Chapter 3
THREE
WREN
At half past five, Wren picked up her bag and keys and took the short walk to Cravenwick Pages. She looked up at the new window above her and shivered, but then Libby waved a packet of chocolate biscuits at her through the window, luring her inside.
‘Here she is, brave survivor of the Cravenwick Window Massacre.’ Libby tucked the biscuits under her arm and patted Wren’s arms, shoulders and cheeks. ‘No obvious injuries. I won’t need to contact my public liability insurer after all.’
Wren batted her away, laughing. ‘You know how pregnant women don’t like people touching their bumps? I feel the same way about having my face mauled by people not in the medical profession.’
‘I love people touching my bump. Here, have a go.’ She grabbed Wren’s hand and pressed it to her side, where her cord dungarees rippled and pulsed. ‘Ooh, I think this might be an elbow. Or maybe a knee.’
‘So weird,’ said Wren. ‘But lovely.’
‘Now have a biscuit,’ said Libby, pressing a Hobnob into her other hand.
‘Do you ever stop? Sit down, Lib. You’re heavily pregnant, you’ve spent a day on your feet, not to mention having the shop and the flat upside down with workmen. Clumsy workmen at that. Shouldn’t you be nesting or something?’
Libby cocked her head to one side, her strawberry blonde curls lolling from the top of her headscarf like an overgrown pot plant. ‘No time for that. The window frames are literally rotten and there’s damp coming in, which I’d much rather sort out now than when there’s a newborn around.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Wren, nodding. ‘You know, I think you’ve actually become a real grown-up, Lib.’
Libby sighed contentedly. ‘I have. Finally. Who needs a boyfriend when you’ve got good friends and easy access to multiple editions of What to Expect When You’re Expecting ?’
‘Well, I’m glad to be of service, and even more glad you’re getting your parenthood advice from a book. I’d be as much use as a chocolate teapot,’ said Wren, thinking how amazing it was that her friend had it all together even though her shitty ‘boyfriend’ had high-tailed it when he found out she was pregnant. She’d proved that she really didn’t need him, even though she had one of the biggest challenges of her life coming up. It made Wren feel weird about depending on Alex so much – they’d been together so long that she didn’t know what she’d do without him. Not that she wanted to do without him – he was the love of her life, obviously – but it did make her wonder.
Libby turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and bustled off to the kitchen out back to make some drinks, waving off Wren’s bid to do it for her. Libby was nearly eight months pregnant but was still running her bookshop almost single-handedly, with the help of her sole employee, a studious hipster called Jenson. Wren didn’t know how she did it – it took all of Wren’s energy just to look after herself, never mind gestating an infant while working a full-time job.
Wren wandered further back into the store while she waited, meandering through the small maze of bookshelves and display tables. Libby’s shop always made her feel calm, surrounded by the comfort of all those words, recorded forever between those pages. It was small but perfect, with red walls and dark wood shelves that gave the impression of a Victorian library. Empty wall spaces were dotted with artworks depicting quirky, anthropomorphic cats in top hats or monocles, quoting classic phrases from literature. A tabby wearing a buttoned-up waistcoat and bowler hat cited Oscar Wilde: You Can Never Be Overdressed or Overeducated . The shop was Libby in bricks-and-mortar form – practical yet unapologetically quirky.
Wren brushed her hand along the books’ spines, enjoying the feel of each volume; little containers for adventure, romance and heartbreak. Tucking a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear, she wandered from shelf to shelf, her fingers habitually rubbing at the chain she wore around her neck. It was a delicate gold chain bearing a seashell pendant, a conch with alternating stripes of gold and mother-of-pearl. It had once belonged to her mother. Wren continued to be amazed that she hadn’t rubbed it into nothing, as she had a habit of reaching for it whatever her mood – stress, boredom, seeking comfort. It had been with her all her life, which was a solemn reminder that her mother hadn’t been.
She slid a book from the shelf. Life is a Rollercoaster . She quickly pushed it back. Wren wanted nothing to do with rollercoaster-lives. All she wanted were the things that had always made her happy – Alex, her home and her job. The things that made her feel like her life was safe and predictable. Rollercoasters were for people who needed to artificially generate their thrills, people who thought spontaneity was fun, but Wren knew exactly where she was best off – with two feet planted firmly on the ground.
Libby came back, cups in hand, and they settled on the small, threadbare velvet sofa between the display cases. Libby sighed as she sat, kicking off her shoes, and put her feet up on the coffee table in front of them, nudging a stack of magazines out of the way with her stripy-socked toes. Wren took a soothing sip of the chamomile tea Libby had waiting for her and settled back too.
‘So, how are things at work?’ Libby asked. ‘Any news? No pun intended.’
‘Ha ha. And no, still no word on the downsizing. I can’t tell if Zara is hiding something or if she genuinely doesn’t know. But it’s happening everywhere – the local paper’s becoming a thing of the past. And we’re probably next.’
Libby gave Wren a sympathetic look. ‘But where am I going to find my ads for second-hand fish tanks and articles about the grand opening of the new leisure centre if the Echo closes down?’ She winked and sipped her tea.
‘It’s not funny!’ said Wren, meaning it but trying not to smile. ‘I’d lose my job, you heartless cow.’
‘Meh, you’d get another one.’ Libby waved her hand dismissively.
‘But I like my current one. And anyway, I’m trying to stay positive. Maybe the worst that will happen is job cuts.’ Wren bit her lip. ‘Although it might be me that gets cut.’
‘Then think differently. Think bigger. You’ve got transferrable skills.’
‘According to you, I’m only good for writing puff pieces on church bake sales,’ she said, glaring over the top of her mug.
‘Wren, you’re a writer. You don’t have to just write for the local paper.’
‘But that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. Straight out of uni, first job at the Northumberland Echo , and I’m still there.’
‘And isn’t that tragic? Aren’t you bored? Wren, you’ve been there for twelve years – maybe it is actually time for a change.’
‘I don’t like change.’
‘I know.’
Wren sighed, wishing Libby wasn’t always so forthright. Her best friend reserved the right to give her opinions, but Wren wished she wouldn’t do it so often – and with such razor-sharp precision.
‘We can’t all embrace adversity and run with it like you,’ she said, fully aware of how childish she sounded.
‘Yes, you can. Sometimes fate just steps in and doesn’t give you a choice. It’s not about being strong and capable; it’s about accepting that there are things you can’t change.’
‘Alright, Mystic Meg. Or is that the prayer from AA meetings?’
Libby shrugged.
They sat for a while, sipping tea in silence, Libby’s eyes closing every now and then, giving away how tired she really must be.
‘Lib, do you really believe in fate?’
‘I think I do. Are we still talking about your job?’
‘No. I was thinking about what happened this morning. I mean, what if I hadn’t stopped to read Alex’s text before I went outside? That window would have landed right on top of me. I mean, was I meant to avoid being killed because of some bigger plan, or was I just lucky?’
Libby breathed deeply and raised her eyebrows. ‘Well… There’s a question. You know, I might have a book on fate and destiny somewhere…’ She started to pedal her legs in front of her in an effort to get up, but Wren laid a hand on her arm.
‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’m just being silly.’ She was being silly, wasn’t she? It had been a lucky escape that could have gone a little differently, and she shouldn’t be giving it so much significance.
‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ Libby said. ‘I actually do believe there’s a plan for us all. A big library of books with our names written on them and a story inside.’
‘Bloody hell. I didn’t know pregnancy hormones could make you so poetic. Do you really think that?’
‘Yeah. I think even the bad stuff that happens to us is just part of the journey to where we’re meant to be.’
Wren was starting to feel like she was in the presence of a Tibetan shaman. Libby was mildly eccentric, but she’d never showed a penchant for mysticism.
‘I mean, look at me and Carl,’ she continued, patting her bump in reference to the baby’s father. ‘I was devastated when he left me. Thought my life was ruined and I’d never be happy again. But then, lo and behold, two months after he did a runner, I find out he’s been done for stealing from his work, and he’s been evicted from the flat he was asking us to move into.’
‘So you think the universe has it in for Carl?’
‘No! I think the universe saved me from him . If he hadn’t “broken my heart” then I might have been stuck with a homeless felon. We dodged a bullet, didn’t we?’ she crooned at her belly, rubbing it tenderly.
‘You did. You absolutely did. So… I live to see another day then. I wonder what the universe has in store for me next. Editor-in-chief of The Telegraph ?’
Libby drained her mug and handed it to her. ‘Not yet. The next twist of fate in your story is to wash these cups up for me and let me go and lie down with Netflix and a bowl of popcorn balanced on my belly. You can join me if you like?’
Wren smiled but thought of Alex waiting for her. ‘No, I’ve got to get back. You go up and rest, and I’ll switch the lights off and latch the door when I head off.’ She gave Libby a one-armed hug, the cups in her other hand, and watched as her friend wearily made her way up to her flat.
‘Oh, the falling-window killer left you a little present to say sorry,’ shouted Libby from halfway up the staircase. ‘It’s in the kitchen.’
Wren went through to the little back room and washed the cups under the hot tap with a squirt of washing-up liquid. The tap wobbled in her hand as she tightened it. Libby would probably be renovating this place forever – there always seemed to be something else on its last legs.
She looked around for a towel to dry her hands, but there was nothing in plain sight. Wondering if there might be something in the tall closet that stored all kinds of odds and ends, she pulled its door open and was greeted by a rumble and clatter as objects fell towards her. Wren drew back instinctively as a long, tall object swung forward like a headman’s axe, narrowly missing her face before it hit the floor.
She looked down to see a broom, which from the angle of it looked to have been propped bristle-end up, and hanging from the edge of the brush head by a loop of cord was an electric drill, its drill bit glinting menacingly in the strip lighting. She raised a hand to her left eye protectively, realising how close that had come to her face. Her nostrils flared. For the second time today, it seemed that workman had nearly taken her out – she was sure these weren’t Libby’s tools.
She picked up the broom and pushed it back into the cupboard, hearing a stirring of metal against wood as she wrestled it into place. Then the nest of tools and equipment collapsed completely, and a long pole swung forward, connecting brutally with the centre of her forehead. She reeled back, stunned. From behind the broom, a metal pole with a weird suction cup had fallen onto her.
She pressed a hand to her head, squeezing her eyes shut before she dared to look at her fingers. No blood, thank God, but it ached horribly, and patting her forehead again she realised it had already started to swell. Marvellous. She was going to go to work the next day looking like a black-and-blue unicorn.
‘Everything okay down there?’ came Libby’s voice from upstairs.
‘It’s fine,’ she shouted back up, not wanting to bother her baby-bound friend. ‘Just your workman breaking all the health and safety laws again. I’ll sort it.’
‘Okay,’ came a quieter voice from above.
Wren heard the ping of the microwave and smelled a faint waft of popcorn.
‘Thanks. Love you.’ A door closed.
Wren huffed. It was bad enough that she’d had one hair-raising near miss courtesy of an incompetent glazier that morning, but this was just silly. She gathered up the bits that had spilled out of the cupboard and shoved them back inside, propping the broom up more carefully than that fool had earlier, and placing the electric drill safely on the floor.
She was about to close the door when she saw a tool she’d missed – some kind of metal scraper or spatula with a worn handle. She picked it up, wincing as her forehead throbbed. Losing the last of her patience with the workman’s hazardously stored belongings, she threw it in the cupboard, where it wedged itself into a jumble of wires snaking from an extension cable, and slammed the door shut.
It was then that she saw what must be her present – a bunch of white lilies propped in a pint glass of water beside a pile of John Grisham novels on the counter. How appropriate , she thought. He tries to kill me then sends me funeral flowers . She left them where they were.
The sun was going down, and it was shadowy and cool in the car as Wren got buckled in and started the engine. Her phone pinged just as she’d put the car into gear, so she put it back in neutral and looked at the screen. It was Alex.
Where are you?
Shit. She’d forgotten the milk. The convenience store at the end of the road was closed now, but then she remembered there was another one on the way home. She’d just go there.
Popping the car in reverse, she swung back out of the parking space, seeing only at the last minute the back of a khaki jacket through her rear windscreen. With a little yelp, she slammed the brakes on, her fingertips tingling where they clutched the wheel. Where the hell had he come from?
She couldn’t see anything else other than a broad chest as he turned towards the car and backed away, then his hand raised in a small wave to let her know she hadn’t actually hit him. He turned and walked off, and she let out a deep sigh. Today was becoming as dangerous as a stroll through a field of landmines.
Still shaken, she carried on reversing, pausing to check the road beyond a bus that had pulled up, then started the drive home.
The drive to the house Wren and Alex owned on the outskirts of Cravenwick took only five minutes, and she’d spent those five minutes trying to shake the adrenaline rush of near disaster without much success. But when she saw Alex’s car in the driveway, her tension eased a little. At least at home she knew nothing out of the ordinary would happen. She parked on the street and went inside.
‘Hey, I’m home,’ she said, shrugging off her jacket and throwing it over the bannister rail. She dumped her bag on the bottom stair, where it rolled to the side, spilling out a lipstick and a pen. The smell of something delicious drifted from the kitchen, and she gravitated towards it. The kitchen-diner was lit with just lamps and the light over the stove, where Alex stood stirring something in a pan.
‘Mmm, that smells nice,’ she said, snaking her arms around him from behind and folding her hands over his taut stomach muscles.
‘Me or the chilli?’ he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.
He was tall, so she could rest her head between his shoulder blades, feeling more tension seep out of her body. ‘Both. How was work?’
‘Work was great. I took on two new PT clients today and got the go-ahead for the juice bar.’
‘Hey,’ she said softly, squeezing him. ‘That’s amazing. You’re my hero in Lycra.’
‘All the best heroes wear Lycra,’ he said, turning and putting his arms around her. She laid her head on his chest. ‘Superman, Spiderman…’
‘Bananaman…’
‘Hey, don’t knock Bananaman. Bananas are an excellent source of potassium.’
‘Well, you would know.’
Alex was the manager of a gym, as well as being a personal trainer and general healthy-living enthusiast. Wren had to hide her chocolate in the car.
She looked up at him, and he lifted her chin, his brow furrowing.
‘What’s happened to your head?’
She’d almost forgotten. It had stopped hurting, but when she touched it now, it was still tender. ‘Oh, it’s fine. Just a bump.’
‘Wren, you need to be careful. Head injuries should be taken seriously.’
‘It’s fine . Come on! It’s not like I got knocked out or anything.’
‘Listen, in my line of work, injuries happen all the time. I know what I’m talking about. We should maybe get you to A&E, just to be safe.’
Wren’s eyes widened. ‘A&E? No way, Alex. It’s a minor bump. I’m not spending eight hours in the waiting room for a bruise.’
He paused, surveying her forehead in the analytical way he usually reserved for his own biceps. ‘Okay. But can you please go to the walk-in centre tomorrow? Better safe than sorry.’
‘Fine,’ she conceded. ‘I will do that.’ Anything for an easy life.
‘Good. Have you got the milk?’ he asked.
‘Argh. No. I forgot it, sorry.’ Wren sighed. She’d been so distracted by the assault from the broom cupboard and the reversing incident that she must have sailed straight past the corner shop. ‘I’ll go and get it now.’
Alex rolled his eyes, dropping his arms from where he’d held her. ‘Wren, this is so bloody typical. I asked you to do one small thing.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it now. It’s fine.’
He stood with his arms crossed in the lamplight, the kitchen feeling less cosy by the second as his mood turned. ‘It’s not fine though, is it? You work late all the time, even though you don’t have to, or you’re off babysitting your dad, and the one time I manage to hand off the evening shift and cook dinner for you, this happens.’
‘It’s just milk,’ she said, quieter this time, readying herself to bury her irritation. She made for the door to get her bag, but he pushed past her.
‘Don’t bother. I’ll get it. Just don’t let the chilli burn. If you can manage that?’ He snatched up his own car keys and stormed towards the hallway. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she heard him mutter, and she remembered her bag ejecting its contents onto the stairs.
Once the door slammed shut, she went and gathered everything up, hanging her bag and coat on a peg where they belonged. Then she went to the stove and picked up the wooden spoon. She stirred the food while staring at the tiles behind the cooker. Alex had a habit of blowing things out of all proportion, but she’d learned, for her own sanity, how to navigate his moods. Space, time and a tidy house seemed to be the right combination, but lately she’d found herself resenting the effort she had to make to appease him. Should it really be this much work? She sighed and wriggled the knots out of her shoulders. The drive to the shop would do him good. He would calm down.
Later that night, after a frosty dinner, they lay in bed in darkness. Alex had finished his night-time shower and skincare regime, and smelled faintly of biscuits. Wren suspected there was a bottle of fake tan hidden somewhere in their bathroom.
She snuggled closer to him, and he allowed her to be the big spoon. The lithe muscles of his back weren’t exactly comfortable to lean against, but she wanted the contact of his skin. She kissed his shoulder.
‘You saved my life today, you know,’ she murmured, thinking of the text that had slowed her exit from Libby’s shop.
‘What?’ His voice was thick with sleep.
Then she remembered that the text had been a reminder to get milk.
‘Never mind,’ she said and closed her eyes.