Chapter 18
My post-breakup-bookshop glow lasts for days.
Everyone seems to be talking about it, and next week’s attendance list is growing daily. Donna raves about it to her clients as she styles their hair, Fiona encourages her cafe clientele to come along, and Pete mentions it on his postal rounds.
Rory, to my surprise, agrees that the breakup bookshop may have thawed the ice queen upstairs.
He turns up one afternoon, paintbrush in hand, declaring it’s time to fix the mural in the shop that Margaret seems so taken with.
My heart thuds with appreciation; I haven’t even had to ask him.
Verging on friends with Rory is a much better place to be.
I take over The Toolbox that afternoon and the following day, until it’s completed.
This time, I leave him a thank you note with a cheque for the full promised payment, tucking the envelope beneath a plastic waste pipe on his counter, so he doesn’t miss it.
The next morning, as I gaze gratefully up at the mural, restored to its full glory, my phone processes the updates. Somehow, overnight, I’ve gained a whole raft of new followers on my social media pages.
I scroll through my feed trying to make sense of it. Several people seem to have tagged me in a post. I frown, wondering what has happened.
Then I notice that the great and gorgeous Richard J.
Walker has tagged me in a post. I click on it.
Not only has he written a social media post praising the bookshop, he’s also included it in his weekly column in the Daily Courier.
A national newspaper. My heart thuds in my chest as I access the link. This kind of publicity is priceless.
He starts the article by saying that an ‘old friend’ invited him to speak at a bookshop in Ullapool and goes on to say he’s been ‘utterly charmed’ by the village’s beauty, character and residents (I am pretty sure Eilidh is the only one he actually looked at while he was here, but that’s by the by).
He proclaims that The Next Chapter bookshop is fast becoming the beating heart of the Ullapool community, with its quirky ideas, from the blind-date books to the breakup support group.
Apparently, he’s been keeping up with my antics online.
Yes! I punch the air and step back out into the courtyard to call Eilidh.
‘I’m in love with your ex,’ I say, as soon as she answers the phone.
‘Oh, good morning, Ava, you’re on speaker. I’m taking Harry and Caden to school,’ she shouts back.
‘Oh, sorry. Hi boys!’
They call hello as I die inside.
‘They’re just getting out of the car now,’ she shouts, and there are some muffled reminders about lunchboxes and schoolbags. ‘Okay, they’re gone.’
‘Oops, sorry,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, they were squabbling so loudly in the back I doubt they heard you. Why are you in love with my ex?’
‘He’s written an article in the Daily Courier about his wonderful visit to Ullapool and my bookshop! I will kiss him if you don’t!’
‘Wow. That’s amazing, Ava.’
‘I know! I’m sending you the link right now,’ I say, pinging it over to her.
She sits in silence for a moment as she reads the article. ‘It sounds like he was completely captivated by Ullapool. When Mark first came here, all he could do was talk about leaving. But Richard writes about the place so beautifully.’
‘The one that got away…’
‘I don’t know about that. Anyway, I’m delighted he was able to come along and write about the bookshop. Job done.’
‘I need all the help I can get, don’t I? Can’t hide from you, Eilidh, the Ullapool Savings Expert. You’ve seen my figures.’
‘It takes every new business time to get established and start making a profit. But yes, looking at the stats, you do need all these fantastic ideas and initiatives to start paying off soon,’ she admits.
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay. It will happen. I’m manifesting it. We’re putting good energy into the universe that Richard J.’s article is going to propel the bookshop into financial success.’
‘I’ll stick to the spreadsheets.’
‘We all have our strengths, Eilidh. You stick to your facts and figures, and I’ll continue to live in a fantasy land with my books.’
‘Well done on the article. Everything he said is true, by the way.’
‘Send Richard a message to say thank you! And ask him on a date!’
She laughs again. ‘I am not asking him out, Ava. But I will message. Just to say thanks.’
‘You can say thanks with a dinner?’
Eilidh giggles as she hangs up.
I open the bookshop early after sharing the story on social media and then wait behind the till, willing someone to walk in so I can share the joy of the article with them in real life.
But no one appears, so I roll my blind-date bookstand outside the store, glancing around for someone, anyone, to talk to. Donna’s salon isn’t open yet and the streets are empty, but then Rory pulls up. It’s 8.56, of course.
For a moment, my face flushes as I remember the almost-kiss that I likely made up in my head on the boat trip.
I’d felt so close to him – something I’d never imagined.
But he hates the idea of the bookshop, the support group, everything…
Which is why he is the perfect person to share Richard’s article with.
‘Soo,’ I say, sidling up beside his car and leaning on it. ‘You know how you said that Ullapool doesn’t need a bookshop. And then you said it didn’t need a support group, because we should all just go to the pub and ignore our feelings…’
‘I didn’t say ignore them,’ Rory says. ‘I said—’
‘Well, you weren’t exactly on board with the idea of my bookshop. Put it that way. Anyway, here.’
I thrust my phone into his hands and add: ‘Read it and weep.’
‘Can I get out of the car first?’
‘Fine.’ I step back to allow him to open the door.
He stretches out his legs, clutching my phone, and reads the article.
‘A message just popped up,’ he says, glancing up at me. ‘Someone called Seb?’
I swallow the salty taste in my mouth. I haven’t heard from Seb since I texted him on whisky night.
The last message I’d had from him was a thumbs-up when I told him I was leaving the flat and had posted my key through the letterbox.
Six years of my life and that was all I got – a fucking thumbs-up.
I want to snatch the phone from Rory to see what the hell Seb said, but I don’t want to appear too keen. Instead I shrug, in what I hope is a nonchalant manner.
I tap my foot against the pavement. What does the text say? Oh God, what if it follows on from Macy’s message that I deleted? What if they are announcing their engagement? Or a pregnancy? I swallow, watching Rory’s face studying my phone screen. When he finishes reading, he hands it back to me.
‘Well done. Great article. Seb thinks so too.’
‘Is that what he said?’ I frown, scrolling to read the message.
Saw the article. Congrats.
Congrats. He can’t even be bothered to type out a full word in recognition of my achievements. The bastard.
‘Yup,’ Rory nods. ‘I take it he’s the verging on grey guy? The one you’re running away from?’
‘Something like that,’ I mumble, walking back into the bookshop. The wind has well and truly been sucked from my sails.
Four words: Saw. The. Article. Congrats.
How can he be so flippant about it? Surely I deserve more than that? A response to a drunken question, for a start: Why Macy? Total recognition of his wrongdoing along with full admission to the arsehole hall of fame?
There had been a sort of garbled apology at the time, but I’d cut him off.
I didn’t want to hear whether he planned a future with Macy or where he went while I was in his flat.
I’d assumed he moved into her place for a bit.
The one I’d spent days, weeks, months of my life in.
Where we’d hung out watching endless episodes of Grey’s Anatomy on her sofa.
Where I’d helped her build her Ikea wardrobes.
Where we’d hosted regular Come Dine With Me evenings.
I would buy the dessert and she would cook up a storm for the other two courses because she was the most talented home-cook I knew, and she made the best carbonara I’d ever had.
We were best fucking friends, Seb.
Congrats.
‘Glad to see the breakup bookshop is helping,’ Rory calls.
I spin around. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just that you obviously started the support group to get some closure from him. Now you’ve got him texting you again and you’re wandering around like a fart in a trance.’
‘I’m not,’ I frown. ‘I have work to do.’
‘So do I,’ he retorts.
‘Well do it then.’
‘I will.’
And suddenly – after our time at sea where we’d agreed to be friends and I’d felt for a second there might be something more; after his unprompted arrival to fix the mural – normal business has resumed. Rory and I are back to squabbling.
I sit down at the till and look again at Seb’s message.
The audacity of him. Seb knew returning to Ullapool was my dream. While he talked about his six-point retirement plan, I spoke wistfully about coming here one day. He shrugged it off, like it would never happen.
Why does his ‘congrats’ feel like such a kick in the teeth?
Bloody congrats for ruining my day. My life.
Eilidh’s name pops up on my phone and I answer the call, glad of the distraction.
‘Get some lippy on,’ she says. ‘There’s a TV crew on their way.’
I sit up straighter.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I texted Richard to say thanks for the article, like I said I would, and he said he got a call from a contact at the six o’clock news.
They want to film a piece about the bookshop this afternoon!
I’ll be round in ten minutes. We need to make the place look as busy and fabulous as possible.
Let’s turn those red figures black, hey? ’
‘Eilidh, I…’
‘Get your lippy on!’ she repeats, barking the order like a sergeant major, and hangs up.
*
I pace up and down in the bookshop, chatting to customers as normal, but my head is spinning.
First Seb, now the six o’clock news. This day is like one of my weird dreams.