Chapter 2
A little bell dings above my head as I push open the front door of The Toolbox.
How old school. Perhaps I should invest in a bell for my shop.
It’s cute. Although, it might be too distracting for readers.
They could be right in the middle of a tense scene when DING!
they’re brought back to the real world. I wouldn’t want that.
A customer stands behind the counter with her back to me. She looks to be an older lady, with short powder-white hair resting above her cream-coloured raincoat.
As she moves her head to one side, I see the shop attendant standing there, examining a bottle of whisky in his hand as he grins at the old lady with those familiar white dazzlers.
Ah shit. It’s the man I just bashed outside with the plank of wood.
The one who sent me into a verbal spiral.
Now he’s inside, he’s removed his jacket and his broad shoulders are held tightly by a black T-shirt displaying The Toolbox’s logo.
So much for not seeing him again.
‘You didn’t need to do this, Margaret,’ he says, admiring the whisky bottle. ‘I’m always happy to help, you know that. Although I’ll also be very happy to try this too.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t take money from me, as usual, and I do know you like a wee dram on a special occasion.’
‘Aye, special occasions like Tuesdays.’
She bursts into high-pitched laughter. ‘Oh! You have a wicked sense of humour. Right well, I’ll be off now.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Margaret. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. I appreciate it, as always. Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, swinging around.
Despite all her gushing towards him, Margaret seems to actively avoid even glancing in my direction on the way past. Head down, she shuffles past with the aid of her stick.
When he looks up, he doesn’t exactly offer a smile of recognition.
In fact, a scowl has emerged across his sculpted features, as he narrows his green eyes and scratches his brown hair, still damp, on the back of his head.
I clock the small dent on his forehead, courtesy of me and my trusty plank of wood. Yikes. No wonder he isn’t all smiles.
I place my hands on the countertop and glance over his shoulder at the display of tiny boxes behind him, featuring screws of all different shapes and sizes.
It’s time to try to bury the hatchet. Judging by all the handy-looking things he has on display, he has everything I could ever need stocked here, all within touching distance of my shop.
‘Can we start again? My name’s Ava. I’m your new neighbour and I’m screwed.’ I hope he will be unable to resist my friendly charm, but his face remains deadpan. ‘Let’s just say that it’s as well your shop is right next door to mine. The place needs a complete overhaul, from top to bottom.’
His frown deepens as he crosses his arms in front of his broad chest and shakes his head. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The place next door,’ he grumbles. ‘It might not be to your taste, but there’s nothing wrong with it. Archie kept it in really good nick, right till the end.’
The side of his mouth turns down. My cheeks redden. Great job, Ava. First, a whack to the head. Then, I refuse his offer of help. Now, I’m insulting his dead neighbour.
I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘When you say right till the end… Is he… I mean, did Archie die… in there?’
To an avid reader like me, this conjures countless gory possibilities.
I forget my small-town romcoms and remember my small-town thrillers and horror stories.
My bookshop could be built on top of a plague graveyard, former home to a mass murderer or, yes, there could be a dead body under the floorboards.
It’s not exactly something they’d boast about on the listing.
Maybe that was why I could afford the place.
‘He did, aye,’ he replies with a curt nod. ‘I think they took the body out, but it could still be decomposing in the cupboard at the top of the stairs. You might want to check that.’
As my eyes widen, he throws me a withering look.
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe for now. Archie is quite well and currently touring New Zealand in what we’re calling “The Old Teashop Part Two: Campervan Edition”.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ I let out a relieved sigh and wipe pretend sweat from my forehead.
He pulls out a notepad and starts to scribble on it, like he’s declaring our conversation is over. Tough luck for him. I’ve only just begun.
‘Archie, eh? I never had the teashop owner down as a man.’
‘It was his wife Evelyn’s. She passed away last year. In a hospice, so you can calm your jets there too.’
‘Good. Well, not good that she died. I mean, you know.’ I blush as my verbal inadequacy makes a comeback.
‘Well, you’re probably right. I just need to give it a good clean.
The decor is mainly fine, aside from the awful green tiles in the bathroom, but I ordered some sample tiles online before I left, so it shouldn’t be too long until I can change it up. ’
He narrows his eyes. ‘They’re the exact same tiles we have in the bathroom here. And I picked them for Archie.’
Another foot-in-mouth situation. Bloody hell.
‘You’re joking?’
‘They were sourced from a local supplier,’ he explains. ‘We do that around here, when we can. Our small businesses support one another. We don’t just order everything for next-day delivery from big chain stores, like you city folk.’
‘How do you know I’m city folk?’
It’s my turn to frown, as I cock my head to one side and look up at him. Suddenly, he stops scribbling on his notepad. He seems to buffer for a moment before clearing his throat and shrugging, picking up some papers on the counter to leaf through.
‘Ah, everyone knows. Plus, your accent is hardly local. Ava Campbell, isn’t it? Word spreads like wildfire around here. We all know you’re moving from London to open a bookshop.’
‘Why did you say it like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Bookshop,’ I sneer. ‘Like it’s a dirty word.’
‘We don’t need a bookshop around here.’
‘How do you know?’
He shrugs. ‘I just do. We have everything we need. If we’d needed a bookshop, we’d have a bookshop.’
‘Well, thanks for that enthralling piece of in-depth market research, I’ll be sure to bear it in mind. Now, I need some nails, please – 16-gauge finish nails,’ I ask with the most confident tone I can muster, hoping I’ve repeated the correct phrasing from my earlier Google search.
He slides a box across to me and shakes his head. ‘It’s just a bit cliché, isn’t it? City girl moves to a village to open a bookshop. Probably been through a breakup and decided there’s more to life than money and men, am I right?’
It catches me off guard. In fact, it stings.
I’m trying to make amends, and now he’s analysing me.
Worst of all, he’s right. As he moves his hand along the light dusting of stubble of his jawline, I note the twinkle in his green eyes.
It feels like he’s caught me wiggling my hips to my independent women playlist and is laughing his arse off.
Having him roll his eyes at what was a huge decision for me makes me feel small. To leave behind my whole life and restart here, it’s not easy.
I’ve been trying to feel proud, but his diminishing stare is making that very difficult. What would this man, with his big beefy arms and general manly man-ness, know about heartache?
‘Well,’ I cough, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘you’re hardly living up to the village cliché, are you?
You know, where everyone is friendly to newcomers and doesn’t act like a complete dickhead.
You haven’t even introduced yourself.’ I do my best Agnes Campbell impression, tutting loudly and folding my arms in front of me.
He carries on, as though speaking to himself, ‘Wonder how long you’ll last before you get bored around here. Pretty sure you’ll lose interest. Most people do. I’d bet on three months. Maybe you could open an overpriced crepe shop in Edinburgh next?’
My mouth falls open. Who the hell does he think he is?
I may have just moved here, but I know Ullapool.
My granny’s village and the hometown of my summers.
It’s not like I just closed my eyes, pointed at a random place on the map and decided to move here.
Admittedly, buying at auction without seeing the place was out of character for me, but this isn’t just some whim.
‘How much?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He frowns. ‘How much what?’
‘You said you were willing to bet on whether or not I’ll stay here,’ I say. ‘What are you offering up, if I make it past the three-month mark?’
‘A bottle of whisky? I like Talisker Skye, if you’re wanting to order it in.’
‘I was thinking more about a DIY job, once I start working on my flat. If I’m still here, you can remove the green tiles from the bathroom, if I manage to stop myself ripping them off the wall.’
‘And here’s me thinking you said you didn’t need any help.’ He smirks as I roll my eyes.
‘Do you accept the terms?’
‘Fine. If you are still here with your green tiles in three months, I’ll remove them. It’ll be the equivalent of eating my hat.’
‘Good.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope,’ I reply. ‘That’s it. Unless you sell cleaning stuff?’
He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a basket of disinfectant spray, a cloth and some bleach. He pushes it towards me.
‘Here – you can use this. On the house. Bring it back when you’re done,’ he says, before adding, more quietly, ‘And it’s Rory, by the way. Rory MacGregor.’
He stares across the counter at me, a question in his eyes. What is it with the long, brooding gaze? Am I supposed to be happy that he’s finally shared his name with me, like I’m being let in on some deep, dark village secret?
‘Well, Rory MacGregor, thanks for the not-so-warm welcome,’ I say, grabbing the basket. It’s lighter than I’d anticipated and it almost flies out of my hands. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.’
He remains still, leaning over the counter, like there should be something else. What is he waiting for?
Finally, he shakes his head. ‘You do that.’
I stop for a moment in the doorway before turning back around to face Rory.
‘I am so glad to hear everyone around here supports local business,’ I say with my sweetest smile. ‘I can’t wait to welcome you to my bookshop when it opens.’
He looks me dead in the eyes. ‘That’s another thing about you city folk.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Always trying to get the last word.’
With great difficulty, I restrain myself from retaliating as I exhale sharply and turn on my heel to leave.