Chapter Ten
‘Your mum said what ?’ says Yumi, staring at me across the table. The lights flicker above as the kettle coos beside us, all reminders of the quote that is slowly beginning to choke me.
It’s midday and after another flat-out morning we’ve just closed the bookshop to have lunch.
I’ve barely stopped to breathe, and it’s the first chance Yumi and I have had to talk.
Despite her trying to insist that we start with Declan Archer, so far we haven’t made it past my mum explaining to me that she was in the process of arranging to sell the shop.
‘It’s not the first time,’ I tell Yumi, breaking apart the cookie on the plate between us and taking a bite. Thinking about lunch yesterday gives me sharp pains in the chest, but the chocolate is helping.
‘Not the first time?’ Yumi exclaims. ‘I knew she was pressuring you to sell, but I didn’t know she was actually trying to make it happen. Why have you never mentioned it?’
I surprise us both by saying the words aloud. ‘Because it’s easier to pretend it’s not happening.’ Yumi meets my eyes, then nods and takes a piece of the cookie.
‘Can she do that?’ she asks, popping it in her mouth.
I shake my head. ‘The bookshop is mine,’ I tell her, thankful for confidence in this at least. ‘Gran signed it all over to me.’
It was just after I’d left my degree. I was working out what on earth I was going to do next, and Gran had sat me down at the table Yumi and I are sitting at now, and she’d offered me a lifeline.
There was such a light in her eyes, such a hope for the future – hers, mine and the bookshop’s. She had enough passion for all of us.
‘We can do it together, Clarrie. I’ll be right here with you . ’
Then a month later she got lost in the supermarket, and a month after that she accidentally set her kitchen on fire. Two months after that she was in Glenhaven, and a year later she’d stopped recognising me.
Yumi and I both stare at the remaining piece of cookie on the table for a while. After what I’m guessing she thinks is an appropriate amount of time to wait following a serious discussion, she picks it up. Then she pauses.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Can we talk about a certain dark-haired, bright-eyed hunk of handsome now?’
‘Hunk of handsome?’ It’s times like this that I wish I could raise one eyebrow.
‘I panicked at the last minute,’ says Yumi. ‘But I stand by it.’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ I tell her. ‘As I don’t know any hunks of hand—You know what, I can’t even do it. I can’t call anyone that.’
Yumi wiggles her eyebrows at me.
‘Clarrie and Declan, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—’
‘Are you seven?’ I interrupt her.
‘It might just seem that way to you because you’re old,’ says Yumi. She wiggles her eyebrows again, and I rest my head against the table. ‘Go back to work,’ I tell her.
I hear her slide the plate out of the way and then I feel rather than see her rest her head on the table opposite me.
‘But, really, how was it? It was two days ago and I know it’s been busy, but it’s weird that we haven’t even talked about it,’ she says quietly. ‘The coffee, not the kissing.’ She pauses. ‘Although, if that did happen, you should definitely lead with that.’
‘It was nothing,’ I tell her. ‘He’s just going on tour.
Mostly remote places and camping – it’s all to do with the book.
The bookseller they’d lined up pulled out at the last minute so they need someone to come and sell stock.
His publisher wanted me to do it – I’m surprised you didn’t see the email.
’ I give her a pointed look, which she ignores.
‘Declan Archer asked you on a date?’ she shrieks, and, honestly, I’m regretting telling her already. ‘Why the hell did you lead with your mum and the sale paperwork? What did you say?’
‘What do you think I said?’ I say.
‘I think you said, “Yes, Declan, but only if you kiss me until I can’t think straight,”’ says Yumi.
‘What is with you and the kissing?’
Yumi shrugs. ‘I haven’t had a date in a while.’ Then she narrows her eyes at me. ‘And it was preferable to my other guess, which was that you’re stupid enough to have said no.’
‘Have I fired you yet today?’ I ask her.
‘Twice,’ says Yumi without batting an eyelid. ‘Seriously, Clarrie, you didn’t actually say no, did you?’
I stand and turn to make a coffee. For all that Yumi teases me, there’s a note in her voice that is serious and I need a second to work out how to deal with it.
‘I’ve seen the quote for rewiring, Clarrie,’ says Yumi casually. My hands freeze on the mug. ‘And I know that we’re very busy ignoring it, but I know what it means.’
My stomach sinks. I slowly lower myself back into the chair opposite her.
‘I’m sorry, Yumi. I was going to talk to you about it, but . . .’ I hesitate, but she doesn’t rush me and when I look up to meet her eyes her gaze is steady and supportive. ‘I was planning to ask Mum for a loan,’ I admit quietly. ‘Before all the sale stuff.’
‘Oh, man,’ says Yumi. ‘That sucks.’
I close my eyes. ‘It’s so unprofessional for me to be burdening you with any of this.’
‘No, Clarrie,’ she says, her voice surprisingly fierce, ‘you are my friend . And, even though you are occasionally neurotic, often sarcastic and terrible at cutting your friends’ hair, you show up for me in a hundred different ways.
You didn’t have to bring me pistachio ice cream when Lachie broke up with me, or come to Franklin’s funeral – God rest his beautiful turtle-soul – but you showed up, because that’s what friends do. ’
She pokes me in the arm, then waits until I open one eye.
‘And I would not be showing up for you if I didn’t tell you that this tour is a really good option.
’ Her voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it.
‘It would help the financial situation, but maybe . . . you know, maybe it would also be good for you to get away from all of this. From your mum, from Annabel Stone and her list of obscure authors. Maybe it’s a chance for you to discover yourself in the wilderness.
’ It’s eerily similar to what I sniped at Declan the other day, but I suspect Yumi is not joking.
‘You actually read the book, didn’t you?’ I say.
Yumi shrugs. ‘It’s really good,’ she says. Then, ‘Seriously, Clarrie, you should do this. You know you should.’
I swallow. I can’t believe I’m actually even considering it. But, also . . .
‘I can’t leave Gran for two weeks,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll visit her,’ says Yumi immediately, and a lump forms in my throat.
‘You’d be at the bookshop,’ I remind her.
Yumi rolls her eyes. ‘I can do both. Besides, didn’t you say Ruth visits once a week? I’m sure she’d be happy to go more if you asked her. She can send updates.’
I sigh and Yumi hands me the last piece of cookie, as though she knows I’m close to capitulating. ‘Declan’s phone number is in the system,’ she says. ‘He must have shopped here before.’
Despite myself, a shiver goes through me. Somewhere along the way, my grandmother might’ve met Declan Archer.
‘You looked it up?’
‘You didn’t?’
I sigh again, then rest my head back on the table. I don’t want to do this. But the bald truth is that, right now, it’s the only solution in front of me.
‘I’ve got his publicist’s email,’ I tell Yumi. ‘I’ll email her.’
I procrastinate for another two days. In that time, my mother calls and asks for a copy of the shop’s finances (I ignore her), I order more stock of Declan’s book and the kitchenette sink starts leaking.
Yumi gets Declan’s phone number from the computer and starts writing it on Post-it notes, which she sticks out the back and around the front counter.
‘You know this is a breach of privacy, right?’ I say when I find one stuck beside the cash register. ‘What happens if a customer finds any of these?’
Yumi shrugs. ‘Then they’ll get a pleasant surprise when they call the number.
Tell me that any one of these people wouldn’t love to have a chat with the man himself.
’ She clears her throat. ‘Quick survey!’ she announces, and everyone in the store turns to look.
‘Who here would like to have a chance to speak with . . .’
‘Fine,’ I hiss at her and she trails off with a grin. ‘Fine, I’ll send the email now.’
‘. . . me!’ Yumi finishes awkwardly to the confused-looking customers. ‘You can speak with me if you buy a book. Come up to the counter when you’re ready!’ She winks at me and it’s a struggle not to roll my eyes as I make my way out the back.
I pull up the email that Bri, Declan’s publicist, sent. She seems friendly and efficient, and she has included both an itinerary and an estimate of the number of books I’ll need to order. It’s a lot. Still, my skin feels clammy as I write back to tell her I’ll do it.
I reread the email three times. I can almost imagine Gran, crowing over my shoulder with delight. ‘Camping, Clarrie! Make sure you take a few good books!’
I close my eyes and hit send, then ignore my email for the rest of the afternoon.
I’m in the kitchen making coffee the next morning when my phone rings with an unfamiliar number. My skin goes hot and then cold as I stare at the screen. It could be anyone, but when I emailed Bri yesterday I included my phone number. This has to be her.
I swallow, then slide my finger across the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Clarence?’ A deep, husky voice speaks in my ear and I almost drop the phone.
I grip it until my palm hurts, my heart racing so fast that it feels like it’s tripping over itself. Somewhere in my brain I register absently that I was wrong. It’s not Bri.
It’s so much worse.
I’ve never thought about phone calls as being intimate. The point is literally that you’re too far from the person you’re speaking with to say whatever it is to their face. Phone calls are for organising things and for driving.
But with one word I am suddenly and awfully aware of the man speaking into my ear. I’m the only one who can hear him, and every part of me is conscious of that fact.