The Lost Bookshop

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

HENRY

‘I ’m following a new lead.’

The sigh on the other end of the line was not open to interpretation.

‘I’m just wondering, is all of this really worth it?’ said Isabelle.

I gave my own version of the frustrated sigh. She had no idea. How could she? I’d been cryptic about my research for so long that she’d lost interest in asking.

‘It’s worth it to me.’

‘Fine. Well, I suppose there’s no point in me saying that I miss you, it hardly seems relevant to you.’

‘Of course it’s relevant, I really miss you too, Issy.’ And there it was. My first lie. Or rather, the first lie that I was blindingly aware of, like staring into the sun and seeing the worst part of yourself eclipsed. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who simply told someone what they wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what the truth was any more. Or maybe I did but I didn’t know what to do about it. I was stalling. Did that make me a bad person?

‘Your mother called.’

‘What? My mother called you?’

‘Yes, Henry. She is going to be my future mother-in-law. If we ever get married, that is.’

I gulped.

‘She said your father’s checked himself into rehab.’

I’m not sure how many seconds passed by.

‘Henry? Are you there?’

I cleared my throat. It felt thick with something I was determined to suppress.

‘Yep, I’m still here.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’

This was typical of my mother – using someone else to deliver the news she should have told me herself. I hated her and pitied her at the same time. She was always hiding behind someone or something. Perhaps she was ashamed of the whole thing. I know I was.

‘What is there to say? Am I supposed to be impressed? He’ll sober up for a fortnight, maybe three weeks at a stretch, then just when we’re starting to believe that he’s changed, he won’t come home one night and that’ll be the last we hear of him for another few years. It’s always the same.’

‘Oh, okay. I’m sorry.’

I made a fist of my hand and smacked my forehead. What was I thinking, saying this stuff to her?

‘No, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of this. I’ll have a word with Mum. And I’ll be home soon. I promise.’

* * *

I spent twenty minutes trying to schmooze the archivist at Princeton University on the phone. (My definition of schmoozing was leaning heavily on my British accent and hoping that made me sound important.) As it turned out, my schmoozing skills were either rusty from lack of use or highly overestimated. By me.

‘Sir, you are welcome to visit the reading rooms here. Simply make an appointment—’

‘Yes, I understand that, it’s just not fiscally feasible to make that kind of journey at the moment,’ I said for the third time. As much as I would have loved a trip to New York, I could hardly afford the bed and breakfast as it was. ‘Is there any chance you could, you know, have a little look through Sylvia Beach’s letters for any correspondence with an Opaline Carlisle?’

‘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 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.

She gave up waiting for an answer.

‘I’m starting to think maybe love isn’t supposed to be scary. Maybe I didn’t love Shane at all. I thought I did, but that’s the trap, isn’t it? Fooling yourself into believing that it’s your fault for not doing it right. But if I’d known it wasn’t really love, I would have left sooner.’

She wasn’t talking to me any more, although her words rang true for me. It sounded like a conversation she’d had many times with herself.

‘I thought that’s what love was – sticking by someone, no matter what. Waiting for the person I’d fallen in love with at the start to come back.’

I wanted to reach out to her, hold her, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.

‘How could he hurt you?’ I whispered, seeing the little girl inside of her that just wanted to be loved. Not beaten black and blue. She looked up at me with an expression that was completely unguarded. I didn’t overthink this time and reached out to touch her cheek, brushing the tears away. She let her face be held and I could feel her melting into me. Before I knew it, she was in my arms, her head buried in the space between my shoulder and my chest. We didn’t speak any more words. It felt as though the books were protecting us and I hoped the moment would go on forever, my fingers lost in tangles of her hair as I caressed the back of her neck.

‘Christ,’ I said eventually, unsure if I had spoken aloud or not, until she pulled back and looked up at me.

‘What is it?’

I searched for words that wouldn’t scare her off or make me sound like an idiot. ‘I really like you. Like, a lot. And I don’t know what to do about it.’

Her solemn expression slowly broke into a smile and then she laughed.

‘Oh, thanks. Thanks for that,’ I said sarcastically, still with my arms around her.

‘I think I like you a lot too. And I don’t know what to do about it either.’

That turned out to be untrue, because she did, in fact, know what to do about it. She slowly tilted her head upwards and, looking into my eyes all the while, moved her head closer to mine until our lips touched. To say that I saw fireworks would have been an exaggeration, but to say that I felt fireworks in my entire network of blood vessels would have been one hundred per cent accurate. I bent my head and kissed her as though it was the first time I had ever kissed anyone. It felt brand-new. We fit perfectly together. Her fingertips skated from my chest up along my jawline and then through my hair. I pulled her hips closer to mine and heard her sigh.

I stopped for a moment and spoke, my own voice hardly recognisable as it had dropped to the husky octave of Barry White. ‘Is this okay?’

She nodded and then her lips were back on mine. I don’t know how long we stood there, it could have been twenty minutes or twenty seconds, before a customer came in and cleared his throat loudly. While silently vowing to murder him in his sleep, I found Martha’s hand and curled mine around it.

‘Do you want to come back to mine?’

‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said and she dragged me out of the shop, making a run for it.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Trinity. I have five minutes left to register for my course!’