My sister’s eyes are lighting up with possibility. “That was the plan when you left uni, Lucy, wasn’t it—to write a novel? But after you came back from traveling...” She trails off, and I know what she really wants to say: that on my return, I wasn’t quite the same person as I was before.
“I need money,” I say. “I can’t just... not work.”
“So get a part-time job, to tide you over. The cost of living’s so much cheaper here—you could get by on something casual.”
I can’t deny I do have it easy, living in Shoreley. The outrageous cost of renting even a single room in Jools’s house-share has already given me mild palpitations.
“Actually,” Tash says, blinking rapidly like she’s just had a lightbulb moment, “Ivan’s looking for someone to help run the shop.”
I stare at her, blankly. “Who’s Ivan? What shop?”
“You know Ivan. Luke’s dad.”
“I don’t know Luke, or his dad.” Tash does this a lot—name-drop other kids and their parents from my nephew Dylan’s school, most of whom I’ve never met or heard of before.
“Luke’s in Dylan’s class. His dad owns the gift shop in town. Pebbles & Paper.”
“The place that sells candles for thirty quid a pop?”
Tash smiles. “Come on—you’re into signs from the universe, or whatever. I pick up this flyer, Ivan’s looking for someone to help in the shop... This is anopportunity. To finish that novel and do what you’ve always dreamed of.”
Once, at uni, a group of us were lounging about in my bedroom in halls when we started discussing our biggest fears. We agreed on the usual things—losing a loved one, or illness, or being in this much debt for the rest of our lives—but there was one thought that kept ringing through my mind like a bell: missing my calling. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than overlooking the chances—however big, or small—life might send my way. I still can’t, as it happens, even all these years later.
I feel something stir in my stomach at the thought of reacquainting myself with the person I used to be.
“So?” My sister, my best friend, my longtime confidante, is looking at me, her eyes alive with expectation. “What are you going to do, Luce? Stay, or go?”
Four
Stay
“So, your sister said you’re a writer.”
Only six short days since that morning in Tash’s kitchen, when I made my decision to stay in Shoreley, and she’s already telling the world that I write for a living, which really couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m meeting Dylan’s friend’s dad Ivan at Pebbles & Paper before it opens for the day. According to Ivan’s spiel, it’s an award-winning gift shop that’s featured in numerous magazines—though it’s unclear exactly what award a gift shop might win, and I don’t believe for one moment his claim that Kate Winslet stopped by last summer to buy fifty quid’s worth of vegan soap. His outfit is kind of setting the tone—he’s wearing off-white chinos, loafers, and a striped shirt of the kind most often seen at Henley Regatta.
The shop’s interior is all very beach chic, making liberal use of bunting, seashells, and nautical stripes. I’ve popped in here just acouple of times before, only to balk at the prices before legging it empty-handed. I don’t tell Ivan this, of course, a man who’s spent the last five minutes bragging about his profit margins.
“Sort of,” I say meekly, in reply to his half question, as I breathe in the fug of essential oils, scented candles, and handmade drawer fresheners. “I mean, that’s the plan.”
Ivan frowns, like my life goals could do with some serious unpacking right here among the inspirational driftwood signs. “Well, anyway, we’re expanding next year,” he says. “Lining up a couple of little premises in Suffolk and West London.” He pushes his fringe out of his eyes. “So, look, we’d mainly need you to do weekday mornings. Me or my wife Clarissa will take over in the afternoons. But we would need you to work all day on alternate Saturdays.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“All right. Let’s go over how the till works, shall we?”
I nod and follow him to the counter, where there’s a computer screen, a goldfish bowl full of artisan soap, and a complicated assortment of tissue paper and ribbons that I sincerely hope I won’t be expected to touch. It’s long been my opinion that gift bags were invented for a reason.
“So, what’s your novel about?” Ivan says, logging in to the till on the touchscreen.
I hesitate. “Well, it’s sort of... a love story, I suppose.”
“Ah,” he says, knowingly. “One of those books, is it?”
“One of what books?”
I can tell he’s trying to resist waggling his eyebrows. “Racy.”
