Missing You by Louise Douglas

political correctness tempered by the red and gold of tasteful, Victoriana point-of-sale displays; tens of thousands of shoppers are trip-trapping through the streets, bumping each other’s legs with their smart carrier bags filled with delightful, shiny, well-packaged items; they are queuing to buy wraps of genuine roasted chestnuts and cardboard cups of mulled wine from entrepreneurial street vendors. At this time of year, Bath is a cathedral to Mammon, but the bookshop is devoid of glitter, twinkle and marked-up prices. The only concessions to the season are the foreign-language Christmas cards and a tiny, old, three-bar electric fire. The top bar doesn’t work, but still the fire warms the air in the shop until it is heavy and thick and anyone standing within about a metre of the appliance will scorch their legs. The heater makes the shop smell of burned dust. It’s not a pleasant smell and after a while Fen can taste the dust in her mouth and feel it in the moisture that coats the surface of her eyes.
    Fen has been making a display of the greeting cards. They are beautiful things, photographs of winter landscapes of the countries they represent, each captioned in the appropriate language.
    ‘Hah,’ says Vincent. ‘You’d have to go a long way to find another shop that stocks Christmas cards in, er –’ he turns over the card he is holding – ‘Lithuanian!’ Normally a man given to self-deprecation, today he is exceptionally pleased with himself.
    ‘What if the words are inappropriate?’ asks Fen. ‘What if they’re wrongly spelled? What if that doesn’t say, “Happy Christmas”, what if it actually says . . .’
    ‘That’s what the internet’s for,’ says Vincent happily. ‘When the shop’s quiet, Fen Weller, you can make yourself useful by Googling the phrases and seeing what comes up.’
    He wags an affectionate finger at Fen. ‘You never stop learning, dear girl, that’s the beauty of life.’
    The migraine that has been hovering just outside Fen’s field of vision all morning finally swoops in for the kill just before lunch. She sees a shimmering mirage before her, a pool of mercury that darts whichever way her eyes turn, and the familiar, spiteful vice has begun to tighten around her skull. She battles on, but Vincent, who is always attentive, notices that she is not right.
    ‘Sit down a while; you’ve gone very pale,’ he says, offering his chair, but Fen knows that if she gives in, the headache will win. ‘Your skin looks bleached. Would paracetamol help? Ibuprofen?’
    ‘No,’ she says, ‘thank you, but they won’t touch it. If I ignore it, it may go away.’
    Lina comes into the shop. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she says to Vincent, going over to him for a hug and a kiss. ‘Hello, Fen. What have you done to your eyes?’
    ‘Nothing, I . . .’
    ‘She’s not feeling well,’ says Vincent. ‘Migraine, I suspect, although she hasn’t said as much.’
    ‘Oh, Fen, nobody likes a trooper,’ says Lina. ‘It shows the rest of us up.’
    ‘I’m fine,’ says Fen.
    ‘You blatantly aren’t.’
    ‘Is your car nearby, Lina?’ Vincent asks.
    ‘It’s in the Waitrose car park.’
    ‘Be a dear and fetch it,’ says Vincent. ‘Give Fen a lift home.’
    ‘I’ll be all right,’ says Fen.
    ‘You look like death warmed up; you’ll frighten off the customers,’ says Lina.
    Vincent, who would never be so discourteous as to comment on a woman’s appearance, unless it was to pay a compliment, does not contradict Lina. He pushes back the hair that has fallen from the top of his head over his eyes.
    ‘Have the afternoon off,’ he says. ‘Go and lie in a darkened room until Connor comes home. And if you’re no better in the morning, don’t come in.’
    ‘Thank you,’ says Fen. ‘You are a lovely boss.’
    ‘I know, dear girl,’ says Vincent. ‘I know.’
    Lina drives like a man, fast and tight, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other flat on the gear stick. Fen