‘There,’ says Si. ‘That’s done, then.’
‘Do you think she’ll call?’
‘If she hasn’t changed, she will.’
‘You’re right.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘If she hasn’t changed, she’ll call.’
Ever since I can remember I have loved books. Not just loved, but been passionate about. I regularly spend hours at a time browsing in bookshops, losing track of time, losing myself in another world.
There’s a bookshop near my office, and a couple of times a week I go there in my lunchbreak, and spend a good hour wandering around, smiling softly to myself, sometimes just brushing the covers on the hardbacks grouped on tables in the centre of the floor, other times spending the full hour engrossed between the covers of a new release.
My dream has always been to own a bookshop. Actually, my dream has always been to own a bookshop that also encompasses a café. I envision it as the sort of place that would attract regulars, lovable eccentrics who would step in to make the cappuccinos if I needed a hand.
It would be a laid-back kind of place. There would be beaten-up old leather sofas, squashy armchairs, possibly a fireplace in winter. Of course when it’s summer, and I remember how much I love the sunshine, I envision it in a completely different light – my summer fantasies make it light, bright, breezy. It has stripped pine floors and slick chrome chairs, huge glass windows and Mediterranean-blue walls.
I indulge in this fantasy far more frequently as I get older. I used to think, in my early twenties, that I would work until I had enough money in the bank to open my bookshop, and that, as soon as I did, I would hand in my notice and get going.
But of course enough money is never quite enough, and now, although I seem to have amassed a fairly sizeable amount in the Abbey National (thanks largely to my lovely grandmother, who died and left me her flat in Wembley a couple of years ago), I know it will never be enough to allow me to jump ship, because actually it’s not about the money at all.
Si says I’m scared, and of course he’s right. Up until a year ago, I loved my job, I really did. I loved my clients, loved putting campaigns together, got a real buzz from it. But this last year it’s felt more and more like hard work. I seem to be less and less motivated, but every time I think about leaving, fear clutches my heart and I know I haven’t got the nerve.
What if the bookshop were a disaster? What if I lost all my money? What if I couldn’t afford my mortgage? How could I give up my PPP? My pension plan?
One day, I tell myself, I will do it. I will fulfil that dream. It’s just that I’m not sure when.
‘Cath, darling! We need to meet. When are you free?’ Lucy’s voice is bubbling over with excitement, making me smile.
‘Why? What’s happened? You’re not pregnant again, are you?’
Lucy shrieks. ‘God, no. Not yet.’ Then there’s a silence. ‘Bugger. I might be. When’s my blasted period due?’ she mutters. ‘Oh, anyway.’ Her voice is bright again. ‘This is much more important. I have a proposal to put to you.’
‘I can’t marry you, Lucy,’ I laugh. ‘I’d love to, but you’re already married.’
‘If I were a big strapping chap, I would certainly marry you, but this, Cath, is something else entirely.’
‘Go on, give me a clue.’
‘Can’t. Not on the phone. When can you meet me?’
‘How about Saturday morning?’
‘Saturday? I can’t wait until Saturday. How about this afternoon? Or early evening? But afternoon would be better.’
I flick open my work diary on the desk and check the rest of the day. Thankfully there are no more meetings, and, although I don’t do this often, I agree to scoot off early to go to meet Lucy. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, considering the hours I’ve been working recently, but I do, and if it weren’t for her insistence, I wouldn’t be doing this.
‘Hoorah!’ she says, when I agree. ‘Come over to me, then, and we’ll have a coffee. See you later. Bye bye. Oh, Cath, wait. Did you speak to Portia? Was she there?’
‘I left a message, so now it’s up to her.’
‘Well done. Quite right. See you later.’
There’s something luxurious about being at home, in my neighbourhood, at three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a completely different world at this time, the people so different from the ones I’m used to seeing at night or on the weekends, that I’m almost tempted to forgo Lucy and grab a window table in a coffee shop, just to people-watch for the rest of the day.
So many young mothers with their babies. Where do they all come from? Harassed-looking young men in dark suits, mobile phones glued to their ears, must be local estate agents, I decide.
But what astounds me most are the sheer numbers of people. Why are they not working? What are they all doing here, in West End Lane, in the middle of the afternoon?
My flat seems strangely quiet at this time of day. It’s not like the weekend, when the phone never stops, or there’s music playing, or Si’s round, as usual, tidying up after my mess. It’s absolutely still, so still I start to feel guilty, as if by being there I’m doing something I ought not to be doing, as if I have somehow disturbed the flat.
I dump my case, filled with research for me to look at over the weekend, pull off my right shoe by dragging the sole of my left down it, then use my bare right foot to do the same to the other side, thanking God that Si isn’t here to witness this, as it drives him mad.
‘Don’t do that,’ he’d say, wincing. ‘You’ll ruin your shoes, for God’s sake. You can’t just leave them there, haven’t you got any shoetrees?’
The shoes rest on their side on the floor, daring me to look at the scuff marks I just made, so I kick them under the bed and pull on some flat boots, sighing with relief at being able to stomp around again, and run out the door.
I pause briefly at the entrance to the kitchen, tempted to grab something from the fridge, a quick snack, but of course I am going to Lucy’s, and there is no better cook in London than Lucy, so why ruin a delicious pre-dinner snack with a piece of stale pitta from my own fridge?
‘Hello, Max. It looks like you’ve been eating something yummy.’ Max stands in the doorway, blocking my path, looking at me as if I’m about to start selling him dusters and dishcloths, a mixture of disdain and pity, which is quite extraordinary, bearing in mind he’s three years old and half his face is covered in chocolate.
I’m not, as you may have gathered, a natural with children. In fact I’d go so far as to say that when God created me, he seemed to have forgotten all about my maternal instinct.
That first time Si and I pitched up to see Lucy in hospital, the day after Max was born, Lucy sat up in bed, looking tired but radiant as usual, and gestured to this tiny, tiny, little baby, eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep in her arms.
‘He’s divine,’ whispered Si in awe. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, ‘look at those tiny hands, tiny feet. God, have you ever seen fingernails that small?’ Si held his hands, his feet, while I lurked in the background, smiling awkwardly.
‘Don’t be frightened, Cath,’ Lucy smiled, gesturing me forward with a nod of her head. ‘Here,’ and she offered the bundle in her arms to me, ‘have a cuddle.’
Well, what could I say? I couldn’t refuse, so I took Max in my arms, hoping that I’d suddenly feel all warm and gooey, but I didn’t feel anything other than uncomfortable, and, just as I was about to start praying that the baby would keep quiet, Max opened his eyes.
He opened his eyes, looked at me and screamed. But screamed. His face was bright red, his eyes scrunched up, and he was screaming as if he’d seen the devil. I practically threw him back to Lucy, and of course the minute he was in her arms he shut up. I haven’t picked up a baby since.