Chapter 1 #2
The divorce – possibly the marriage – left everything in my life so much smaller.
My social circle, my bank balance, my home.
More importantly, my heart, my soul, my spirit.
It’s part of the reason I’ve become invisible, I’m sure.
I’m just too scared to be noticed, even by myself.
I have made some progress, though, I remind myself.
I no longer dream of getting him back, and his random texts don’t give me hope – they make me feel like I’m a kebab.
Part of his Friday night ritual after an evening in the pub.
I chase away the bitter thoughts, and tell myself to live in the moment. I’ve been watching YouTube videos about mindfulness recently, though it’s always slightly disconcerting when the new-agey presenter breaks off from their spiritual meanderings to tell me to like and subscribe.
I browse the shelves, seeing that most of the books in here are fiction, everything from spy stories through to old romance novels, their bright covers showing musclebound men and swooning women. They make me smile, and I consider getting one down to read on one of the squishy-looking sofas.
I glance over, see that the people already sitting there are reading far more highbrow stuff.
I catch a glimpse of a Thomas Hardy, and the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird.
Do I have the nerve to waltz over there and plonk myself down, and feel no shame at all about actually choosing a story about a Regency duke seducing his daughter’s governess?
I giggle a little to myself, but ultimately decide against it.
I know I need to stop feeling embarrassed by every single thing I do, that I need to break free from the way my ex made me see myself, but I’ve already fronted up a teenaged gang, called my old friend, and come in here.
Maybe that’s enough self-development for one day.
I move along, and find a section of non-fiction books that are inspired by novels.
It’s a lovely idea, and they’re all arranged so beautifully on the shelves.
Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express is surrounded by books about the famous train, a biography of the author, and guides to places featured in the story, like Istanbul and Croatia.
Julia Quinn’s Bridgerton books are accompanied by history texts and colourful picture books about the fashion of the nineteenth century, and a selection of Jilly Coopers comes with an Aga recipe collection, a photography hardback about rural England, and an amusing set of cartoon dogs.
It’s quirky and appealing and I love the idea of putting all of these wonderful books into context like that, making them seem even more rich and special.
I still can’t decide what to sit down with though, my eyes skittering from one amazing book to another, wishing I could just move in here and spend the rest of my life curled up on a sofa reading.
In the end, I suppose a book chooses me.
At least that’s a positive way to view it when a massive hardback slips off one of the shelves above, and lands with a thud on my head.
The corner digs painfully into my scalp, then it bounces off, ricochets from a pile of Bridget Jones’s Diary, and slams down onto the ground at my feet.
I stare at it for a moment, horrified. Is it broken?
Will I have to pay for it? Does it cost, like, a million pounds?
I glance up, wondering where it came from – a display about Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander books turns out to be the culprit.
I rub my sore skull for a few moments, and the shop assistant magically appears at my side. She crouches down, and picks the hardback up.
‘Ah,’ she says, not sounding too upset, so maybe not a million pounds after all. ‘I always liked this one. It’s a guide to the stone circles of Scotland, thought it tied in perfectly with those delicious time-travel stories. Is that something you’re interested in?’
‘Time travel?’
‘If you like. Or, you know, stone circles?’
My, how I’d love to say yes. How I’d love to be the kind of adventurous, earthy, vaguely mystical person who travels the land looking at long barrows and chanting inside Neolithic burial chambers. Truthfully, I don’t even know what they are – they’re just words I remember that feel relevant.
‘Not really,’ I reply meekly. ‘Though I did once go to Stonehenge on a school trip.’
It wasn’t very mystical at all, now I think about it. A coach load of hyped-up teenagers more interested in flirting (the girls) and farting (the boys) than in the ancient monument we’d been taken to see.
‘There you go then! It must be fate. Go on, sit down and have a little read. You look like you need a rest, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I respond, furious at the fact that I am tearing up. Life has been hard for a long time now, and this small gesture of kindness from a stranger is all it takes. ‘Thank you.’
I excuse my way past the other readers, desperately trying not to disturb them, and find a spot in a corner. I sigh as I sit, realising how exhausted I am, and close my eyes. Just a second of calm, a moment of peace, a few deep breaths. It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
I almost fall asleep, but do that weird thing where your body jerks itself awake just as you’re drifting off. I sneak a look at my companions, glad that none of them appear to have noticed.
I seem to get tired very easily these days, often conking out on the couch in front of Netflix.
I work for an agency as a temp office manager, which isn’t exactly like working down a mine or anything – but I do long hours, it’s busy, and I’m often starting over in fresh places.
That means constantly having to ask where the toilets are, meeting new people who immediately forget me, and wandering around looking for the break room.
I travel all over London with my bus pass, and there’s often not much left in the tank at the end of the day.
Sitting still like this, somewhere warm and cosy and welcoming, is comforting in a way I’m not used to any more.
Nothing has felt welcoming for a long time, and I know that needs to change.
I can’t go on like this, I’m starting to realise.
I need a life of my own, rather than the remnants I was left with after the divorce.
I glance down at my lap, at the book that is still there. The cover shows a single standing stone silhouetted by a bright orange sunrise. It looks beautiful, and intriguing, and nothing at all like overcrowded Stonehenge.
I open the book up, and browse a few strikingly photographed chapters about the Orkneys, and an ancient settlement called Skara Brae.
It’s 5,000 years old, which is mind-boggling.
You can still see the traces of the way the people lived, the places they slept, even the games they played.
I wonder if cheating husbands were a thing back then, or if they were all too busy hunting and surviving to have such silly concerns?
Maybe heartbreak is a modern invention. You probably don’t have time for an existential crisis when you can’t pop into the supermarket for your bits.
I stroke the pictures as I move through the book, the glorious colours and stunning landscapes completely transporting me to another era, another world. If only I could somehow jump into the pages, and start afresh. Sadly, even though bookshops might feel magical, that is a dream too far.
As I reach the middle of the book, the pages fall open to reveal an envelope.
I stare at it for a few moments, taking in the creamy-coloured paper and the curling handwriting it bears.
‘For the right person, at the right time,’ it says, rather mysteriously.
I smile at the sight, remembering a time with my grandmother when we found old train tickets being used as a bookmark in a shop just like this.
The tickets were from 1978, and were from Truro in Cornwall to London.
We’d had a fine time making up stories to go with them, creating a fictional life for the people who had enjoyed the trip.
I pick up the envelope, looking around the shop in case anybody suddenly jumps up and shouts: ‘That’s mine! I’ve been looking for it everywhere!’
Nobody does, so I decide that I will investigate further.
It isn’t sealed, only tucked in, which encourages me.
I could take a little peek, satisfy my curiosity, and then pop it right back where it came from.
I turn it over, and see a few random messages jotted on the back like graffiti.
One says ‘love this idea!’, and another, in different pen and different handwriting, adds: ‘Not for me – but when the right person finds it, I wish them all the luck in the world!’ Someone else has simply doodled a small cluster of love hearts and kisses.
How very odd – I’m clearly not the first person to come across this.
Still nervous about being caught doing something wrong, I slide the top of the envelope open, and pull out the card nestled inside it.
I smile at the photo on the front – a gorgeous shot of a Scottish loch, clear and blue, surrounded by majestic mountains.
It’s absolutely stunning, the snow-capped peaks reflected in the shining water.
Inside, there is more of the same flowing handwriting as on the envelope. I read: