Chapter 2
2
Two weeks have passed and my prediction has been proved wrong. Samson has delivered the heads of three mice to the mat by the cat flap, but Sam appears to be sticking to her guns. She’s deleted the dating apps from her phone, although I know that doesn’t mean much. I’m pretty sure her profiles are still there, so all she needs to do is re-download them when she changes her mind, as I’m sure she will.
It’s a glorious summer morning as Samson and I make our way to my bookshop. I say it’s mine, but I actually co-own it with another friend from my school days, Jono. The main part of the shop, which is my domain, has all the new releases and bestsellers that you’d expect to find in an independent bookshop, and Jono rigorously curates our small second-hand section when he’s not serving drinks in our instore coffee bar. If you’re after the type of cheap and cheerful fare you’d find in a typical charity shop, Jono’s second-hand section isn’t for you. If you’re after something esoteric or a first edition, he’ll either have it or take your details and do his best to find it for you. It wasn’t easy persuading the bank that our business plan was viable to begin with, especially as bookshops aren’t known for being massively profitable enterprises now that most people seem to buy books online, but we were eventually able to persuade them that there are enough customers who still love to buy from a real store. Our coffee bar was a last-minute addition to the business plan, but it was comparatively cheap to install and has proved to be a real money-spinner.
Samson started following me to work pretty much as soon as he was old enough to be allowed outside on his own. He doesn’t walk alongside me, and sometimes I can’t see him at all, but I know he’s there, either sauntering along the top of a fence like a high-wire artist or trotting along the pavement a few yards behind me. Sometimes, he gets distracted by something and doesn’t turn up until an hour or more after we’ve opened, but usually he dashes ahead as the shop comes into view, settling himself by the front door to wait for me and adopting an expression that I swear translates to ‘What took you so long?’
This morning is a dash-ahead morning, and I’ve barely opened the door a crack before he’s pushed through the gap and hopped up into his favourite armchair to begin a lengthy spell of grooming. Samson likes to look his best for the customers and most of them will detour to give him a stroke at some point during their visit. Jono wasn’t at all impressed the first time Samson showed up, but he’s actually good for business too. Lots of people call by regularly to see him and, once they’re inside, the new releases table and the smell of fresh coffee are pretty much guaranteed to part them from at least some of their cash.
I’ve just finished switching on the lights when Jono arrives. He has what is best described as an eclectic sense of fashion; his long moustache is always immaculately waxed into points, giving him the air of a 1920s cad, and he owns an impressive array of floral shirts. Today’s example has large purple roses on it.
‘Morning, Ruby. Morning, Fleabag,’ he trills as he closes the door behind him, bolting it to stop any over-eager customers from trying to sneak in before we open. ‘It’s Tuesday, the sun is shining and I can smell money in the air.’
‘Samson doesn’t have fleas, do you, darling?’ I coo as I reach out to stroke him, interrupting his grooming regime. ‘Anyway, all the fleas in this shop have probably been frightened away by Uncle Jono’s shirt.’
Jono leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I breathe in his scent, which is heavy with bergamot today.
‘Nice aftershave, but I prefer the sandalwood,’ I tell him. I don’t have a preference, actually, as all his aftershaves are nice, but I feel I need to score a point to get him back for calling Samson ‘Fleabag’, even though he does it every morning.
‘Robbie says it’s a bergamot week, and who am I to argue with him?’ he replies matter-of-factly. Jono’s partner, Robbie, is an aromatherapist-cum-massage therapist with a salon a couple of streets away from the shop, and one of his quirks is to give every week a particular base scent that theoretically stimulates various neural pathways to improve your mood. I reckon it’s nonsense, but I do enjoy smelling Jono’s different aftershaves.
‘How was your weekend?’ he asks after he’s plugged in the barista coffee machine and switched it on to heat up. When we first opened the shop, we worked six days a week, only taking Sundays off, but we quickly agreed that was too punishing a schedule and, as Mondays tended to be quiet, we decided to shut the shop and start our working week on a Tuesday instead.
‘Same old,’ I tell him. ‘I finished the new Amrit Kumar novel.’
‘ Love and Loss Under an Indian Sun ? How was it?’
‘Good. I’ve done a “Ruby’s Recommendation” card for it.’
‘Great. And Sam? Still no sign of love on the horizon?’
‘It’s only been two weeks, Jono.’
‘Yes, but a woman like that needs to be adored. If I were straight?—’
‘You’d worship her like a goddess, I know. You’ve told me more times than I care to remember.’
‘A flame-haired goddess.’
‘Are you sure you’re not in love with her? Does Robbie know?’
‘Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty in a woman, and my admiration for her is purely based on aesthetics, like a fine artist appreciating his subject. In fact, a lot of the great artists were obsessed with redheads, so I’m in good company. Look at Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus , for starters.’
‘OK, OK. You win!’ I tell him exasperatedly. ‘Redheads rule the world and the rest of us are flat and monochrome in their presence. Is that better?’
He sighs. ‘I’m not saying you’re flat and monochrome, Ruby. You’re beautiful too, but in a different way. You’re more pre-Raphaelite, with your wavy dark locks, your piercing blue eyes and your sumptuous curves.’
‘Are you saying I’m fat now?’ This is a new one from him, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.
‘Of course I’m not! Bloody hell, you’re prickly this morning. I’m paying you a compliment. Would you rather look like one of those depressing undernourished androgenous types who pound the pavement for hour after hour in revolting spandex, only to go home and feast on two sticks of celery and a carrot? Who invented spandex, anyway? They should be ashamed of themselves.’
I smile at him. As attempts to dig himself out of a hole go, that wasn’t too shabby. I’m not quite ready to let him off the hook completely though.
‘Curves,’ I repeat mock-disapprovingly.
‘Sumptuous curves. It’s a good thing.’
‘Hmm. I guess I do prefer my carrots in the form of a cake, but I’m not sure I want to be described as sumptuous. Definitely sounds fat in all but name.’
‘Sit with it,’ he advises. ‘It might grow on you.’
‘I doubt it. Remind me never to ask you if my backside looks big in anything.’
‘You’re a girl, you’re meant to have?—’
‘Stop!’ I order him. ‘If you value your life, stop now.’
He grins and winks. ‘If you don’t want to hear the answer, don’t ask the question. Coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I’ll bring it over when the machine’s warmed up.’
* * *
It’s a typically busy trading day; the coffee bar is humming with conversation and a fair number of people are browsing the shelves. A teenaged girl is taking a selfie with Samson. I don’t know what he thinks is going on when this happens, but he’s a bit of a social media star locally, so he’s completely used to people shoving their phones in his face. We’ve had a steady stream of enquiries and book orders too, as well as people collecting books that we’ve ordered in and put aside for them.
‘Excuse me?’ I look up to see a woman approximately my age, maybe a couple of years younger.
‘Yes, how can I help?’ I ask.
‘I was looking for a book I saw on TikTok. Something about someone’s beaver needing a trim? Do you know anything about it?’
The double-entendre isn’t lost on me, and I study her for a moment, trying to work out if she’s winding me up.
‘I don’t know that one, I’m afraid,’ I tell her, being careful to keep my voice completely neutral. ‘Do you have any more information?’
‘Hang on,’ she says before turning and yelling at a man facing away from me at the back of the shop. ‘Hey, Jace! What was the name of that book?’
The man turns, and I instantly recognise Sam’s most recent ex-boyfriend, Jason. He was obviously trying to lurk undetected, and he looks decidedly shifty as he approaches the counter.
‘Hello, Jason,’ I say coolly.
‘Ruby.’
‘Oh, do you two know each other?’ the woman asks.
‘We’ve met a couple of times,’ I tell her.
‘That’s nice. Babe, what was the name of that book we were laughing at on TikTok? The one about the beaver?’
‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘Brenda’s beaver something or other.’
‘That’s it. Does that help?’ she asks.
With a sigh, I enter ‘Brenda’s beaver’ into the search box and I’m slightly surprised to see that it returns a title.
‘ Brenda’s Beaver Needs a Barber , by Bimisi Tanayita?’ I ask.
‘That’s the one! It’s just the funniest thing ever. I was going to get it for Jace as a surprise for our anniversary, only I guess I’ve kind of spoilt that now.’ She turns to him, giving him the full puppy-dog eyes. ‘Sorry, babe.’
I’m no longer interested in her, or her bizarre-sounding book, as her revelation is tumbling around in my head and not making any sense.
‘Sorry,’ I say to her carefully, fixing my eyes on Jason, who suddenly looks like he’s been caught with his fingers in the sweetie jar. ‘Did you say your anniversary ?’
‘That’s right,’ she replies, obviously picking up that something strange is passing between me and Jason as her eyes flick between us. ‘Two years. Why?’
I know the professional thing to do in this situation is to say nothing, but I can’t let Jason get away with this. His eyes are wide, silently pleading with me, but I can feel the heat of righteous anger building inside me.
‘It’s nothing, really,’ I say sweetly to the woman. ‘I’ve heard of open relationships before, but I’ve never actually met someone who’s in one.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘What makes you think we’re in an open relationship? What’s Jason said to you?’
‘Nothing. I just assumed you must be because he was dating my best friend Sam as well for a couple of months. They only split up a couple of weeks ago, so…’ I leave the rest unsaid for her to fill in the blanks herself. I can practically hear the cogs whirring in her head as, beside her, Jason visibly deflates.
‘ Sam? ’ she hisses at him after what feels like an age. ‘Who the fuck is Sam?’
‘No one,’ he stammers. ‘She was just someone I saw a couple of times in the pub after work. I was friendly, like I always am, but she read more into it and started telling people we were together. She’s a bit of a psycho, if I’m honest, you know the type. Clingy. Nothing happened though, I swear.’
The woman is switching her gaze between Jason and me, like she’s watching some kind of tennis match. I can see the doubt in her eyes and, for a moment, I’m tempted to let this go for her sake, but there’s no way I can let Jason talk about my best friend like that.
‘If anyone’s psychotic here, Jason, it’s you,’ I counter smoothly. ‘You saw her more than a couple of times, and it was serious enough for her to be able to describe your woeful sexual technique in surprising detail.’ Jason’s looking at me furiously, but I’m on a roll now and I just can’t stop myself. ‘You might want to invest in some numbing cream or something. You know, to help you last a bit longer?’
This intimate revelation is obviously the final straw for the woman, who slaps Jason so hard that complete silence falls in the shop as everyone turns to witness the scene unfolding by the counter.
‘You dirty, lying, cheating fucker !’ the woman I suspect has just become Jason’s latest ex yells.
‘Babe, I can explain,’ he begins lamely.
‘Don’t “babe” me,’ she retorts, cutting him off. ‘I’m not your “babe” and I’ll be taking to my socials to make sure you don’t get anyone to call “babe” again. You can fuck right off, wanker.’
With that, she sticks the middle fingers of both hands up at him and stalks out of the shop, slamming the door behind her and leaving Jason open mouthed. I’ve enjoyed the confrontation much more than I have any right to, and I’m making sure I can remember every sentence to give Sam a blow-by-blow account later. I have just one more piece of wisdom to drop to make this piece of schadenfreude perfect.
‘Jason?’ I ask mildly. ‘Have you ever heard the phrase “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”’
‘Oh, fuck off, Ruby,’ he says forcefully, before turning on his heel and walking out of the door. Just before it closes behind him, I hear him shout, ‘Babe, wait!’ but, from the stream of invective that comes back his way, it doesn’t sound like she’s very receptive to that idea.
‘That’ll teach you to cheat on my best friend,’ I murmur as I turn to the next customer and plaster a smile on my face. ‘How can I help you today?’