be quite nice, I thought, to tell somebody, if only to get another perspective. I realised that we had swifts swooping around the Old and New in the summer. Not swallows. And definitely not house martins.
‘You are,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I might be,’ I replied, and winked at her.
‘Who? Who? Who is it?’
‘He’s married,’ I warned. I had hoped it would sound sophisticated, but it didn’t.
‘Really? Oh! Well, that doesn’t necessarily … who is it? Does he come in here?’
‘Yes.’
A pause. A customer inconveniently filled it, and Sophie hastily, politely served her.
‘Who is it?’ Sophie hissed at me as soon as the customer was out of earshot.
‘Charles Dearhead.’
There was no mistaking Sophie’s disappointment. I wanted to reach out and gently swipe it away, as I might a stray strand of hair from her face. I hold a great deal of tenderness for Sophie.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, and shrugged.
Of course it wasn’t all right. But it was better than nothing. I’d had rather too much of nothing, and Charles had become my ‘something’.
I didn’t love him. I would never love him. Sophie and I both knew it. And all this passed between us in those few seconds, telepathically, a silent conversation in which nothing was said but everything was communicated.
‘He’s a lot older than you,’ said Sophie, breaking our spell.
‘Twenty-two years older.’
‘Too old?’ she asked.
She made me think. But not for long.
‘Maybe. But he’s nice. I like him. He’s kind to me. And he is handsome, for his age,’ I said, my vanity coming to my defence.
‘He’s married to his wife,’ said Sophie, and our eyes widened and we giggled.
‘I know what you mean, though,’ I said, and I whispered, ‘Mrs Francesca Dearhead, no less. Have you ever seen her?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He says she’s difficult.’
‘Aren’t you worried that you’ll be found out? Philip might sack you. Scandal at the Old and New?’
‘Philip wouldn’t sack me. And he’ll never find out. Nobody will. I don’t make a song and dance of it, and neither does he. It’s all okay, Sophie. Okay?’
Jenna emerged from the children’s book room, where she had been busy putting out the new books delivered that morning. She is a neat person, when she tries, and putting out new stock, arranging shelves, especially in the children’s section, has become one of her particular duties. She smiled at us as we cut short our conversation. I don’t think she heard any of it; perhaps she thought we were talking about her.
Jenna offered to make coffee. As the kettle boiled loudly in the kitchen, and we could hear her clattering around with cups and saucers, Sophie said my affair with ‘the Dearhead’, as she called him, was okay, if I said it was. And it was none of her business, which was obviously true.
But I care for her opinions. I know she knows I cannot be truly happy with a man like Charles Dearhead, even if he is handsome. She thinks I deserve better, and maybe that is so. But, living as I do, alone, Charles feels right for me, and he is a sweet man in his own way. And I quite like his way, the fact that he never really wants to speak about me. I can lose myself in his life, and it means I don’t have to think too much about my own, which, I convince myself, is infinitely better than his.
Ah, but here he is now. Hassled. Frowning. I’ve put my Billie Holiday CD on for him. He likes jazz, and so do I. It’s good to have that in common. If I sit him down in my small but comfortable lounge, massage his shoulders, pour him a glass of wine … there. That’s better. Is he? Yes, he is, he is actually smiling now. And asking me what is for dinner because it smells delicious and he can’t really believe that he will be able to stay here for the night, our first night together. He sips wine and looks smug. He parked his car two streets along. You never know who might be
‘You are,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I might be,’ I replied, and winked at her.
‘Who? Who? Who is it?’
‘He’s married,’ I warned. I had hoped it would sound sophisticated, but it didn’t.
‘Really? Oh! Well, that doesn’t necessarily … who is it? Does he come in here?’
‘Yes.’
A pause. A customer inconveniently filled it, and Sophie hastily, politely served her.
‘Who is it?’ Sophie hissed at me as soon as the customer was out of earshot.
‘Charles Dearhead.’
There was no mistaking Sophie’s disappointment. I wanted to reach out and gently swipe it away, as I might a stray strand of hair from her face. I hold a great deal of tenderness for Sophie.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, and shrugged.
Of course it wasn’t all right. But it was better than nothing. I’d had rather too much of nothing, and Charles had become my ‘something’.
I didn’t love him. I would never love him. Sophie and I both knew it. And all this passed between us in those few seconds, telepathically, a silent conversation in which nothing was said but everything was communicated.
‘He’s a lot older than you,’ said Sophie, breaking our spell.
‘Twenty-two years older.’
‘Too old?’ she asked.
She made me think. But not for long.
‘Maybe. But he’s nice. I like him. He’s kind to me. And he is handsome, for his age,’ I said, my vanity coming to my defence.
‘He’s married to his wife,’ said Sophie, and our eyes widened and we giggled.
‘I know what you mean, though,’ I said, and I whispered, ‘Mrs Francesca Dearhead, no less. Have you ever seen her?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He says she’s difficult.’
‘Aren’t you worried that you’ll be found out? Philip might sack you. Scandal at the Old and New?’
‘Philip wouldn’t sack me. And he’ll never find out. Nobody will. I don’t make a song and dance of it, and neither does he. It’s all okay, Sophie. Okay?’
Jenna emerged from the children’s book room, where she had been busy putting out the new books delivered that morning. She is a neat person, when she tries, and putting out new stock, arranging shelves, especially in the children’s section, has become one of her particular duties. She smiled at us as we cut short our conversation. I don’t think she heard any of it; perhaps she thought we were talking about her.
Jenna offered to make coffee. As the kettle boiled loudly in the kitchen, and we could hear her clattering around with cups and saucers, Sophie said my affair with ‘the Dearhead’, as she called him, was okay, if I said it was. And it was none of her business, which was obviously true.
But I care for her opinions. I know she knows I cannot be truly happy with a man like Charles Dearhead, even if he is handsome. She thinks I deserve better, and maybe that is so. But, living as I do, alone, Charles feels right for me, and he is a sweet man in his own way. And I quite like his way, the fact that he never really wants to speak about me. I can lose myself in his life, and it means I don’t have to think too much about my own, which, I convince myself, is infinitely better than his.
Ah, but here he is now. Hassled. Frowning. I’ve put my Billie Holiday CD on for him. He likes jazz, and so do I. It’s good to have that in common. If I sit him down in my small but comfortable lounge, massage his shoulders, pour him a glass of wine … there. That’s better. Is he? Yes, he is, he is actually smiling now. And asking me what is for dinner because it smells delicious and he can’t really believe that he will be able to stay here for the night, our first night together. He sips wine and looks smug. He parked his car two streets along. You never know who might be
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