The Lost Bookshop(40)

‘So you want me to drop everything I’m doing and do your research for you, is that correct, Mr Field?’

‘Now when you say it like that—’

‘As I said, you can submit an online request – like everybody else – to consult the special collections.’

‘Yes, but time is of the essence.’

‘It is, Mr Field. My time is of the essence, and I have spent as much as I am willing to on this phone call. Goodbye.’

I stared at my phone. ‘I think that went rather well,’ I told myself and grabbed my wallet off the bed.





When I got to the front gate of the university, I saw her.

‘Fancy meeting you here!’ I said and wished I’d thought of anything more original to say. Thankfully she didn’t notice. Her face looked paler than usual and her eyes were bloodshot. Had she been crying?

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Um, yeah. Fine.’

People were bumping into us as she stood motionless before the entrance.

‘Are you going in?’

Her eyes darted about nervously, then she shook her head. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, to be honest.’

‘Well, let’s just step out of the way,’ I suggested, hooking my arm through hers and guiding her to a quiet corner inside the quadrangle.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. I think I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, looking around with wide eyes, like a trapped animal.

‘Can I help at all?’

It was clear that she wasn’t even listening to me. Her mind was elsewhere.

‘I thought my mother was ill. I can’t speak to her on the phone and my father won’t answer my calls, not since—’ She broke off.

Not since she left her abusive husband? What kind of family would do that?

‘I texted my brother. He said she was fine. Must’ve been a misunderstanding.’

‘That’s good news.’

I couldn’t understand what was going on, but she was clearly upset about it.

‘Fancy a walk? You’d be saving me from a boring afternoon in the library.’

This was a blatant lie. Libraries were anything but boring to me, but I knew it’s what people said sometimes, and to my relief she nodded. I didn’t really know where we were going, but sensed that it mattered little to her. As long as it was quiet. We wandered off the main thoroughfare and down the quieter streets with independent shops and honest cafés. I found the holy grail – a second-hand bookshop with a tea room upstairs called Tomes & Tea. I waited until she had a pot of tea and a scone with extra jam in front of her before I spoke again.

‘We’re friends, right?’

She nodded noncommittally, towering a spoon of light cream on top of her scone.

‘And friends can tell each other stuff. No judgement.’

‘Henry, I—’

‘But they can also not tell each other stuff but still lean on the other person. If they want to. So what I’m saying, in the most ham-fisted manner ever recorded in history is, whether you want to tell me or not, that’s up to you. But I’m here, either way.’

‘Until you find your manuscript.’

‘Yes, well …’ She could see right through me. I had nothing to offer her; even this olive branch of friendship was a flimsy substitute for how I really felt.

‘If we’re being honest, I can’t understand why you would propose to someone and then immediately hop on a flight to another country searching for something that probably doesn’t even exist.’

That was not the kind of honesty I had in mind.

‘You’re hardly in any position to lecture me on my love life,’ I flung back, then immediately regretted it. ‘I didn’t mean—’

Her chair screeched on the floor as she got up. Her eyes were burning with hurt and maybe even hatred. I hated myself. What a stupid comment. I ran down the stairs behind her, quietly asking her to wait without wanting to attract attention. Walking through the bookshop, she happened to step into an anteroom by mistake and it was just us two, alone.

‘Please, Martha, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking, it was a stupid throwaway comment.’

She was looking towards the ceiling, trying to stop the tears from falling.

‘It doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have said those things, I was being unkind.’

‘You were right,’ I said, stepping closer. ‘I did run away from Isabelle. Not consciously, perhaps, but I found a way to not be there. I don’t know,’ I said, raking my hand through my hair. ‘I thought it was what I wanted and then I just freaked out.’

The shelves of books around us muffled the outside world. Wisps of blond hair fell about her face and her red cheeks glowed with the turmoil of emotion.

She bit her lip and leaned back against a bookshelf, considering her words. ‘Love is scary.’

‘Someone should write that book.’

She smiled and looked directly into my eyes as though trying to decide something. ‘Are you in love?’

Such a simple question, but coming from her, in this context, I didn’t know what the answer was. Did I know what love was supposed to feel like? Had I ever been in love? There was the initial attraction, then a kind of comfortableness followed by a sense of … what? Unease. Like I knew all along that I had chosen the most sensible path and now resented every step I took upon it. As though I’d signed up for the wrong course in university and with each passing day was feeling more and more trapped. Looking over my shoulder for the life I should have had and never really being present in my own life.