It is early evening before she finishes, and she is just sweeping the floor when she spots something half hidden under the counter. She pulls it out and frowns down at it. It is one of the notebooks she sells, but this one has a creased cover with a corner missing. For a moment she thinks of damaged stationery and of her Uncle Wilbur.
In the next instance, she realizes what she is holding in her hand – surely this is one of Malcolm’s notebooks? Hadn’t she seen him with it when he came in yesterday? He must have dropped it. Instinctively she opens the notebook, simultaneously thinking she must return it, while conscious of a childlike glee that she can now see what he’s writing. On the inside cover of the notebook is the nameMalcolm Buswell. The first page is covered in neat copperplate handwriting and on the top line,William Foyleis underlined. The name means nothing to Jo.
A rap on the window makes her jump. She half expects to see Malcolm and looks up, guiltily, feeling caught out at reading his notebook. Instead, Eric the Viking pokes his head around the door.
‘Sorry, Jo, didn’t mean to creep up on you.’
Eric is wearing a shaggy kind of jumper (very Nordic) and carrying a black drill case.
‘You’re doing some DIY?’ Jo asks, and then wishes she hadn’t stated the obvious.
‘Yep, I’ve just moved into my own flat. Forgot I left the drill in the shop.’
I, Jo thinks, notwe.
Before she can stop herself, the words are out of her mouth.
‘How old are you, Eric?’
‘Thirty-three,’ he replies, clearly puzzled. When Jo doesn’t say anything else, he continues, shaking his head. ‘I know, I know, you’re thinking I should have stopped living like a student years ago and got myself a place of my own.’
She isn’t thinking that. She is thinking, six years. She is six years older than this man. She was five years older than James, and she can’t bear to think where that took her.
She reminds herself that it doesn’t matter, that she and Eric are justfriends, that she barely knows him. It suddenly feels ludicrous to be thinking like this.
They stand silent and awkward, the buzz of traffic in the distance. It is Eric who fills the gap.
‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I wanted to ask you ifyou were free for dinner sometime …’ He rushes on, and Jo notices his face is flushed. Hers is too. ‘… That is, Lando and I wanted to take you out. An apology, a meal …’ He now sounds embarrassed. ‘You know, to say sorry that we’ve been such useless neighbours.’
When Jo doesn’t immediately respond, he adds, ‘What d’you say?’
Jo thinks of the letter she imagined writing to herself. This is what she had in mind, wasn’t it? Being a better friend, making new friends. Why is she now so anxious that her jaw is clamped shut? She knows she should simply say,Yes, and go with them. But all she can think is:I can’t do this. She feels an almost physical pull back to the Jo who sat on the shop stool grieving for James. It was miserable there, but it was safe.
Eric seems to sense some of her anxiety (if not the reason for it) and, shifting his drill case to his other hand, says more gently, ‘Look, it will be fun, very casual. And you’ve got to eat,’ he says encouragingly, smiling at her.
‘Yes, there is that,’ she says, trying hard to sound light-hearted and join in with this game.
‘Look, where would you like to go?’
‘I don’t know many places round here,’ she admits, thinking she could just as easily say,I don’t knowanyplaces round here.
‘Well,’ Eric says, looking brighter, ‘me and my man Lando, can help you there. What kind of food do you like?’
Jo pictures the newest, the latest, the award-winning restaurants and pop-ups she used to go to with James. She doesn’t want Eric to see how vulnerable she is, and she wants to lethim know that she does know something about food. So she tells him with as much confidence as she can manage, ‘Newcastle, where I used to work, had some great places, where new cooking techniques were combined with a more eco-approach and naked ingredients were sourced from woodland foraging.’ She knows she must sound ridiculous; she wonders why the James in her head is now speaking for her, spouting words like a pretentious food critic.
The walrus laugh is back. ‘Jeez, Jo, I know I’m a Viking, but do we have to go traipsing across Hampstead Heath gathering lichen?’
‘I really like Italian food,’ she blurts, with perfect truth.
He waves a triumphant finger in the air. ‘Got you! We can do that for sure. There’s a great Italian near my new flat. Thursday night be good for you?’
Jo nods. She doesn’t trust herself to open her mouth again.
11
In case of emergency
‘That is very pretty. Is it Italian paper?’
