‘Oh, I am sorry.’
He gestures to the book. ‘This is my way of coping. When we got divorced, my ex-wife took Sandy away. They now live in Scotland with my ex-wife’s new fancy man. The one she was having an affair with while we were still married.’ His voice cracks.
This is a helpful reminder for me about love. When someone breaks your heart, they can stick the knife in further by taking away your beloved pet.
‘The book has a big section on Labradors, and I can sit and think about Sandy,’ he continues.
In my mind, I picture this poor broken-hearted man sitting in an armchair reading a book and longing for his beloved dog. He’s probably surrounded by photos of Sandy and him on walks, on wind-swept beaches, and perhaps Sandy sitting by his armchair. ‘That’s nice,’ I croak as my eyes start to fill up.
He takes the book and hugs it. ‘I miss Sandy every day. I’ll never forgive my ex-wife for taking her.’
‘Love can be so cruel.’
‘I’ll never fall in love again,’ says the man, shaking his head.
‘Avoid love at all costs,’ I say to him before he walks away clutching his book.
When I arrive home, Oliver is sitting on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas on his foot. He still looks annoyingly handsome, with broad shoulders, dark eyes housed under thick lashes, and messy hair, despite being slumped with a bag of peas on his abused toe. He casts me a sorrowful, war-hero-type expression that is probably meant to inspire sympathy, but it makes me want to smile.
‘Sorry about waking you last night.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, trying not to get too distracted with those buttons on his shirt, which have come undone again. I head for my chair. ‘What happened to your toe?’
He groans. ‘Nelly, I was pissed off about something and kicked the kerb.’
‘What were you angry about?’
Something flickers across his face. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. You know how I said I was no good at drinking – well, I am also not great at getting angry.’
I want to tell him that he’s also rubbish at entering the flat without making a sound in the early hours, but I decide to keep it to myself. Tiredness washes over me. ‘You need to rest your toe,’ I say, after yawning. ‘Maybe an early night will do you good.’
18
‘We have author Rosie Flint doing some book signings this afternoon,’ announces Miranda, gliding past the counter with a cardboard box. ‘Rosie’s new book on magic, spells, and hexes is excellent. I finished it last night.’
I meant to have a look at Rosie’s book over lunch, but we were too busy. I’ve been wondering whether it covers curses and how it compares to J.K. Fielding’s tome.
‘You look tired, Nelly.’ Miranda grins. ‘Is he keeping you up?’
I’m too tired to reply. It’s been a week since Oliver arrived, and he’s woken me up every night for various reasons. After the night he stubbed his toe, he made Jamie take him to the hospital for an X-ray. Because A & E was busy, he wasn’t seen until midnight and got home at three. As Jamie predicted, his toe was just bruised. Once home, Oliver slammed my door and hobbled down the hall. Since then, he’s woken me for many reasons: keys at Jamie’s, keys left in his coat at a bar, and a bloodied nose after an argument with a man over a taxi.
Oliver is a night owl, and I wish he’d made this clear in the interview.
It’s great that I don’t have to have awkward conversations with him in the living room in the evenings, but I wish he’d be quiet when he came home. I can’t remember the last time I had a whole night’s sleep.
Oliver and I have got into a pattern. He’s asleep in the mornings before I go to the bookshop or to visit Aunt Polly. When I get home, he is always sitting on the sofa with his unbuttoned shirt looking handsome or he’s cooking me a delicious meal as a way of an apology. Last night’s coq au vin was exceptional, and he tidied up before he went out.
Being awakened at two in the morning every night is exhausting, and Aunt Polly keeps asking me why I am so drained when I’m with her. This is frustrating because my time with her is special, and I want to be wide awake and alert when she has her chemo, not yawning and dozing off in a chair.
Last night, in the early hours, I was woken up by voices and someone slamming the door shut. They had taken no notice of the giant piece of white paper stuck to the door, which read in capitals:CLOSE THE DOOR QUIETLY.
I heard Jamie exclaim, ‘Your nose is bleeding, and it’s going on the floor.’ My irritation levels spiked and I was at my bedroom door in seconds.
Oliver had a bloodied nose and was pressing the tiniest bit of tissue against it.
‘What happened?’ I exclaimed, staring in horror.
They exchanged an odd look with each other before Jamie said, ‘Ollie disagreed with a guy who wanted our taxi. He came off worse.’
