The Secret of Happy Ever After (52 page)

‘Don’t tell
me
how to handle my relationships.’ She felt a rush of defensive fury that made her speak without thinking. ‘Maybe if you’d spent less time thinking about
blankets
and more time keeping an eye on Owen I’d be in a position to
have
a baby! Instead of facing the prospect of looking after my own step-grandchild for the next eighteen years!’

Michelle’s mouth dropped open. ‘Sorry? Are you saying that because you feel responsible for not telling Becca the facts of life, or do you actually mean it? Because if you do, I hope you never ever let Becca hear you say it.’

‘You’re in no position to be sanctimonious about relationships, Michelle, and you know it.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means what it means.’ Anna felt white-hot. ‘I’ve shared everything with you. All my worries about Phil, and the girls, and about how much I want a baby. But you keep things back! And not just from me. You keep everyone at arm’s length because then you don’t have to get involved. You can be all rational about them. Is that why you don’t care about the bookshop as much as your own shop? Because customers come in here and talk? They don’t just buy a lampshade and go home to their perfect houses, they
share
things. That’s why it means more than just money. But that doesn’t matter to you because you’ve never understood.’

There. It was out. The niggles that had been boiling away under the surface for so long. It made Anna feel better for one second to have said them, but already she was feeling a creeping horror at what she might have just done to their friendship.

‘You’re not listening to anything I’ve said.’ Michelle’s expression was cold and detached.

‘I’ve heard
everything
,’ said Anna, and stormed out.

There was no text or phone message of apology from Michelle when Anna got home. And none the following morning. She didn’t tell Phil about their argument – it sounded too petty, and they’d stopped talking over breakfast anyway – but went into work with a heavy heart, ready to find her P45 on the desk.

When she arrived, Kelsey was doing the early shift Michelle usually covered, and the local interest section had moved into the space where her giant Paddington Bear had been. A cream-painted stepladder covered in lace-trimmed nighties stood by the door.

If she’d seen it in Home Sweet Home, Anna would have wanted to buy the whole lot, but now she felt invaded. Even a note offering her the Paddington Bear for Becca’s baby’s nursery didn’t take the sting out of it.

Throughout the week, other small changes occurred – always at night, when Anna wasn’t around. The more esoteric stock vanished into the stockroom upstairs and reappeared in virtual form on the website, and in its place came lavender bags and cashmere bed socks. Some customers loved the new additions – the Malory Towers Mummies especially – but some of the regulars demanded to know what was going on with the sudden influx of sheepskin slippers.

‘What next? Duvets in the bloody thriller section?’ asked Rory, calling in one lunchtime to pick up some reading matter. He was clutching a pile of old Horatio Hornblowers for reading at Butterfields, and Anna had suggested
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
to him, for Zachary, and he was holding that too, less confidently.

‘She says we need to up the profits.’

‘Does she indeed?’ Rory snorted. ‘I think I need to talk to her about that. If she wants to get rid of anything she can do something about that awful cupcake cookery section, but to dispatch the historical fiction . . .’

He shook his head in disgust. It sounded more personal than professional to Anna.

‘Can you talk to her?’ she asked. ‘She listens to you.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ he said, and Anna noticed a blush speckle his cheeks.

Anna liked him more now Michelle had confided the truth about Zachary and Esther. She’d always liked Rory, though; he was dry like Michelle, but not so brittle. Kelsey had warmed to him too, and even Gillian had speculated on whether Tavish might bring Rory and Michelle together, since ‘they both needed some company’.

Anna had always believed, romantically, that Michelle’s wounded heart just needed a tidal wave of real passion to revive it; lately, though, she wondered if she might have been wrong. Maybe Michelle was better off with Tavish. Maybe Rory and his dry wit and fury at misplaced apostrophes deserved something more.

‘Think of the bookshop, Rory,’ she said. ‘Do it for us.’

He smiled sadly and pushed back his long fringe. ‘Six impossible things before breakfast, eh? I’ll do what I can. But I can’t promise anything.’

‘None of us can,’ said Anna. ‘That’s the trouble.’

29

A thin, cold wind was whipping around the trees, bending them towards the house like listeners as Anna and Tavish walked over the gravel towards Butterfields on Thursday lunchtime. It was a rather sinister image that she half remembered from some storybook, though she couldn’t think which one, and she shuddered, pulling her scarf further round her neck. Tavish was walking even more slowly than normal, his short legs stiff under his curtain of fur, so she picked him up and carried him into the house.

The hall seemed quiet when she went in, with the heating on full blast and a strong smell of stew in the air. Tavish wriggled free and trotted down the hallway towards the day room; since there was no passing Zimmer frame traffic, Anna let him go to find Mr Quentin while she signed the checking-in book.

‘Anna?’

Joyce hurried over, her face already set in a warning Bad News mask, one finger raised to her lips. Anna peered more closely and saw that Joyce’s cheeks were slippery with tears and her small eyes were red. Joyce wasn’t a weeper; she was normally bracingly pragmatic.

‘Joyce? Are you all right?’ she asked, touching her arm.

‘Oh, I’m a bit cut up, to be honest. It’s poor Mr Quentin.’ She fished a hanky out of her sleeve and wiped under her lower lashes. ‘He passed away about an hour ago. He was all ready for you, too, in his usual chair. Couldn’t wait to see you and the little laddie. Kept asking when you were coming. If we’d got the Bonio ready for the dog. Then he closed his eyes – for a quick nap, he said, before his story – and . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘Didn’t wake up.’

‘Oh no.’ Anna’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’

‘To be honest with you, he’d been poorly for a while. His heart.’ Joyce patted her own bolster-like chest, covering a multitude of diagnoses. ‘Dr Harper didn’t think he needed to go into hospital, but he did warn us that Cyril might go suddenly.’

There was a keening noise from the sitting room and Anna dashed down the hallway. What she saw made the lump in her throat swell.

Tavish had jumped up into Mr Quentin’s winged chair and was circling frantically, trying to pick up a smell from the cushions, all the while making a low, heartbreaking sound in his throat while his tail wagged from side to side, swishing at the cushions with slow thumps.

The other residents were watching him in silence, some pressing hankies to their crumpled faces, but not one shooing him off his master’s chair.

Anna rushed in and picked him up but he scrambled out of her arms and returned to the chair, circling and sniffing and whining, and all she could do was watch him.

He’d known. Somehow Tavish had known before they did.

Anna sank into the seat next to him and cried out the storm of tears that had been building inside her for days. Some for Mr Quentin, but most of them for the display of simple, unconditional devotion playing out in front of her.

She couldn’t help feeling she’d lost something too – with Phil, with Michelle, with her own dreams – but she didn’t want to think about exactly what it was.

Michelle called in to the bookshop at half past four, as usual, and found Anna and Becca sitting by the fireplace in the back room with Tavish. He was curled up on Anna’s knee and for a split second, what with their red eyes and his still shape, Michelle thought the little dog had died. Her heart thumped with shock.

‘Is he OK?’ she asked, dropping her bag in the doorway and hurrying through, forgetting that the shop was still open, and that she and Anna were barely talking beyond basic civilities.

‘Mr Quentin’s died,’ sniffed Anna. ‘This morning, just before we got there. Poor Tavish was so upset. He ran off and found his body in the bedroom, and then he was howling so much I rang Rachel and she got George the vet, her husband, to come out and give him a tranquilliser.’

She blew her nose on one of the expensive tissues from the basket on the counter. She and Becca had gone through two packets of them, going by the screwed-up pile around them. ‘I nearly made him give me one too. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.’

‘And is he all right now?’ Michelle bent and stroked Tavish’s ears, but he didn’t respond. The fine hairs on the tips of his ears that were always such a clear indication of his mood were lifeless.

She hadn’t realised till then how much she’d learned to read into his grumpy body language, or how subtle Tavish could be in communicating his feelings. Or how much she would miss his imperious presence around her house if he suddenly wasn’t there.

Don’t die, little man, she thought fiercely. I’ve got chicken in the fridge for you. And salmon. And you can sleep on my bed, if it makes you feel better.

‘George said if he made it through the next few days he’d probably be OK, but he’s an old dog and sometimes they can just go when their owners do.’ Anna wiped her face. ‘It’s like that awful book.
Greyfriars Bobby
.’

‘I hate that book,’ said Becca suddenly. ‘Gran read that to me and Chloe once when she was babysitting and we cried for days. I still can’t get the image of that poor dog waiting on his master’s grave out of my head . . . Oh,
Anna
, you’ve started me off again,’ she added as more tears filled her eyes.

Anna tried to brush her own away with a joke. ‘Evelyn read you that? Typical. So sensitive.’

‘Before you ask, I haven’t read it,’ said Michelle. ‘And now I don’t want to.’

Becca got up and Michelle spotted a small but definite baby bump under her long-sleeved T-shirt. It gave her a start. Time was really passing.

She turned to Anna, wanting to say something, but she didn’t know what. There was a painful blank in her brain where the right words should have been – she had no idea what broodiness felt like – and Anna’s face was defensive. Michelle realised she was too scared to say anything, to gentle Anna who’d always been there with the right words for her.

‘Anna, now Michelle’s here, I might go,’ said Becca. ‘This is going to sound really sad, but I want to take Pongo out for a walk.’

‘You go,’ said Michelle. ‘Take Owen with you too – he’s next door.’

‘Is that a good idea?’ said Anna stiffly. ‘Shouldn’t he be working?’

‘Pongo’s strong,’ said Michelle. ‘You’ve got to be careful. And Owen needs to learn about routines. And responsibilities. And picking up poo. Start him with the dog. He’s got five months to get used to the smell.’

Anna didn’t say anything. She started picking up the used tissues.

Becca gave Michelle a sad smile, a ‘You tried’ smile, and left them alone.

‘Anna,’ Michelle started, but Anna wasn’t interested.

‘I’ve got a few books to sell,’ she said. ‘While the shop’s still open.’

The day passed so slowly that Michelle wondered if the clocks had stopped a few times, and she left the shop at six fifteen, not even bothering to tidy up.

Back home she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa with Tavish. By eight o’clock, she still hadn’t moved. He’d fallen asleep properly, and seemed so comfortable that she couldn’t bear to move him, even though her left leg had started to prickle with pins and needles. Her hand moved automatically along his back, stroking him more for her own comfort than his, feeling the slow up and down of his breathing.

Michelle knew she should be getting on with her to-do list for the week but sadness was pressing down on her, trapping her on the sofa like a steel rollercoaster bar. The things Anna said had wounded her in a way Harvey had never managed to do. They went round in her head, sharpened by Anna’s hurt eyes. Did she really think she’d kept her at arm’s length so she could be judgemental? How
could
she be judgemental when Anna’s life was so warm and welcoming, everything Michelle would have loved to have, if only she’d been lucky enough?

Michelle wasn’t a weeper, like Anna, but her whole body ached with a loneliness that made her want to finish the bottle and start another. If she fell out with Anna, then she had no one. Being alone and celibate was wearing and depressing, but being without the only real friend she’d had since school . . . She wasn’t sure she could bear it.

When the doorbell rang, both she and Tavish jumped, and Michelle limped to the door to answer it.

Rory was standing on the step, his coat turned up at the collar, his nose a bit red at the tip. He didn’t grin as normal when he saw her, and he lifted his shoulders without taking his hands out of his pockets. ‘Hello.’