‘And so broad about the shoulders,’ Mrs Crocombe puts in, rather dreamily, drawing her notebook from her pocket. She mutters something to herself, along the lines of ‘He’ll do very well,’ and turns to leave. I thank her again for fixing my laundry predicament and for the ice cream, and she’s gone, but not before looking between me and Izaak, hopefully at first, before seeming to think again and shaking her head dismissively.
‘I think you and I were almost set up there,’ I say to Izaak, when she’s out of sight.
‘Hmm?’ Izaak doesn’t seem to register what I’m saying and is now wandering amongst the shelves.
‘Is there something you’re after, Izaak?’
‘I’m looking for a book.’
‘Any one in particular?’ I say, clapping my hands, ready for my first sale of the day.
‘It’s orange.’ He says this with a nod of finality, like I should know instantly what he’s on about.
‘O-kay, anything else? Title? Author? Date?’
‘Yes, it’s got a date. That’s right.’
‘Right. So it’s orange and it’s got a date.A Clockwork Orange?’ I say, taking a stab in the dark.
‘No, read that, wasn’t a fan. This one’s got the big screens and the thingies that listen, you know? In your house. And,uh, there’s these pair meeting in secret, and they go to the countryside, but they get caught. You know the one?’
‘Umm, not really,’ I say.
‘Nineteen Eighty-Four!’ comes Elliot’s voice from the café.
‘That’s the one!’ Izaak calls back.
‘Are you hiding out in there, listening to us?’ I shout back towards the café door.
‘Big Brother is always listening,’ says Elliot’s grinning disembodied head, appearing around the café doorframe before it disappears again. His hair had hung down in a mussed, swishy curtain of black which makes me stare after him for a while, long after he’s out of sight.
Izaak clears his throat, amused. ‘So have you got it then?’
We spend a long time searching for a copy but fail to turn one up. ‘Sorry, Izaak, one of these days I’ll have the book you’re after. Can’t I interest you in anAnimal Farm, we’ve two copies of that, orThe Road to Wigan Pier?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘Not to worry. I’ll get one on the internet.’
I make a note to myself to ask Jowan if we can order books in from wholesalers. That way I can send Izaak away happy one of these days.
I’m glad I decided to take a break from the shop this afternoon. I left Elliot to cash up and raced Up-along at ten to five.
The sight of the visitors’ centre shops yesterday as we hurried Aldous to the vet has been burned on my retina, and Gran’s notes are similarly burning a hole in my pocket. I’m on holiday, I should be allowed to buy myself a little souvenir, and Gran gave me strict instructions to spend it on something nice, and I know she’d be annoyed if I told her I’d bought more books with it.
By ‘frivolous’ Gran means nothing practical or educational; a proper treat. Ifshewere here she’d probably splurge it all on clotted cream fudge, but I have a better idea.
I’d clocked the little clothes shop last night when the taxi dropped off Elliot and me – and our fish suppers – after our vet adventure. It was all locked up by then, of course, but I spotted the colourful clothes behind the window grille, thinking I’d detected the tell-tale signs of a hippy clothes store, the kind of place you might find Himalayan knits and llama keychains. And I was right.
I tried on a few things, shopping right outside of my comfort zone, because this stuff isn’t really ‘me’, and then the shop assistant said she had Just The Thing.
As soon as I tried on the midnight-blue, ankle-length strappy dress with a braided tie-waist in the incense-scented changing room, I knew I had to buy it. The best thing was, Gran’s money covered it, just. The girl cut the tags off there and then, and so now, I’m floating back down the damp cobbles in flowy cotton, comfy in my Converse, with my old clothes in a carrier bag that reads ‘Astral Breeks – Alternative Clothing and Surf Shop’.
The drizzle’s stopped and the view of the blue summer horizon and gulls gliding by is truly breath-taking. I tell myself to loiter a bit and enjoy it but my feet are listening instead to a quieter voice at the back of my brain saying I should rush back to the shop and show Elliot this dress – the same irrational, nagging voice that told me back there in the changing room to fix my hair and put some lip gloss on before seeing him.
I reach the shop door and take a deep breath, not quite knowing what I’m supposed to do next. Do a twirl for him, maybe, like I’d do for Gran if she were here? Obviously not. That would be needy and… well, odd. I’ll just get on with my evening and keep out of his way like we planned.
Elliot’s nowhere to be seen anyway. I check upstairs. Nothing. Maybe he’s gone to see Aldous again? Or he’s with Anjali, the lovely vet from a Mrs Crocombe-Approved family.
He’s already cashed up and the money box is back under my bed, so I head to the café to eat any of this morning’s remaining cupcakes all by myself over the sink.
