Chapter 35
JOSIE
I’d expected to feel weird, coming home to my flat. After all, Lloyd had been here, possibly with his ‘friend’ – she of no name (‘not relevant!’). But I hadn’t been prepared to find that he had actually finished my kitchen shelves, and extremely professional they were, too!
That didn’t make up for the fact that there was no wine. Just one lone bottle sitting in the door shelf of the fridge – of apple juice. What use was that? Disgruntled, I took myself off to bed and slept terribly, craving Boris’s pancake-thin mattress, because then Shane would be there with me.
And now, as I wake up all scratchy and groggy in my second-worst pyjamas, I slope through to the kitchen to inspect the shelves again.
They’re so beautifully made, I can’t help admiring Lloyd’s handiwork and attention to detail.
However, we weren’t exclusive. I’d guess that there are other shelves like these – in kitchens all over London, probably.
Lloyd always seemed to be on the move, driving here and there, bemoaning the parking in Vauxhall and Camden and Battersea.
I wonder if he’s been on at other women to start up foot fetish side hustles.
Maybe they show more than their feet. How square I must have seemed to him – squeamish about stomping about in a box of soil!
The day stretches bleakly before me, the newness of the shelves somehow highlighting the shabbiness of my flat.
When will I own a sofa that I don’t feel the need to shroud in a variety of throws?
I launch into a whirl of cleaning and even thoroughly de-gunk the fridge, repositioning my magnets neatly.
In Cora’s room – what I still think of as her room – I dust, hoover and polish the mirror at her dressing table.
Cora moved out eight years ago. I can still hardly believe she’s a mum herself.
Why am I preserving her room like this? It’s not as if she’ll ever move back.
When there’s nothing left to clean, I settle at the kitchen table with my laptop, checking out the website of Rupert Featherstone Fine Art Books, realising how dated it looks.
I guess at work, I was always too busy keeping on top of orders to consider how it could be improved.
Yet we – or rather, Rupert – specialise in books about the world’s most beautiful objects!
And this site looks like it was designed by a kid in his bedroom.
I eye my phone, seized by an urge to call Rupert, just to tell him I’m back from terrifying Yorkshire and that I survived my mission.
That, apart from ill-advised sex with my oldest friend and behaving abominably the next morning (and, as a final flourish, nearly choking on Monster Munch fumes on the journey home), it’s all been fucking fantastic.
I’d also like to tell Rupert how sorry I am that things ended so horribly. Yes, he was wrong – but we all make mistakes, don’t we? I certainly do. Briefly, I think of Shane and wonder what he’s doing now. Happily working away in his shop, I’d imagine. Getting on with his life.
I fiddle with my phone, wondering how Rupert would react if I asked if I could pop in sometime, just to say hi.
Plus, I’m fond of that initialled china cup he gave me.
I’d like to pick it up. I’d also like a look around the shop, just to make sure the window display is up to standard – because I know he’s lax with it, forgetting to fill spaces whenever books are sold.
The place could look so much more welcoming, I’ve always thought.
Parked there at the desk, he looks like he’s guarding the shop against undesirables.
I’ve noticed countless people glancing in, clearly intrigued, but lacking the courage to enter.
‘You’re a bit intimidating,’ I’ve told him.
‘Nonsense! Why would anyone be afraid of me?’
I bite my lip, building myself up to calling him. What’s the worst that could happen, really? If he’s offish with me – well, at least I’ll have tried. Aware that Rupert never answers his mobile, I call the shop number. ‘Hello, Rupert Featherstone Fine Art Books?’
‘Hello?’ I say hesitantly, unable to place the male voice.
‘Can I help you?’ the man asks pleasantly.
‘I, um, wondered if Rupert’s there today?’
‘He’s off at the moment. If there’s anything—’ He trails off. ‘Is this Josie?’
‘It is, yes.’
The man chuckles. ‘Ahh. I was hoping you’d call. It’s Charles.’
‘Oh, Charles, I’m sorry! I didn’t recognise—’
‘That was my posh phone voice,’ he admits.
I laugh obligingly, trying to reconcile the fact that Rupert has replaced me already with his old boarding-school friend. That’s up to him, I tell myself. But is Charles really up to running the online order system, created by me?
‘Is Rupert away?’ I ask.
‘Umm… not exactly. He’s just taking a bit of… time out, I think you’d call it.’
‘Time out?’ I ask incredulously. Rupert rarely takes so much as a day off. I’ve wondered sometimes if this is because he gets lonely in his Notting Hill flat, and that really, the shop is his home.
Charles clears his throat. ‘He’s been a bit down actually, Josie. Realised he’d said some things he shouldn’t—’
I blink in amazement. ‘To me, you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘You know about that?’
‘I do,’ he murmurs. ‘But now you’re back from your trip, if you did feel like dropping by…’
‘I’m just not sure how he’ll be with me,’ I admit. But perhaps I could take a trip to town at some point, and have a browse around the big Waterstones? Maybe a wander through the streets of that rarified corner of London that I’ve grown to know so well? I mean, Rupert doesn’t own it.
‘See how you feel,’ Charles adds kindly. ‘I think he’ll be in tomorrow and, well, if you’re in the area—’
‘I might be,’ I say.
He coughs dryly and I hear the shop door ding. ‘The thing is—’
‘What is it, Charles?’
‘We have a new printer.’
‘What? Oh my God.’
‘And neither of us can work it,’ he says.