Chapter 11
‘Oliver is thrilled about moving in,’ gushes Miranda, before handing me a coffee. ‘This morning, he wouldn’t stop talking about your flat and that gorgeous chair by the window. He reckons sitting there and watching the world go by will cure his writer’s block.’
My shoulders and neck feel as though someone has inserted rods of iron into them. Yesterday, I made it abundantly clear that the chair by the window was mine. I set the hot cup of coffee down for safety. ‘That’s my chair,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘He has the sofa.’
Miranda’s eyes widen dramatically, and her mouth forms a perfect O shape. ‘He’s a writer, Nelly. The view out the window will inspire his books. For goodness’ sake, show the poor man some kindness. He’s in a dark, creative time.’
‘I made it clear last night that the chair is mine.’
She gestures towards the romance display table. ‘Oliver is an international best-selling author who has been struggling for some time to write. You need to do all you can to help him create those wonderful romance books of his.’
‘Oliver has a desk in his bedroom. If he’s desperate to write, he can do it in there.’
With a flutter of her false eyelashes, she offers me a saccharine smile and tilts her head in a patronising way. ‘If I were in my thirties, single and sharing a flat with Oliver, I would do whatever he wanted.’ Her eyes brighten and she giggles like a lovesick teenager.
I can’t listen to this. Grabbing my coffee, I go and calm down in the science fiction and fantasy section. It takes a good hour of shelf tidying to bury my agitation over Oliver James wanting to use my chair.
As I tidy up the display table, I sense someone staring at me.
Looking up, I see a young man with black curly hair and blue eyes, wearing designer glasses with thick, square frames.
A feeling of familiarity washes over me.
I recognise him from somewhere. A friendly smile breaks out across his face.
‘Penelope Blake,’ he gushes. ‘It’s you. Wow – I didn’t expect to find you here. ’
I blink several times. He knows my old name. My brain frantically tries to remember who he is.
‘We were at the old swimming club together. Our mothers used to sit next to each other when they watched us train,’ he beams. ‘Don’t you remember me – Henry Stevens?’
I can feel my eyes widening with surprise.
My mind has become awash with memories of Henry, the skinny little lad who was my friend at the swimming club and gave me his sweets after training.
We used to laugh and fool around when the coaches weren’t looking.
I remember Henry left before my world turned upside down. ‘Henry? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Do you remember eating all my sweets?’
I giggle. ‘My dentist and I both blame you for my boiled sweet addiction.’
He laughs. ‘We would sit in the sports centre café before training, and you used to hide my bag. I would then get in trouble for being late.’
‘You gave me unnecessary feedback on my crawl stroke.’
He grins. ‘My mum said you were a bad influence.’
We both chuckle. ‘How are you doing?’ I ask. ‘You moved away – right?’
‘Mum and I moved away after my father…’ He pauses and strokes the spine of the book he’s holding. I read the title: The Water Holds Me, by Margo Lane. My eyes flick to Henry’s smile, which has almost gone. I tactfully change the subject. ‘Do you still swim, Henry?’
He laughs. ‘No. After we moved away, swimming wasn’t the same.
’ I can hear a phone bleeping. ‘I had no one to mess around with,’ he beams, while reaching for his phone in his back pocket.
Henry sends whoever is calling him to voicemail.
He lifts his gaze to mine. ‘I must dash as I have a train to catch. Listen, I’m back here in a few weeks with work.
Do you fancy going for a coffee sometime? We can reminisce about old times.’
Words jostle on my tongue. I can’t seem to push them out of my mouth.
‘It’s okay, no pressure about the coffee. Hey – do you still have that weird touchy thing?’
My heart grinds to a halt. ‘What?’
He nods. ‘You told me once about how you touch…’
I can’t remember confiding in Henry. My nervous laugh makes him stop talking. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Henry. You must be mistaking me for someone else.’
The urge to get away from him is strong. How dare he call my curse a weird touchy thing! ‘Look, I’m busy…’
His face has dimmed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It was nice seeing you, Penelope. I’d better go as I can’t miss my train. Can you keep this book for me? I will collect when I return.’ He hands me Margo’s book. ‘It’s for my mum.’
‘Nelly,’ I mumble. ‘My name is now Nelly.’ After casting him an awkward smile, I flick my eyes to the display table. ‘I will put this book aside. I’d better do some work.’
‘Bye, Nelly.’ He walks away and stops. ‘Say hello to your mum for me.’
My heart stops beating. I spin around to see him standing at the entrance of the section.
‘I know our mothers argued,’ he says, ‘but it was years ago, and my mum says she wishes she’d listened to her…’
Memories of Mum rush into my mind. Henry left the swimming club a few months before the car crash. He doesn’t know what happened to my parents. Tears prick my eyes. If I explain, I will get upset. ‘Goodbye, Henry,’ I say and turn my back on him.
I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. Henry needs to stay in the past. It was a good decision of mine to not accept his coffee offer.
Miranda wanders over. ‘Oliver is excited about moving in tomorrow. Will you be on hand with tea, coffee, and perhaps a light lunch for him?’
I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘Oliver will be moving in by himself. I am out for the day.’
Tomorrow is Aunt Polly’s first chemo session.
I told Oliver he could move in alone and get accustomed to the flat.
He agreed and asked if he could prepare a meal for both of us when I get home.
‘A moving-in celebratory meal,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
I tried to put him off by saying I wouldn’t be in the mood for celebrations when I get home, but he was annoyingly persistent.
He doesn’t know about Aunt Polly, and I don’t plan on telling him.
There are many things that I don’t want Oliver to know, and this is one of them.
Miranda gasps. ‘You’re not going to help him settle in?’
‘Oliver is a grown man, Miranda,’ I snap. ‘I am sure he can move a few boxes from his car and carry them up to my flat. If you’re so concerned about Oliver’s welfare, why don’t you let him live with you?’
She lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Frank’s mother is moving in with us for a while. She hasn’t been the same since her hip operation.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
With a shake of her head, she sighs. ‘His mother is a difficult and bitter woman. Nothing positive has come out of her mouth for decades.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be grateful that you’re looking after her.’
Miranda scoffs. ‘Pigs might fly.’
We are distracted by a customer: an elderly man with tufty white hair and twinkling pale-blue eyes. Miranda leaves me to deal with him while she sorts out paperwork in the back room.
‘Can I help you?’ I beam at the old man.
‘Hello,’ he says in a gravelly voice. ‘I am trying to track down a book.’
He hands me a crumpled piece of paper. In scrawly handwriting, it says, Barbara Plum’s Family Cookbook.
‘I’ve never heard of Barbara Plum. Let me have a look.’ I gesture for him to follow me to the till. Once there, I type the title into the laptop.
‘It was the only cookbook she ever used.’
‘She?’
‘My wife, Joan,’ he replies and takes a breath. ‘Joan died a few years ago. I miss her terribly.’
His words make me look up.
‘I’ve been trying to cook the meals Joan made.
Her shepherd’s pie was delicious, and we raised our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren on her chicken casserole.
Everything Joan cooked was from Barbara Plum’s cookbook.
’ He chuckles. ‘It used to be dog-eared, covered in pencil notes and gravy stains. After she passed away, when I moved house, it went missing.’
He blinks and takes out a white handkerchief with a cluster of pink embroidered flowers on one corner and the stitched initials J.C.E.
‘This was her favourite handkerchief,’ he explains.
‘I always carry it with me.’ He dabs his watery eyes.
‘If I can get hold of Barbara’s book, I can make her chicken casserole and…
’ He pauses and stares down at the handkerchief.
‘For a few moments, I can believe that it was Joan who made it and she’s just popped out to the shops. ’
My throat tightens. I remind myself that this is what love does to perfectly sane people. It makes them do strange things, such as chasing chicken casserole recipes and pretending it will bring back their loved ones.
He sniffs. ‘My family are scattered over the world nowadays. If I wanted to see them, I would have to fly. There’s no one near me any more, so I think about Joan and Barbara’s cookbook a lot.’
I return to the laptop, still carrying Henry’s book. The old man follows. Once at the counter, I slide the book on the shelf underneath the till. I tap in ‘Barbara Plum’s cookery book’ into the database.
‘I am afraid it has been out of print for years.’
The old man’s smile wobbles. ‘Well, I tried. It’s just an old cookbook.’ He blinks and holds my gaze.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can I give you my details in case you come across Barbara’s book?’
I nod, and he gives me his name, phone number and address.
As he hobbles towards the door, Miranda appears at the till counter. ‘Was that Mr Ellis?’
‘Yes, why?’
She stares wistfully at the elderly man leaving the shop. ‘Was he in here asking for Barbara Plum’s cookery book?’
‘Has he asked you about it too?’
She nods. ‘He usually comes in on a Wednesday when you have your day off. That book is out of print, but I don’t think he understands that we’re unlikely to obtain a copy. He will give you his details and be here next week. Poor old Mr Ellis.’
His words ‘it’s just an old cookbook’ still echo in my mind as I walk home that evening. Crossing the road, I consider trying to find it for him. I know of second-hand book shops that are great at acquiring out-of-print books. But would that cookbook only worsen his suffering?
I tell myself that, just like love, books come to an end, too.