“I really don’t want to leave you on your own, though,” I tell him. “I’d worry about you. It’s Christmas. You shouldn’t be on your own at Christmas. And there’s the shop to think about, too.”
“Well, I don’t think we need to worry about me being overwhelmed with customers, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Dad replies, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles. “And I don’t want you worrying about me, either, Holly. I’m a grown-up. It’s my job to worry aboutyou, and I’m not sure I’ve beendoing enough of that, have I? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems, and trying to make this place work …”
He glances around at the empty store, which we both know isn’tjustempty because it’s not actually open yet.
“Last night, when I was doing all that thinking, it occurred to me that I should probably have spent more time worrying about you,” Dad says quietly, staring into his coffee cup, which I notice he hasn’t touched. “I should have been worrying about what it would do to you, keeping you cooped up in this old place when you should be out living your life however you want.”
“Dad, I love ‘this old place,’” I tell him, touching him gently on the hand. “Because it’s ours. And you haven’t been keeping me ‘cooped up’ in it, either. It was my decision to come and work here rather than going to uni. It’s not like you forced me to do it.”
“No. I didn’t have to,” he replies, smiling sadly. “You’ve always been such a good girl, Holly. Never caused me or your mum a moment’s trouble. Of course you would stay here to help your old dad. Of course you would. But that’s not fair on you, is it? And that’s why I think we should sell the place.”
This time I really do sway dangerously on the high stool, because I did not see this coming.
“Sell?” I say, gripping onto the counter with both hands. “Wh … what do you mean sell it?” “Exactly that,” says Dad mildly. “This has nothing to do with you and your young American,” he adds quickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually. Business … well, it hasn’t exactly been booming, has it? You know that. And maybe it’s time to just admit that it isn’t going to pick back up. There’s a season for everything, Holly. But it’s important to know when the season’s over, so you can move on.”
“I don’t want to move on,” I say fiercely, those tears that have been threatening ever since I walked in finally starting to make their presence felt behind my eyes. “I don’t want to sell up.”
I say it, and in that moment, I absolutely mean it. The bookstore may not have been my dream, but it was his. It was Mum’s. And it’s very hard to watch a dream die. I know that as well as anyone. Which is why I don’t think I can let him do this.
“Now, now,” Dad says in a no-nonsense tone, handing me one of the napkins that was wrapped around the base of our coffee cups. “No tears now. It’s not something to cry over. It’s a new opportunity, I suppose. A fresh start. And, for you, it’s one that can begin with that trip to America. Haven’t you always wanted to go there?”
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “But … not like this, Dad. Not by leaving you alone. Not if it makes you feel like you have to close the shop. I was only planning to go for Christmas, you know. And then … well, we said we’d just wait and see what happened after that. I don’t know yet.
“And you never will know, either, if you don’t give it a go,” replies Dad, who I’m starting to think must have put some whiskey in his coffee, because it’s unlike him to be so assertive. This is the same man who puts the SatNav on to drive to the supermarket, even though it’s the same journey he takes every week. Motivational, “seize the day” style pep talksreallyaren’t his thing.
“And anyway,” he adds, getting up to tidy away our empty cups. “I won’t be on my own. Elsie Poole’s asked me to join her and her sister for Christmas dinner.”
“Wh … what?”
Okay, now I’mcertainhe must be drunk. Elsie Poole? AndDad?
“Oh yes,” he says, adjusting his glasses as if he’s preparing for war. “She popped back in after you’d gone, yesterday. Said she’d overheard us talking, and wondered if I’d like to come round and spend the day with them, seeing as you’d be in the States.”
“The States? Who’s going to the States?”
I look up in surprise to see Martin Baxter hovering near the back of the shop, having somehow managed to materialize there without me seeing him come in.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to just pop up like that. I let myself in the back door. Your dad gave me a key.”
None of this makes Martin’s sudden appearance in the still-closed bookstore any less strange to me, but Dad goes forward to greet him as if he’s been expecting him; which, it turns out, hehas.
“Ah, Martin,” he says, in a tone that totally belies the fact that he’s just been talking about closing down his beloved family businessandhaving dinner with the Poole sisters: two things I’d have difficulty ranking in terms of how unlikely they’d have seemed to me a mere five minutes ago. “Thanks for coming. I asked Martin to come round and take a look at the computer, Holly,” he says, turning to me. “My email’s been playing up again. He’s very good with technology, aren’t you, Martin?”
“I’m okay, I suppose,” says Martin, looking pleased. “What’s this about America, though? You planning a little holiday, Holly?”
“Um, sort of. Maybe,” I mumble, glancing at Dad, who beams back at me as if this is a jolly little plan that we’ve cooked up together.
“Holly’s thinking of going for Christmas,” he says, still in Possibly Drunk Mode. “With her young man. Elliot, he’s called. You’ve met Elliot, Martin, haven’t you?”
“Not officially, no,” says Martin, stiffly. “I know who he is, though. I’ve seen you two around, Holly.”
He gives me a look which suggests the sight hasn’t exactly been a pleasant one, but I’m still too busy thinking about Dad and the bombshell he’s just dropped — well, the series of bombshells, rather — to care much about what Martin Baxter thinks of my boyfriend.
“Dad, we need to talk some more about this,” I say quietly, surrendering the shop counter to Martin, who slips behind it and switches on the old laptop that sits there. “There’s so much to discuss.”
I go over to him, wishing Martin hadn’t turned up right at this minute. Or at all, even.
“No, Holly,” says Dad, with the air of a man who definitely isn’t drunk, but whohasmade his mind up about something. “There isn’t. I want you to go. I want you to enjoy yourself for once. I’ve been selfish, stopping you from doing that. And I’ll still be here when you get back, you know. I’m not going anywhere. Well, not yet, anyway.”
