I can’t help giving a tiny laugh at that, and I climb back into bed, still shaking a little from the adrenalin of the unexpected intrusion, and maybe the late night coffee has something to do with it too. I’m mentally congratulating myself on sticking up for myself and my plans for my dream holiday and wondering if this is a new, tougher me, unafraid of voicing my needs. I ask myself if this Elliot guy has spent the last thirteen years caring for others and letting their life slip slowly by. Is he newly dumped and humiliated and almost (sort of) homeless? I doubt he needs a solo break as much as I do. I’m midway through these thoughts when the old, familiar guilty feeling comes creeping back in, except this isn’t my usual sense of being torn in two, wanting to dutifully help my family while swallowing my dreams and my pride and secretly, guiltily wishing I could have more from life. No, this is just plain old shame at being badly behaved.
The feeling won’t leave me. I was hostile and petulant, grasping onto my bookshop like it didn’t also belong to this stranger too. That isn’t like me. I’m stubborn, yes, but not unkind. This is what Mack’s done to me. He’s made me cautious and bitter, sniping and untrusting.
I settle down, restless now, wonder how on earth Elliot’s going to get any sleep tonight – he doesn’t even have a blanket – but nothing could make me unbolt the door and go check on him. In the morning, when there are people out and about around the village, I’ll talk to him, tell him gently why he can’t stay, explain how there’s been a mix-up and this is all Mack’s fault and Jowan’s misunderstanding, and maybe he won’t mind leaving, once he knows what this break means to me. Maybe then I can get my bookshop holiday started at last.
Chapter Ten
The next morning there’s no sign of last night’s intruder. His boots, jacket and backpack are all gone, and for a moment I think I’ve dreamt the whole thing. Aldous is asleep in the window. Does he do anything else?
I’ve slept far longer than I wanted to. I should have been up and baking hours ago, but months of tiredness seemed to have hit me all at once and I eventually slept a long, blank sleep.
The rain’s gone too so I open the shop door and breathe in the cool morning air, all sea-salty and fresh. No sign of the milk or clotted cream on the step like Jowan said. Somebody’s brought it in, I guess. Could one of Jowan’s volunteers have been in already? Do they even have keys? I don’t want any more surprise visitors; one was quite enough, thank you.
The sky is a wonderful light blue and the cobbles in the little square before me are gleaming in the sun. What with the white walls of the surrounding buildings – the backs of little cottages, I think – and the red geraniums in pots here and there and the palm tree that stands in a terracotta pot at the centre of the square, the whole scene feels positively Mediterranean. Not that I’ve ever been to the Mediterranean, you understand, but this is what I imagine it’s like. I rest a hand on the doorframe and smile thinking how my lovely little bookshop has weathered the decades here and is now settled, slumping and slanting, enjoying its cosy old age by the seaside in its little cobbled square.
I check my phone and it’s just before nine. I’d better think about opening up the shop. Maybe it’s OK to open late since it’s Sunday?
The little niggling worry that’s been prodding at me since I arrived yesterday really makes its presence felt now. I know I can’t put it off any longer. I’ll have to figure out how to master the till. Last night I found the cashbox Jowan mentioned stashed under the bed and inside there was thirty-six quid in change, which I’m guessing is the float for the till. If I can just keep the money straight for thirteen days I’ll be so proud of myself, but experience tells me I’ll struggle.
I’m sinking into the familiar anxiety yet again and wondering if it’s too early to ring Daniel for a bit of reassurance when the figure – no, when the Wall of Man – appears before me, crossing the little square in the morning sun.
I have to let my eyes take him in bit by bit because he’s kind of huge. The first thing that strikes me is the broad chest and even broader shoulders with a waist that suggests this man has a set of ‘hip dips’ to rival Tom Daley and is a classic ‘V’ (look it up online if you don’t know what that means, and don’t blame me if you have to delete your browsing history).
He’s mostly cheekbone and long dark hair that’s splayed messily over his shoulders and then there’s long legs in loose dark pants that instantly have me averting my eyes, but not before I notice he’s heading straight for me holding two takeaway cups. He’s not exactly smiling; he’s giving me more of an appraising grimace.
‘Morning,’ he says, stopping at the foot of the shop steps. God, his voice is deep. ‘I got us some coffee up at the visitors’ centre after my run.’
‘Elliot?’
He gives me a look, not unkind, just incredulous, that suggests this should have been obvious, and that’s when I notice the silvered scar dissecting one of his dark eyebrows. It looks recent and as though it hurt.
‘I got an Americano and a cappuccino, didn’t know what you’d like.’ He’s making a move up the steps so I awkwardly reverse into the shop again.
‘Umm, cappuccino. Thanks.’
He puts it in my hand as he passes me, his height making me feel positively miniature – even more so than usual, I mean.
‘And I got this for Aldous.’ He pulls a dog chew from his pocket. ‘They had a big jarful up at the coffee place.’
Aldous doesn’t even open his eyes when Elliot places the chew next to his snout and attempts a gentle pat on his scruffy head. The dog’s nostrils flare as he sniffs the gift, then shifts his head away to avoid it.
‘Ah, he doesn’t like it,’ Elliot says. ‘Maybe he’s still full from the breakfast cheese sarnie I made him? He didn’t want to come for a run with me either this morning, poor little guy.’
My holiday-crasher has his back to me now and I swear he’s blocking out the sun from the windows at the back of the shop. This guy must be over six foot. It’s kind of intimidating.
‘Jowan says Aldous does his own thing… So,umm,’ I pipe up, thinking we really should be addressing our booking mix-up. ‘Listen, shouldn’t we…’
‘The note in the kitchen said he mainly eats chicken soup?’ Elliot whips his head round to face me, and I can’t help laughing.
‘That’s what people tell me too. He’s not your regular kind of dog.’
‘They didn’t have any chicken soup up at the visitors’ centre.’ He’s shaking his head and looking amused, but the uncomfortable atmosphere in here is enough to cut it short. ‘Anyway,uh,’ he says. ‘What do we do now?’
‘I’ve got to open my shop,’ I say, emphasis on the ‘my’, and I watch Elliot’s brow crinkle before he takes a slow drink of coffee.
I take the opportunity to square up, standing feet hip-width apart and trying my best to keep my chin up. I want him to go, remember? Even if it does make me feel like a mardy old cow. Wanting to meet people in the community and enjoy welcoming them into my shop is one thing, living in close quarters with a man I don’t know is entirely another. I clear my throat, feeling fully a foot and a half shorter than this guy. ‘Thing is, Elliot. I’ve been looking forward to this for months now—’
‘Me too,’ he interrupts, giving me a level look.
