She stares wistfully at the elderly man leaving the shop. ‘Was he in here asking for Barbara Plum’s cookery book?’
‘Has he asked you about it too?’
She nods. ‘He usually comes in on a Wednesday when you have your day off. That book is out of print, but I don’t think he understands that we’re unlikely to obtain a copy. He will give you his details and be here next week. Poor old Mr Ellis.’
His words ‘it’s just an old cookbook’ still echo in my mind as I walk home that evening. Crossing the road, I consider trying to find it for him. I know of second-hand book shops that are great at acquiring out-of-print books. But would that cookbook only worsen his suffering?
I tell myself that, just like love, books come to an end, too.
12
Exhaustion washes over me. As I walk home from the station, my legs feel like lead. It has been quite a day.
Aunt Polly drove us both to the hospital in Nigella, who, I might add, was like the world’s most angelic car. There was no stalling, no seatbelt strangulation, and we even listened to a classical music CD to calm Aunt Polly down.
Watching her go through her first cycle of chemo was stressful, emotional, and thankfully event-free. The nurses were excellent, and we felt special and supported.
After the chemo, I drove us back, and Nigella reverted to her old mischievous ways. She stalled as I was trying to negotiate a busy roundabout, nearly cut off my blood supply with the seatbelt, and spat out Aunt Polly’s Classic FM CD.
‘Ignore her,’ Aunt Polly said, tapping the dashboard. ‘She’s worked up about my chemo.’
I looked away and muttered to myself about Nigella needing to be on the scrapheap.
On the way home, I asked Aunt Polly about hair loss. She gave me one of her optimistic smiles and said she would embrace a new, shorter look, including wigs and hair scarves. I looked out of the window and hoped she would maintain her optimistic outlook about her hair.
Aunt Polly didn’t fancy tea and biscuits, so she sat on the sofa while we watched an interview with a woman who had swum the Channel. I tried to concentrate, but Henry’s face kept intruding on my thoughts. My mind replayed our encounter in the bookshop, and I felt a little twang of guilt for my abruptness and turning my back on him. He triggered me with his talk about Mum and my curse. Back when we swam together, we were good friends. I remember how he made the Saturday morning training sessions bearable. The book he wanted me to put aside for him comes to mind. I will make sure Miranda doesn’t put it back on the shelf.
I glanced over at Aunt Polly. I’m glad the first session is over, and I hope the side effects aren’t too severe. There was one low point. I asked again about Hilary and whether we should re-establish contact with her. In my defence, I grew up with Hilary being our fourth emergency service. When I see my aunt suffering, I want to call Hilary.
She had a knack for making my aunt smile even in the darkest moments. I remember when Aunt Polly lost her job at the factory office and came home in tears. It was me who called Hilary. Six minutes later, we heard the familiar screech of tyres, the slam of a car door, and heels clattering up the path. Hilary burst into Aunt Polly’s, clutching a bottle of red wine in a bandaged hand and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Polly,’ she cried from the hallway, ‘I am here for the night. Let’s get pissed. Sod your job. I never liked your pervy boss. Oh, and before you ask…’ She put the wine down and held her bandaged hand aloft. ‘Lilly slammed the car door and didn’t realise I’d not taken my hand away.’ Lilly is one of her daughters.
‘You still came over?’ gasped Aunt Polly.
Hilary grinned. ‘Polly, my arm would have to be hanging off for me not to come over.’
‘Let’s not talk about Hilary, Nelly,’ muttered Aunt Polly, and shook her head with disapproval, as if I had said the wrong thing.
When I said goodbye, she became tearful at the door. I hugged her and told her I would visit on Sunday. Hilary was still on my mind, and as Aunt Polly wished me a safe journey back, I looked at the photos of the two of them still on the wall. If I wasn’t allowed to talk about Hilary, why did my aunt have an entire wall covered with photos of her?
I’m a few streets away from my flat. My nerves are jangling at the prospect of entering and seeing Oliver. He’s a stranger, and I only have Miranda and Frank’s word to rely on. For all I know, he could have spent the day rummaging through my underwear drawer. Panic blooms inside me. If he’s sitting in my chair or if there are any signs he has been in it, I will be so cross.
I also need to avoid all physical contact with him for as long as possible. He claims he’s single, so there’s a good chance I will see him spending his days sitting at a desk staring at a blank sheet of paper and trying to work through his writer’s block.
In his interview, he claimed he was single, but for all I know, he could secretly have his eye on someone. If I touched him, I could see how that ends. Considering how good-looking he is, I might see anything – from a vision of a furious woman spilling a drink on him in a pub, shouting about his wandering hands and broken promises, to something tragic that happens to Oliver after he leaves a book signing. I would then have to watch him tuck into what would be his last meal and silently groan at the thought of having to find another flatmate.
An elderly man is sitting on the bench near the corner of my street. His crop of white hair reminds me of Mr Ellis and his quest to track downBarbara Plum’s Family Cookbook. I think about the way he held my gaze. ‘It was just a cookbook,’ I say to myself. The look on Mr Ellis’s face comes to the forefront of my mind. There was something about it, and it wasn’t about the chicken casserole. I pause and wait for my brain to unscramble my thoughts. ‘He was holding on to something.’
An uncomfortable feeling takes hold of me. I dismiss it.
As I approach the corner of my street, I hear a man shouting, ‘LENNY.’
My heart comes to a shuddering halt. Oh, God, Oliver has let my cat escape.
Panic takes hold of me as I break into a sprint. Tears prick my eyes as I pump my arms and beg my legs to go faster, even though I haven’t done any cardio for years.
I can’t lose Lenny.
Looking up, I see Oliver with his hands in his hair, standing outside my flat.
