Bookshelves
Bookshelves
‘I’M GOING INTO TOWN,’ SHE TOLD HER FATHER after breakfast. ‘There’s a new bookshop opening, and I want to have a look.’
It was three days into 2016. Grace and Tom had flown back to London; Juliet and Rosie were still upstairs. Grand opening January 3 , Ellen had read on a giant poster in the window when she’d walked by the bookshop, the soon-to-be-bookshop, on New Year’s Eve.
Leo had not rung back. Instead, he’d texted.
I won’t push you. I’ll wait for your decision. Please think about it. I meant every word. L xx
She hadn’t deleted the text. Could she love him again, could she risk it for the third time? The questions spun around in her head, tormenting her. Fool me once – what was that saying? Something about shame.
She needed to live with the possibility for a while. Consider the repercussions for her and the girls. In the meantime, she would fill her days.
The shopfront was blue instead of the dark green she remembered. Bookshelves was written in gold script above the window, a quill emerging from the last letter. She looked at the window display and saw books by Colum McCann and Niall Williams and Donal Ryan and others. On the door was a large sign that simply read We’re Open! in triumphant blue lettering.
Inside, it was buzzing. People milled around, some with wine glasses in their hands, despite it being mid-morning. A tall smiling young man approached her with a tray of glasses half filled with golden liquid that sparkled.
‘Hello there!’ he said brightly to Ellen. Australian accent. ‘Welcome to Bookshelves – do you fancy a little New Year tipple?’
She began to say no, and stopped. She wasn’t writing today. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can add orange juice and make it a Buck’s Fizz if you prefer,’ he said, gesturing to open cartons on the front desk, so she did.
‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I’m a big fan of bookshops.’ To her surprise, it was remarkably similar in layout to Piles of Books. Same display tables, same little crannies – and was that the same spiral staircase? She thought it was. ‘You’re not local.’
He grinned. ‘How could you tell? I’m half Irish, so I’m coming back to my roots.’
‘And this is your shop?’
‘It is – with a little help from my father. It’s a big gamble, one I’ve been thinking about for a while. I’m Hugh.’
‘Ellen. Nice to meet you – and best of luck.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m actually a writer,’ she said. May as well get that in.
‘You are? What do you write?’
‘Novels.’
‘Ellen what?’
‘Sheehan, just in case . . .’
His face lit up. ‘Ellen Sheehan? No way – we have you in stock! You might sign them for us?’
‘Thanks so much, I’d be delighted.’
He set down his tray and took a pen from his breast pocket. ‘This is great – an author visit on my very first day! We’ll have to get a snap too. Hang on till I find the books. Hey, Dad!’ he called to someone behind Ellen. ‘Guess what – this is Ellen Sheehan, the author!’
She turned to see a man approaching. Shorter than his son, tanned and freckled. Jeans, check shirt, glasses. Thinning sandy hair.
He drew closer, looking at her wonderingly.
Her mouth dropped open. She felt a rushing inside. A whirling, a chaos.
‘Ellen Sheehan,’ he said slowly, ‘as I live and breathe.’
She found a smile. ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said.