Chapter Seven
Bernard’s is a restaurant halfway between my parents’ house and the bookshop, and it’s one of those places that always makes me feel like I’ve got the dress code wrong.
My mum is already waiting at her usual table. She stands when she sees me, a frown lightly puckering the skin on her forehead.
‘Clarence.’ She leans forward and presses her cheek briefly against mine in one of those moves I’m never quite sure is a hug or a kiss.
We both sit. I tug the cloth napkin from the table onto my lap, trying not to fiddle with the edges as Mum opens the menu.
‘How are you?’ she asks. She barely pauses her scanning to glance over the top at me. ‘Are you well?’
Not really , no . At the moment, I feel like every part of me is braced for impact, and the idea of asking if I can borrow money to fix the electricals in the shop makes me want to break out in a cold sweat. I’ll do it. Just . . . not yet.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say just as a waiter arrives at the table.
He fills our water glasses, then picks up Mum’s napkin and shakes it with a flourish.
She leans back slightly, still looking at the menus while he places it on her lap, and the two of them somehow do it so smoothly that it looks like the whole thing was choreographed.
The waiter turns to me, and I see the panic in his eyes as his gaze flicks between the table and the napkin already thrown haphazardly onto my lap.
But unlike me he is not an amateur, and it takes less than a second for him to nod discreetly and back away gracefully like it never happened.
‘How are you?’ I ask Mum.
‘Fine,’ says Mum. ‘It’s been a busy week as usual, but Ben came for dinner last night with the kids. He’s up for a promotion,’ she tells me.
‘That’s great,’ I say. I genuinely mean it. Ben always wanted to be a lawyer, and I know how hard he works. But there’s something about the pride in Mum’s voice that makes me feel like a ten-year-old trying to get her attention again. I take a sip of water.
The conversation stalls, and the waiter rematerialises at my elbow to top up my water. Is he watching us? It feels like he’s watching us.
‘Sorry I couldn’t answer your call yesterday,’ I tell Mum, instead of asking her if she thinks the waiter is watching us. Or, you know, for the money I need to stop Gran’s dream dying. ‘We had a busy day at the bookshop.’
I don’t miss the slight purse of her lips at the mention of the bookshop.
‘I heard,’ she says, stacking her menu on top of mine. ‘Heather Bradley phoned. She told me that there was an article about it on the internet.’
My mother’s group of friends could honestly run the country if they wanted to.
They know everything – often two hours before everyone else does.
I used to love hearing their take on the world.
Until I heard one of them telling Mum what a shame it was that I’d dropped out of law school – before I’d actually worked up the courage to tell her.
‘It was something to do with Declan Archer, wasn’t it?’ she continues. ‘I’ve heard his new book is very good. Beth is friends with his mother.’
I try not to grit my teeth. Mum has never been a big reader.
Gran always used to joke that it was the ultimate case of teenage rebellion – to have parents who owned a bookshop and not like reading.
This is the first time Mum’s mentioned anything even vaguely related to books in the last six months – and of course it’s a book that I haven’t read, by a man I can’t stand.
‘It’s done very well,’ I say, twisting my glass and wishing for a heartbeat that we had the kind of relationship where I could talk to her about everything that’s happening.
Not just to ask her for help with the loan .
. . but to really talk to her. To tell her about Declan, and about the dedication, and about how worried I am about the drawer full of bills.
Mum signals to the waiter and he appears seconds later with a pen and notepad in hand. She orders a steak, which she always does, and I pick the one vegetarian option before the waiter glides away again.
I clear my throat, readying myself to ask about the loan, when Mum speaks again. ‘I ran into Mitchell Harper a few days ago – you remember, the dean of your law school?’
My chest tightens. ‘I remember,’ I say, instead of reminding her that I don’t have a law school.
‘He mentioned that if you wanted to go back, you could get credit for the subjects that you’ve already done,’ says Mum.
‘Did he?’ I say, my heart twisting as familiar disappointment washes over me. I don’t know why I thought it would be different, this time.
‘You know, it’s not too late for you to build whatever career you want to have, Clarrie,’ she continues.
‘I’m pretty busy running Gran’s bookshop right now.’ It comes out sharp, and Mum’s hands still.
‘There is no need for that tone.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. I rub my head and meet her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You look tired, Clarence,’ she tells me, and I immediately want to take back my apology. ‘You’re spending too much time at that shop.’
‘It’s my job. I have to be there. I want to be there. And I don’t want to go back to law school.’
Mum ignores the tone this time. ‘I told you weeks ago that we would help you sell,’ she says. ‘I’ve already arranged to speak with an estate agent this week and Ben told me last night he’s spoken to someone about drawing up the paperwork.’
The words hook themselves into my stomach and tug hard, taking me by surprise, even though they shouldn’t. For a whisper of a second, I actually let myself imagine the possibility and I hate myself for it.
I’m shaking my head before I can finish the thought. It’s always the same thing.
‘It’s Gran’s legacy, Mum – the thing she literally spent her life building. Does that not matter to you?’
Mum is silent, and my stomach drops. There’s no way I’m going to be able to ask her for a loan now. ‘Clarence, don’t overreact,’ she says finally in her best measured voice. ‘We’re just thinking about your future.’
I close my eyes, wondering why I thought there might even be a chance that Mum and I could have a conversation that didn’t inevitably go this way.
‘I saw Gran today,’ I tell her.
‘Lovely,’ says Mum, but I can hear in her voice that she doesn’t mean it.
Gran has been in Glenhaven for over two years and, as far as I know, Mum has visited her a grand total of six times, on holidays and special occasions – because she’s a dutiful daughter like that.
She’s your mother , I want to scream, but yelling never works.
‘Right,’ I say, and the silence between us feels like it could swallow me.
The waiter arrives with our food, but he’s so damn graceful that even him putting the plates on the table doesn’t manage to break the silence.
Then Mum makes a comment about the weather, and from there we move on to food and Dad’s new fishing rod and Ben’s new house. We don’t talk about the bookshop, or Gran, and by the end of lunch all I want to do is curl up in a ball and weep.
Brooks’ is half full when I finally make it back, and Yumi throws herself at me when I walk through the door.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, mildly alarmed.
‘Grand,’ says Yumi. She studies me, and I try to keep the emotion of the day, of another failure with my mother, from my face. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I might, at some point, but everything feels too raw right now.
‘Okay,’ says Yumi, but she doesn’t move, and after much too long of her staring into my eyes she sighs dramatically. ‘This means I can’t ask you about Declan Archer today as well, doesn’t it?’
Even in this state his name sends a bolt of panic through my stomach, and I swear at least two customers look up.
‘It does,’ I confirm.
She points a finger at my face. ‘When we do finally cover your date, the detail had better be excellent.’
‘It wasn’t a—’ but Yumi just steps back, closes her eyes and holds out her hand.
‘I’m ready for my gift now.’
Her message this morning feels like a year ago. I’ve honestly got nothing, but I fish around in my bag just in case and my hand closes around the cloth napkin from the restaurant. Whoops . Still, I place it in her outstretched palm.
‘I don’t even need to open my eyes to know that this is a very disappointing gift,’ Yumi says disapprovingly.
‘You can go home early instead if you want,’ I tell her, rubbing my forehead. There’s a part of me that knows it’s money the shop can’t really afford, but Yumi is incredible, and I want to be able to give her this. To feel like today hasn’t been crap for everyone.
‘Now?’ says Yumi, her eyes still closed.
‘Now,’ I confirm. At least the people milling around the shop mean I won’t be completely alone with my thoughts.
‘Deal. But I am also keeping this very fancy napkin.’ She tucks it into the front of her dress – somehow managing to make it look cool – then slides her bag over her shoulder.
‘Don’t think I don’t know you’re partly sending me home because you want privacy to think about a certain very handsome and clearly-hot-for-you author. ’
The idea that Declan Archer is hot for me almost makes me laugh out loud, but the way I’m feeling today it’s entirely possible that if I start laughing it will quickly lead to hysterical sobbing.
I look over Yumi’s shoulder and sort of vaguely smile like there’s a customer there, and Yumi rolls her eyes.
‘I see right through you, Brooks,’ she says.
She hugs me tight, and I blink back the tears that spring to my eyes.
Thankfully, I manage to pull myself together and, by the time I do, there actually is a customer at the counter.
The afternoon is steady, but not nearly as hectic as it was yesterday, and it goes by quickly.
At least half of the sales are Talking to Trees , and every time I sell a copy I’m honestly too exhausted by the whole thing to even feel like grinding my teeth.
By the time the end of the day rolls round, I can see the cover on the back of my eyelids.
The only thing I’m thankful for is that Declan’s arrogant face isn’t on it.
The bell finally jangles for the last time, and I flip the sign to closed . The books stare silently back at me, as though they’re waiting for something, but I don’t know what to offer them.
I pull Mike’s quote up on the computer, and, because I apparently am a sucker for punishment, I open the drawer full of bills too. I stare at them all until my eyes blur.
What the hell am I going to do?
I could approach Dad about the loan, but that would just end with him talking to Mum, and then me arguing about the bookshop with her anyway.
Asking Ben won’t be any better. And I know that it’s stupidly, desperately urgent, but, after seeing Gran and after everything that happened with Mum, I feel too wrung out to think about it today.
Maybe I’ll win the lottery overnight. It’s a mark of how desperate I feel that I actually, seriously think about going via the newsagent to buy a lottery ticket on the way home.
We’re in trouble. Trouble that can’t be fixed by shoving my problems in a drawer.
I sit at the front counter until the light begins to dim outside, flick on the fairy lights in the display window because Yumi will kill me if I don’t, then I pull the door closed behind me and lock it.
The night nips at my bare skin and it’s a few minutes before I realise that I left my jacket inside. My shop keys aren’t in my bag though, and I don’t remember where I put them – I haven’t used them since I opened up yesterday morning. On top of everything, it just feels like too much.
I lean back against the side of the shop, the bricks already cold from the chill that has hold of the air, and I realise that I am stupidly, desperately close to tears. Over a jacket.
Three breaths, Clarrie.
Three breaths and then I’ll find the energy to hunt for the keys again, or to start walking.
I’m only up to the second breath when I hear someone coming down the street. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, wondering why it is that I even care so much what a stranger on the street thinks of me.
But as they get closer I realise it’s not a stranger.
It’s Declan freaking Archer.