by himself, though?’

He nods.

‘Okay. Okay.’

I duck round the curtain and turn