The Lost Bookshop(68)

I should have felt more powerful, now that Shane was gone. But I didn’t. I felt numb. I felt guilty. I didn’t feel as though good had triumphed over evil. There were no winners, only wounded people picking up the pieces of their broken lives. I would never know why Shane came into my life; why I was fated to live that experience. I often wondered if there was something I had done wrong to deserve it. But in my book A Place Called Lost the author believed that every hardship in life was a key to some greater understanding, and it was up to you if you chose to use it to unlock the future or bolt the door.

I inhaled deeply and looked out towards the horizon. The tips of the grey clouds glowed peach and the freezing water was mercurial, save for a golden strip that sparkled in the sunlight. I didn’t want to bolt the door. I wanted to open it.

I unbuttoned my coat and pushed off one boot and then the other. I kept undressing, as though hypnotised by the view, and I walked, like one of those purposeful people, straight into the freezing water. I never hesitated. I kept going, emitting occasional squeaks of disbelief. Could it really be this cold? Squeak! Am I really doing this? Squeak! Will I keep going? Squeak! When the water reached my bum I thought I would scream like a banshee, but somehow that squeak only happened internally.

The moment had come, the momentum carried me and I dove down into the blue, my arms powering through the water and my legs kicking. I didn’t stop until my blood was pumping loudly in my ears and I felt a little less like dying.

‘Wow!’ I shouted eventually, spotting an older man swimming nearby.

‘Yeah. Bit chilly,’ he said with a wink.

‘Just a bit.’ I was treading water, looking back at the little cove where more people were arriving and undressing. One person in particular caught my eye. He was pushing his hair back off his face and stamping his feet to beat away the cold. I didn’t hesitate. I began swimming back and strode out of the water to where he stood and walked straight into Henry’s arms. He unzipped his jacket and pulled me in, wrapping me up tight. For the first time I could remember, I felt as though I was exactly where I wanted to be. I lifted my head and without even opening my eyes, my lips found his. The warmth of his mouth was so inviting and soft that I almost forgot we were on a public beach. I just wanted to be with him, then and there.

‘You taste salty,’ he said.

I just smiled at him and reached my hand up to his jaw, letting my fingers run along his stubble and the dimples in his cheek, as though I were mapping out the territory of my new home. I kissed him again and when I opened my eyes, it was snowing.

‘I’ve never been on a beach when it’s snowing,’ I said, suddenly feeling the cold again. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

‘Beautiful,’ he said, never taking his eyes off me.

He held my towel around me while, with as much awkwardness as is possible for one human being, I tugged off my damp swimming costume and forced my arms and legs back into my clothes. I could feel him staring at my back, but he never said anything.

‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘Madame Bowden told me you were at Joyce’s Tower.’

‘Joyce’s Tower?’

Henry pointed back towards the round tower behind us, the stone now turned grey with snowflakes all around.

‘That’s what I wanted to tell you – Sylvia Beach was here. There’s a museum inside and she came to Dublin to open it. She met with Opaline.’

His excitement almost broke my heart. Was that the only reason he had come back? For Opaline and that damned manuscript?

I stepped back from him and shook my head in disbelief. How stupid I was to think that he was here for me. I stuffed my towel into my bag and sprinted towards the stone steps to get back to the train. One was just arriving and I jumped on it before he had a chance to catch up. I saw him shouting and waving as the train pulled away, but I couldn’t understand, although I knew too well what rejection felt like.





Chapter Thirty-Six





HENRY





I got very, very drunk.

I was having a dream about Isabelle; she was extremely cross about something and kept shouting at me to wake up. I tried to ignore her. I didn’t want to wake up. Then her accent changed to a thick Dublin brogue.

‘Are ya all right there, love?’ said the woman in front of me.

She was kneeling on the ground, which must have meant I was on the ground too. I rubbed my eyes wide. No, it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t recognise her. She had dark hair and was wearing a puffy jacket, which seemed strange. Had I fainted? That was when I became aware of the sound of the traffic. I was outside, on the street, lying in a heap of rubbish.

‘Where am I?’ I asked.

‘Thank God, will I call ya an ambulance?’

‘What? No, of course not.’ I attempted to get to my feet, but as soon as I moved, I felt a splitting headache over my right eye. Instinctively, my hand went to touch it and when I felt a dampness on my fingertips, I realised I was bleeding.

‘He looks fairly battered, doesn’t he, Marie?’

Great. I had an audience. I tried to retrace my steps, but all I found were blank spaces. Why was I feeling so unbelievably ill?

I heaved myself upright against the steps beside me.

‘The smell of drink off him,’ I heard the woman say. ‘Like a brewery.’