Daniel knew that to persuade his wife to move, he would have to find somewhere pretty special, but there was a problem: he was keen on modern buildings whereas Eleanor’s tastes tended towards the old and crumbly.
“So, where are we off to today?” asked Eleanor brightly, as she climbed into the passenger seat of Daniel’s car. “Ancient or modern?”
“I thought we could compromise and go for something late twentieth century. There’s a 1960s estate on the edge of Waterborough I fancy taking a look at. It’s quite a landmark. What do you reckon?”
“If you’d like to,” said Eleanor, doing her best to sound upbeat. The town was twenty miles away, which was a problem in itself as far as she was concerned. One of the many joys of living next to the shop was that she had zero commuting to do. After a lifetime in London, this was something she really appreciated. Now the longest drives she had were trips up to the cliff top or around to the next beach to walk the dogs with Daniel. These were journeys she loved even on winter’s days when the wind howled and waves crashed onto the sand.
Daniel gritted his teeth, determined not to be defeated. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how light and airy new properties are in comparison to our ancient houses.”
“Sure,” said Eleanor, trying to sound positive when the voice inside her head was screaming “No!”
It turned out to be another unsuccessful session. Eleanor hated the houses and, although she did her best to be noncommittal, Daniel figured it out. Nothing was said, but a dark mood came over him that didn’t lift until they were walking along the beach with the dogs. It’s not easy to stay gloomy when you’re in the centre of a whirl of canine noses, paws and tails, but still the couple walked back to Daniel’s sea-front house in silence.
As Eleanor fed the dogs, Bella and Crumpet, her husband crashed around the kitchen, grumpily gathering ingredients for their evening meal. Daniel’s place was fairly unexceptional, but he didn’t care – he’d bought it after his divorce as somewhere to lay his head. Eleanor had done her best to make it homely and it was certainly less like a storage space thanks to her influence. The one thing Dan did love about it was the office right at the top of the building where he had dawn-to-dusk views of the sea. Other than that, he had no particular affection for it and had been looking forward to starting afresh with the woman he loved.
So far it hadn’t happened and Daniel still spent far too much time trudging up and down the high street with bags of clothes, feeling annoyed when the shirt he needed for a meeting was at the bottom of the laundry basket at Eleanor’s house and not in the wardrobe in his house where he had expected it to be.
He seemed to be in perpetual limbo, which was not a nice place to be. Sometimes he wondered if he was being unreasonable. Why should Eleanor give up her home for him? Did full-time cohabitation have to be the only way? Perhaps not, but it was what he wanted most in the world.
Eleanor was keen to lift her husband’s spirits so decided to distract him from the subject of houses as soon as they were ensconced in the garden with a drink. The garden was on a rise behind the house and from the top there were clear views of the bay. It was a perfect spring evening, the sea was calm and inviting and there was a hint of warmth in the air that seemed to hold the promise of summer.
“Dan, I’ve been thinking about the events we’re running to tie in with the summer festival. I’ve suddenly got a gap and I wondered whether you had any brilliant suggestions for who I might convince to come along. I’m also in need of inspiration for a special Combemouth-themed window display while you’re thinking about it.”
Daniel shrugged. “Bookselling isn’t my area, is it? You’d be better off talking to Erika.”
“We talked about it this morning, but I wanted your thoughts.” Noticing her husband’s sombre expression, Eleanor frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
“No. Why should there be anything wrong?”
“You look ever so glum, that’s all. I know you were disappointed about today’s houses – we both were – but has something else upset you? Are the clients being difficult again?”
“My clients are no trouble.” Daniel turned to his wife and sighed. “If you must know, I’m growing really tired of our way of living. I’ve tried my best to be patient and give you time, but I want to get on – to find a house and start married life properly. Is that so hard to understand?”
“No, of course not.” Eleanor twirled her glass, chastened by Dan’s tone. “I know you’re keen to move and I’m sure we will find somewhere eventually.”
Daniel laughed harshly. “What precisely does ‘eventually’ mean? How much longer is this going to take? Months? Years? It’s sometimes difficult to drag you out of the shop even to look at the places that I’ve spent a lot of time and effort finding for us.”
“That’s not fair – we’ve seen loads of houses.” Startled, Eleanor tried to take Daniel’s hand, but he pulled away. “And I’ve been really busy – we’ve both been busy – since the wedding.”
“The wedding was last year, El! At this rate, we’ll still be living in separate houses when our anniversary comes around in the autumn.”
“You’re right, I know.” Eleanor nodded vigorously. “We have to keep looking until we find the right place.”
“I wish I knew what the ‘right place’ was in your opinion: I’ve searched online and showed you every available house here in town and in all the surrounding villages. We’ve looked at old houses and modern houses, terraced houses and semis, but nothing’s ever right. I’m beginning to think perhaps you don’t want to live with me. Is that it?”
“Of course I want to live with you, darling.” Eleanor moved closer to Daniel on the bench, managing this time to catch his hand in hers. “I love cuddling up together at the end of the day and seeing you when I open my eyes in the morning, you know I do.”
“But not every morning, is that it?”
Eleanor opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out as she tried to put into words her complex emotions. How could she explain, without hurting her husband’s feelings, that she did enjoy the luxury of having the whole house to herself once in a while?
“Well, I think your silence says it all.” Before Eleanor could answer, Daniel picked up his empty beer bottle and got to his feet. “I’m going inside. It’s getting cold out here. Coming?”
“Don’t let’s argue, Dan, please.”
“I’m not arguing.” He walked down the steps towards the kitchen then turned towards his wife, his face tense and drawn. “I’ll check on supper.”
Damn it. Eleanor loved her new husband with all her heart and when they’d met and fallen in love she’d wanted nothing more than to be married to him. But her little house represented freedom and true independence: it was the first time a place had completely belonged to her. In her twenties she’d gone from her parents’ home to sharing with girlfriends in France. Back in London she’d met and married Alan, had the twins – Joe and Phoebe – and now here she was with a whole new life.
She and Alan had lived in an Edwardian pile in what was now a highly desirable part of southwest London. Eleanor had loved it, but it had never been entirely hers, unlike the cottage in Combemouth she’d fled to when they divorced.
When the Wimbledon house was finally sold, Eleanor had felt a combination of things: extreme sadness that the place where she and Alan had spent so many happy years was no longer hers, and alarm that this stage in her life was over. She’d also been amazed at the astonishing amount of money they made on the sale, insisting to Alan that they make a one-off donation to a housing charity to assuage her vague feelings of guilt.
With the huge pile of cash coming her way, she could afford a characterless flat in the same part of London or half a terraced house miles from the centre of town. She made the effort to visit a few properties, but her heart wasn’t in it. Nowhere was right under the circumstances: she had expected to be married to Alan forever, not to find herself having to start her life again in her forties.
The Eureka! moment came during a walking holiday to the west coast of Scotland. She’d plucked up the courage to go on her own, keen to escape from the well-meaning but oppressive advice coming from friends and family. Striding along a beach on Arran with a group of strangers had got her thinking: away from the city she could breathe. The air was clear and clean and, at night, she could look up and see stars shooting by instead of jumbo jets. In particular, it felt good to be away from the constant bombardment of traffic noise.
She spent one rainy afternoon of the holiday stretched out on her bed writing a list of the advantages and disadvantages of living in London and was surprised by how few positive things she could come up with. Yes, she loved the city of her birth, but there were plenty of reasons not to live there any more.
Why continue to live in the capital when she’d always loved the sea? The answer was blindingly obvious: there was no reason to stay if she didn’t want to.
Eleanor returned from that walking holiday all fired up. In the evenings after work, she scoured estate agents’ websites looking for a house and garden in a small country town. Buying a seaside cottage with a bookshop attached hadn’t been part of the initial plan: it was pure serendipity.
Being a legal secretary had been a way to earn a living, but it was not something Eleanor could ever feel passionate about. On the other hand, she loved books, read voraciously and had a good financial brain. Why shouldn’t she run a bookshop? Having persuaded herself it was worth a punt, she bought the house and the business, joined the Booksellers’ Association, did a sales course, read lots of books about marketing, crossed her fingers and plunged in.
And here she was six years later with a successful shop, a home she adored – and a brand-new, loving husband who wanted her to move again.
Am I being selfish? she asked herself. The inevitable answer was yes, she was. She frowned, pulling one of Daniel’s sweaters around her shoulders.
Light was fading as she picked up her glass and padded down the steps. Dan was the most important person in her life so she was going to have to bite the bullet and sell the cottage. She stopped in her tracks as an alarming thought hit her: would anyone want the house without the shop? She’d bought them together as a package and for centuries the two properties had been indivisible. The thought they might have to be split up was unthinkable – and she’d hop naked down the high street before she’d ever give up The Reading Room.