Her eyes twinkle. ‘Imagine bumping into him after he’s just had a shower.’
‘Miranda, I don’t want a flatmate.’
‘Oh, Nelly, come on,’ she groans. ‘This would also be a good career move for you.’
My eyebrows are almost touching my hairline. ‘A career move?’
‘Think of all the promotion we could do. You could sweet-talk him into doing some book signings or an event or two.’
My irritation levels have spiked. She only wants me to offer Oliver James a room because she thinks it will boost her business. I don’t think she ever intended to ask anyone else.
Before I tell Miranda where she can shove her idea on flat-sharing with Oliver James, a customer asks why the bookshop’s free Wi-Fi isn’t working. I leave Miranda by the till and assist them with their Wi-Fi issue.
The next few hours are filled with my attempts to ignore my hunger pangs and the image of Oliver James, which refuses to leave my mind.
I repeatedly tell myself that I don’t want a flatmate and certainly don’t want a male flatmate who writes romance novels. Money is tight, but I’m not desperate.
6
Miranda leaves early. ‘Think about what I said earlier,’ she says with a wink. ‘Frank tells me Oliver is house-trained and owns a Le Creuset set. If that’s not husband material, I don’t know what is.’
‘No thanks, Miranda,’ I snap and start a vigorous shelf stack.
Later, as I lock up the bookshop, my phone rings. It’s Aunt Polly.
When my parents died in a car crash, Aunt Polly became my legal guardian. She is everything to me. I often think about how dramatic a change it must have been for her when her brother died, and she became the guardian of a nine-year-old girl. At the time, she had no plans for children of her own, and we barely knew each other, as she and my father had not been close. We bonded immediately over a massive slice of cake, her copy ofThe Secret Garden, which she let me borrow, and her promise to paint my new bedroom in her house any colour I wanted. She was the first person I confided in about my curse.
After moving away, Aunt Polly now lives by the coast, an hour away by train, and we keep in touch during the week with calls and FaceTime. When we meet, it’s coffee, cake and long walks on the beach.
‘Nelly, I have some news.’ I detect something unfamiliar in her voice. Her cheerfulness and sing-song tone have been replaced by one tinged with sadness.
I sense something is wrong. ‘Are you okay?’ My heart is thumping against my ribcage.
‘I have breast cancer, Nelly.’
My chest tightens. I struggle to breathe. ‘Cancer?’ I croak.
‘Yes.’
My body starts to tremble. ‘You haven’t told me about this.’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Okay – is it treatable?’ My legs feel weak. I sit on one of the plastic chairs in the children’s section.
Aunt Polly continues. ‘Nelly, the doctor tells me I have a good chance of beating it as it hasn’t spread to my lymph nodes. I need to have a course of chemo and possibly a mastectomy.’
Hot, stinging tears rush to my eyes. ‘We’ll get you through this. I’m coming over. I’ll get on a train now.’
‘Not now. Come on your day off on Sunday.’
‘I’ll be there.’ My voice is wavering. Hilary’s face flashes up inside my mind, which is followed by a sad ache in my chest. My aunt and Hilary were best friends. They were so close that my aunt often referred to Hilary as her ‘fourth emergency service’. Ten years ago, they fell out and have not spoken since. My aunt refuses to tell me why she won’t talk about Hilary. She says some things are better left alone. It’s moments like these that I wish Hilary was still in our lives.
‘Let’s talk when you’re here, Nelly. There’s something I want to ask you.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
