The traitorous little cutpurse in me, greedy for something that’s not mine, betrays me and my heart leaps. He’s had second thoughts. He’s dumped that Fresher and come back to me! I’m struggling to hear the little voice in my head reminding me he’s a spineless oil slick of a man.
‘It’s Rupert,’ he says, and his low whisper makes me shiver. I’m unsure if it’s the good kind of shiver or not; my feelings are churning like a tornado.
I resolve to try and sound sensible and sophisticated. I’ll be the woman he wanted me to be back before my graduation.
‘Oh, you all right?’ That didn’t come out quite as refined as I hoped it would.
‘Yes,umm, listen…’
Oh my God, he really does want me back! I can hear it in his voice.
‘A letter arrived today, addressed to the both of us. It’s from Borrow-a-Bookshop in Devon?’
‘Oh, OK.’ I pause and force myself to think. Now my heart starts pounding because I’m realising what this means. ‘We’ve made it to the top of the queue?’ I ask, feeling a sudden thrill of nerves and excitement recalling the way I felt responding to the advert all those months ago, having only just found out it was possible to actually rent a bookstore and live in it for two whole weeks.
I’d literally squealed when I saw the advert in Gran’s magazine and got totally carried away, dreaming of travelling all the way to the Devonshire seaside and selling books, imagining me and Mack behind the counter together, getting his undivided attention, living the bookish, cerebral life I’d always dreamed of.
Gran told me I had to at least apply, and since there was such a long waiting list the whole thing hadn’t felt like a real possibility at the time, so I went for it, paying the money up front – clearing out basically all of my childhood building society savings – the only way to secure a place on the bookshop’s waiting list.
Mack’s voice reaches me through the dizzy feeling that’s overtaken me. ‘A couple have pulled out, so the bookshop’s ours from Saturday morning if we want it, but I’ve to let them know our decision by the end of the day.’
He said ‘ours’. He did, he said ‘ours’! We’re a ‘we’ again, just like that? ‘Right, I,umm… so what do you want to do? Are we going?’ I say.
Mack’s breezier now. ‘To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it, and I’ve admin to do here, of course, but…’
‘Yes?’ Damn me and my annoying optimism.
‘Wecouldgo.’
The phone feels a bit slippery in my hand. I have to sit down on the carpet. I lean back against the wall and am immediately aware that the workman has swapped drilling for heavy hammer blows on the other side of the brickwork. Each strike reminds me that not only is my family home sold and I’ve nowhere to go, but I’ve no job here or anywhere else. Icouldgo to the bookshop for a fortnight.Wecould go.
He’s whispering again. ‘Two weeks by the seaside reading books sounds rather pleasant.’
I register the little hint of desperation – or flirtation? – in his voice.
‘I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on for this research project and you could enjoy yourself prettifying the shop all day and in the evenings we could—’
He’s cut off at his end by a woman’s voice saying, ‘Rupert Bear, whereareyou hiding yourself?’ and I hear his hand covering the mouthpiece, trying to muffle the exchange that comes next, but his voice is clear enough for me to make out the false jollity.
‘As I was saying, Chancellor, the bid’s coming along nicely. I have a feeling we’ll be successful and we can arrange my sabbatical for this time next year…’
The hammering outside my window suddenly stops and in the silence I hear a different beat; my blood rushing and pulsing in my head. My eardrums seem to throb as it gets louder and I realise I am absolutely bloody livid.
He’s not alone. Of course he isn’t. He’s whispering not with tenderness but because he’s trying not to be overheard. To think I was almost sucked back in as though Mackageddon never happened, as though I didn’t learn a single thing from Anne Elliot.
He’s back now, saying, ‘Sorry about that, you know how it is…’ and I know for sure some poor, hoodwinked girl has just been hustled out of the room. Some girl just like me. My mind’s racing now.
Of coursehe’d forgotten that I applied for a chance to run the bookshop. He was barely listening that night as I hunched over my crummy old laptop writing the application letter – old school style, no online presence for this bookshop – chattering away about how lovely it would be to be a bookseller by the sea and how romantic a fortnight’s holiday would be, fantasising about working together all day and exploring Clove Lore together all evening.
I told him all about how I’d never even been to Devon, let alone stayed in a sweet little harbour village with a dreamy bookshop. I remember enthusing for at least an hour and he’d nodded once or twice, throwing me cursory glances over the frames of his specs. I’d been so wrapped up in the idea of us living a bookish life, however temporary, I’d failed to seeyet againthat this man simply couldn’t care less about me and my dreams.
‘Who is it this time?’ I practically spit the words.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he says, haughtily. I can’t believe he’s going to try to brazen this out.
‘Who are you seeing this time? Tell me she’s at least a postgrad and not some poor Fresher with stars in her eyes and a complex about smart-looking men in wool suits?’
‘Hah,’ he laughs, as though I’m such a funny little thing. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Judith.’
