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

right into the front room of the shop. Chris is standing by the fireplace, a vintage detective novel in his hand.

‘Thea,’ he says. ‘Hello.’ He pushes the book back into the stack on the mantelpiece and comes towards me.

I’m surprised by how much he looks like himself. I don’t know why this is surprising. What else would he look like? It’s so odd to see him. I haven’t seen him for, what, ten months? It seems like for ever.

I glance back at Edward. ‘Er,’ I say, ‘hello. So this is Chris–’

‘Yes,’ says Edward, ‘he introduced himself.’

I ignore him. ‘And this is Edward.’

‘Yes,’ says Chris, ‘hi.’

They look at each other, two pairs of eyes steadily regarding one another, weighing each other up. It’s almost exactly as awkward as you might imagine introducing your husband and your – boyfriend – might be. After a pause that lasts a couple of seconds longer than I’m quite comfortable with, I realize that I need to say something else.

‘So, hey, this is… I wasn’t expecting to see you. You should have said you were coming; I’d have taken the day off or something.’

‘Yeah, I… It was a bit spur of the moment.’

‘A long drive for spur of the moment,’ I say, frowning at him. ‘And – well, you didn’t drive up today, surely?’

‘Yeah, no. Came up yesterday. It’s further than I thought. I’ve got an Airbnb place in Newton Stewart.’

‘Right.’ There’s another awkward pause.

‘You look well,’ he says.

Edward, who’s gone behind the counter and is pretending to work, snorts loudly, turns it unconvincingly into a cough, rattles things.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘do you want a cup of tea or something? I was just making one when you arrived. Maybe we should…’ I glance over at Edward again, but he’s looking at the computer. ‘Maybe we should pop over to the Old Mill? Then we could have a drink and sit down.’ We could go upstairs, but I don’t want to invite him up to the flat. ‘That is why are you here? That sounds rude, sorry. But–’

‘Yeah, I… Well, I wanted to talk to you, and you know I hate talking on the phone, and email’s not the same, and…’

It’s all rather odd. He’s not good on the phone, it’s true, or at least, he doesn’t like it, and God knows we haven’t had a proper conversation since I came up here. But I can’t see what we need to have one about, not really. There’s the house, I suppose, and the money. I assume it must be that. I’m suspicious now that he’s going to try to get out of paying me somehow. But that’s unfair and based on nothing but paranoia.

‘Could we close?’ I ask Edward. ‘It’s not busy, is it?’

He looks from me to Chris and back again. ‘If you like,’ he says, ‘or – d’you want me to come with you?’

‘Yes,’ I say decisively.

It’s quiet in the Old Mill, which is lucky. I don’t particularly wish to be the subject of curiosity, although it’s usually unavoidable.

‘We’ll go out the back,’ I say, waving at Cerys. They don’t usually do table service, but she mimes taking an order at me, head on one side, and I nod. That will be easier than one of us going up to the counter and leaving the other two to make awkward conversation.

The conservatory is empty, raindrops chasing each other down the windows, the winter garden folded in on itself. We have one of those ‘What about here? Yes that’s fine’ conversations and I slide onto the bench beside Edward. Chris has had a recent haircut, and he hasn’t shaved in maybe a week. I don’t recognize the top he’s wearing, or the jacket he’s just taken off. I look down at myself, wondering if I’m wearing something he’d recognize, but it’s one of my many generic white linen shirts, and even I can’t tell if it’s an old one. This cardigan is definitely new though; Edward gave it to me for Christmas.

Cerys brings us menus, and goes away again, consumed, I can tell, with curiosity.

‘It’s bigger than I imagined,’ Chris says. ‘Baldochrie, I mean. How far out is your house? I couldn’t remember.’ He looks from me to Edward and back again. ‘Do you still live there?’

‘It’s about five miles away,’ I say, ‘not far. And yes.’ This isn’t exactly a lie, I suppose. I’m not sure why I don’t want to just tell him I more or less live at the shop.

‘And this is where you’re from?’ he asks Edward.

‘Yep. Well, the family home is about five miles away. Just up the road from the Lodge, actually. That’s where I was born.’

‘Were you?’ I say, surprised I’ve never asked about this. ‘You were born there?’

‘Yes, of course. Traditional, isn’t it?’ He smiles at me. ‘Charles was born in Dumfries, though, because he has to be different. Although it’s always annoyed him that he wasn’t born at Hollinshaw.’

‘You don’t sound local, though – I thought you’d have an accent,’ says Chris.

‘It’s a disappointment to everyone,’ agrees Edward.

There’s another slightly uncomfortable pause.

‘So how are you?’ I ask. I think he looks tired – but that’s not something you say, is it? I wonder if it’s the house full of children and the pregnant girlfriend.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good, yeah. And you? You look really well,’ he says, again.

‘Thanks, yes.’ I put my hand on Edward’s thigh. He puts his hand over mine and squeezes.

Cerys comes back to offer drinks, and we talk about the weather, and Chris’s journey north, and the progression of the new development in the town centre back home. Chris asks about my parents; I ask about his. He asks about the shop.

‘Never imagined you working in a shop,’ he says.

‘I know, it’s quite funny,’ I agree. ‘But I like it.’

‘The shop’s not how I imagined it, either. I thought it would be smaller, for some reason. I don’t think Xanthe described it very well.’

‘You could have looked it up,’ I say. ‘There are