What must she think of him? The way he prattled on about service stations – dear God. Slowly, he removes his hand from his face and opens his eyes and stares at the blank wall. He feels like banging his head against it.
On top of all that, he’s still trying to make sense of Ravi’s letter, the tour schedule and camera. Obviously, they can’t do as she’s asked. Josie could hardly have made it any clearer that she finds his presence unbearable: the awkwardness of waiting for the lift just then, the stiff hug, and the way she seemed so keen to get back to her room. If it’s anything like his, it’s pretty dismal: one step up from a police interrogation room. But maybe it’s not? Maybe she has a suite, and wanted to retire early to do her yoga or meditation or whatever it is that she’s into?
He is desperate to know about her life, and how it’s all panned out for her since the thing happened – the thing he’s banned himself from even thinking about today – after which she’d hotfooted it to London with Dale Watson and he never saw her again. Yet Shane knows virtually nothing about her life now, because he didn’t get it together to ask. Too busy banging on about the motorway around Birmingham. Look at Kamal, quizzing her about being a grandmother and all that, during the ten-minute drive into town. Why was that? he wonders. Because Kamal is a smart, fully functioning man and Shane is an idiot.
He exhales slowly and drifts around the room, pausing to glare at Nana Pickles, Our Lady of the Biscuits. Feeling thoroughly deflated now, he sits heavily on the edge of his bed and fishes out his phone. As if to further crank up his wretchedness, he navigates straight to his daughter’s Instagram.
In the first picture, he sees that they are all out, at night, in a street of tall, elegant houses, all painted in different pastel colours. Paula and the kids are huddled close together and grinning. Behind them, Rich Tony is standing, also beaming and a good head taller even than Ryan, who’s already five foot ten. His arms are outstretched around the three of them, as if he were gathering them up. They must have asked a passer-by to take the picture.
Shane studies it, aware that the photo isn’t doing anything to lift him out of the awfulness of today. Because it was awful, despite Pam and Kamal’s gargantuan efforts to be jolly and hospitable, and he hates himself for thinking this.
It was awful because everyone had only gathered at Cherry Cottage because Ravi is dead. And on top of that, despite his uncertainty of how it would be, a tiny part of him had looked forward to seeing Josie again. Sunny Josie, with the beautiful smile and clear blue eyes that always reminded him of forget-me-nots (every summer, the Kapoors’ garden was full of them).
At least there was that, he’d been telling himself as the day had drawn closer. At least they would be able to talk and maybe straighten things out a bit. He certainly needed to apologise for his part in it. It had shocked him, how deeply he had hoped it would turn out that way – that somehow, Ravi’s celebration might go a little way towards putting things right.
Giving Rich Tony’s smug face a final glare, Shane tosses his phone aside, gets up to switch the kettle on and rips open the biscuits. Biting into one, he glares at the packet. Baking your favourites since 1897. Tastes like it, he decides.
He doesn’t really want a biscuit. Nor does he want a cup of tea made with the sole bag sitting there. A proper drink is what he wants, more than anything – at this precise moment, even more than world peace. Wine and beers were flowing at the Kapoors’, and Dev and his mates were definitely tipsy towards the end. Which was fine – no judgement coming from Shane – but he was determined to hold it together and not make an arse of himself and obviously he did a fantastic job there.
He circuits the room again, looking for a discreet cupboard that might have escaped his attention earlier and will miraculously turn out to be a well-stocked mini-bar. Of course there isn’t such an amenity. No one came in to obligingly install one while he was at the Kapoors’.
He groans audibly and then he thinks, sod it. It’s 10.13 on a gloomy evening in his home town and there’s a bar downstairs. He doesn’t have high hopes for its ambience, but they’ll serve alcohol, and that’s what matters.
Three minutes later, telling himself that the night is still young – why not live a little! – Shane is striding towards the lift. This time, it doesn’t take a hundred years to arrive. It opens instantly, causing him to jump – as if it were waiting for him. Already, as he travels down, he starts to feel marginally better. Rich Tony and Paula are probably enjoying cocktails now, but so what? Shane is about to chug down a pint in a hotel bar that looked, as he passed it earlier, as alluring as a broom cupboard, and it’ll be fucking great.
The lift doors open and he bounds out like a dog released from the boot of a car. He swerves to the right and, quickening his pace, he steps into what is optimistically named The Cocktail Club. It’s plainly furnished with too few tables, spaced too far apart, and a couple of seemingly unyielding blue sofas.
A fed-up-looking woman behind the bar is checking her phone. There are only four other people in here: a gaunt young man picking at crisps from a packet torn open and laid flat on the table, and an earnest-looking couple huddled over a laptop.
And there in the corner, a lone blonde woman is lifting a large glass of white wine to her lips, while simultaneously engaged in what seems to be a furious phone conversation.
It’s Josie.
9
JOSIE
‘Hang on, Rupert,’ I exclaim. ‘You’re not making any sense. What’s happened exactly?’
Oh God. Here comes Shane. I do a silly little wave and grimace apologetically. He makes a glass-raising motion – want a drink? – and I shake my head quickly as he heads for the bar. ‘You know the value of these books,’ Rupert announces. ‘We can’t afford this to happen.’
‘Can’t afford what to happen?’
Of course I know their value. The bulk of our business is online sales – all handled by me. Rupert isn’t interested in the tiresome business of taking payments, packaging up our valuable tomes and ensuring they reach their buyers promptly. His role is to occupy the front desk, bantering with friends and unwittingly intimidating potential customers.
‘Remember that numbered limited edition on Picasso ceramics?’ he snaps.
‘Yes, of course?—’
‘The customer’s been in touch. The book turned up in an appalling condition?—’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘It can’t have! You know how careful I am. If it’s been damaged in transit, we’re covered for that. We just need to?—’
‘I don’t think this happened in transit!’
I flinch and glance over at Shane, who’s sipping his beer at the bar. Won’t be a minute, I mouth at him.
‘Rupert, can we please deal with this on Monday?’ I say, but he carries on talking regardless. He knows I’m away, that an old friend has died, and that I’m back in my home town to pay my respects. ‘Good luck up there!’ he’d said with an alarmed expression, as if a trip to Yorkshire were on a par with traversing the Arctic.
