Chapter 22
Oliver is not up when I leave for work which is probably for the best. Before leaving I slide a note under Gary’s door, which I wrote in the early hours after my dripping ceiling had awoken me.
It is written in capitals, and at one point, I was so angry with him that I pressed so hard against the paper that a hole formed.
There’s no greeting, and I haven’t even included his name. It reads:
MY CEILING IS LEAKING AGAIN. FIX IT. NOT WITH PAPER.
The bookshop is quiet, which is a relief as I am tired. Miranda is having a day at a spa which is another blessing.
The shop doorbell jangles and I look up to see Henry, my old friend from my childhood swimming club. He smiles and comes to the counter. ‘Hello, I’m back here with work for a few weeks. I have decided that I will keep pestering you for a coffee until you agree.’
I feel a prickle of anxiety and grab a pencil to fiddle with. ‘Maybe next week?’
His smile gets wider. ‘Great, I will come in again soon. Oh, do you have my mum’s book?’
Reaching down I grab Margo Lane’s book and hand it to him. ‘How is your mum?’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Her best mate passed away a year ago and she’s been struggling. I saw people on social media talking about this book about the healing power of water. Mum loved swimming when she was younger.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Do you still swim, Nelly?’
The thought of swimming makes Mum’s face flash up inside my mind.
My chest aches as I remember Mum cheering for me at swimming competitions and watching her glide through the water when we went swimming together.
I used to wonder whether she was a secret mermaid.
My shoulders and neck stiffen. ‘No, I haven’t been in the water for years. ’
I watch as he opens Margo’s book and turns to a page. My eyes roam over the words in bold text at the top.
Every crash of a wave is an embrace.
The sea carried her alone, and she realised she had never felt safer in the water.
The sea greeted her like an old friend.
Henry snaps the book shut. ‘I’ll come in again next week, reminding you about a coffee. Remember how annoying I was when we were at the swimming club – well, I am still that little kid.’ He laughs before taking out his phone. ‘What’s the damage for the book?’
He pays and says he will be back soon. As he leaves, our fingers touch.
When the bright light clears, I can see him on the hard shoulder of a motorway.
He’s leaning against a car and watching a figure, who has their back to him.
They have a cap on; they’re wrapped in a red tartan travel blanket and looking ahead up the motorway lane and into the distance.
That’s a weird ending for his love story.
Maybe they have broken down, and the capped figure will fall in love with whoever is coming to rescue them?
For the rest of the day, I think about Mum and the words from Margo’s book.
The memory of our conversation in the car comes back to me, and I remember how insistent she was that I keep swimming.
It unlocks another memory: how the kids at primary school teased me for wearing gloves, and how this made me look forward to the weekly swimming lessons.
Being in the water always gave me a sense of liberation.
I didn’t have to worry about touching anyone or other children laughing at me.
The ones who made my life a misery would always be in the baby pool with floats, whereas I would be free in the adult pool.
By the time I lock up the shop, I am questioning why I have turned my back on swimming. Before I leave, I do something I have never done before – I find a second copy of Margo Lane’s book in the non-fiction section and slip it into my bag.
I arrive home, climb the stairs and hear voices from my flat. Gary waves at me from the doorway. ‘Bad news, Penelope.’
‘My name is Nelly – what bad news?’
He grimaces. ‘The ceiling in your bedroom.’
Oliver is behind him in the hallway. He’s holding Lenny and casts me a sympathetic look.
‘What’s happened?’
Gary takes in a deep breath. ‘It’s fallen in.’
I stare at him as my heart grinds to a shuddering halt. ‘Fallen in?’
He nods. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, but I have a bloke coming to look at the damage tomorrow.’
Gary steps out of my flat and lets me through. Oliver backs away, and I race into my bedroom. It’s a good job Oliver is holding Lenny, as my scream is piercing.
There’s a gaping dark hole in my ceiling. My bed is covered in bits of plaster and the soggy remains of Gary’s sheets of paper. Anger and frustration join forces before coursing through my body. ‘I told you about this problem weeks ago, and you’ve done nothing.’
Gary runs a hand through his greasy black hair. ‘Penelope, I fixed it a few days ago.’
‘My name is NELLY,’ I bark, making him flinch. ‘You didn’t fix it, Gary, you put a few sheets of paper over it.’
He scratches his jaw. ‘I’ve been busy. You can’t sleep in here. Also, there’s an odd smell in here as well. It reminds me of bay leaves.’
Tears rush to my eyes, hot and stinging. I blink them away.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ says Gary. ‘I have a spare room if you need it.’
The thought of spending a night in Gary’s flat makes me cringe. ‘No thanks, Gary.’
He waves at Oliver and leaves.
For a few moments, I stand and survey the mess. The tears never went away. They now start to roll down my cheeks. What am I going to do? Where am I going to sleep?
‘Nelly,’ says Oliver. ‘Don’t panic. I’ll sleep on the sofa, and you can have my room.’
‘The sofa is designed for mice,’ I say with a sob.
‘Nelly, I’ve been a nightmare to live with, and last night was my last chance. I’ll sleep on the sofa and look for somewhere else to live.’
I remain silent.
‘What we both need right now is a cup of tea,’ he says. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on.’
He returns with a cup of tea for both of us. I watch as he places it on my bedside table and hovers in the doorway.
As I clasp the cup of tea, I find the heat soothing.
‘Are you sure about the bed?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘It will be fun, and Lenny will hang out with me.’
‘Thank you.’
With a shake of his head, he says, ‘No, I should be thanking you.’
‘Did you manage to get some new keys?’
He nods. ‘Gary helped me out with a spare set.’
I turn back to survey the devastation in my bedroom.
‘Do you want a hand clearing up?’ Oliver asks.
‘Thanks, but I’m okay.’
‘I’m going to look at some flat-sharing sites.’
I glance over my shoulder at him. He offers me one of his dazzling smiles, and annoyingly, I feel a flutter in my chest. I quickly suppress it. This man is troubled, I tell myself. Right now, he’s a walking red flag. I need to remember what Eva said.
‘Drink the tea, and I’ll change my bedding for you.’
His room smells of cedarwood and lemon aftershave.
He’s changed the bedding for me but left his belongings and toiletries out on the desk.
I can hear him in the kitchen, so I seize the opportunity to have a snoop.
I must say that Oliver owns more beauty products than I do.
His aftershave, Whispering Cedar, sounds like something out of a romantasy novel.
He has a serum called Essence of Renewal, which sounds like a chapter from one of the spiritual-awakening books we sell, and his hair is styled with Alpine Meadow clay, which sounds more like a posh cheese.
I bet he spends a fortune in Boots. On the desk are a few books and the board game Monopoly.
I hope he doesn’t ask me for a game. Aunt Polly used to say I laughed like an evil villain when she landed on one of my properties and was forced to hand over an eye-watering amount in rent.
She struggled to beat me. It would not be enjoyable for Oliver to watch me bankrupt him.
I notice he’s pinned a few photographs on the corkboard above the desk.
One shows a younger Oliver standing with Jamie.
There’s another person beside Oliver, whose black shoes are visible, but I can’t see any more as their part of the picture seems to have been torn off.
There is a photo of Oliver and an older man, whom I assume is his father, on a beach.
The third photo is of a little boy clutching a large teddy bear.
He has Oliver’s dark eyes and facial shape.
I wonder whether this is a photo of him when he was little.