The shelving looked good. Very good. They had had many a design discussion over coffees, teas, wine, suppers, and every time Rachel had suggested economising and produced brochures of plastic-coated metal, Rupert Barr had expressed disgust and pushed them aside.
‘Wood. You can’t improve upon wood. It looks good, it’s strong, you can paint it whatever colour you like, and then repaint it in a few years’ time, it sets off the books … there’s just no alternative. Wood.’
He had waved mention of the cost away, as he had done about the paint, the carpet, the seating, the desk, the computer and software, the signage.
‘And when you stock – and I’m not going to interfere much there, I’ve said so – but when you do, don’t stint, don’t pack the shelves with cheap paperbacks. We want some handsome hardbacks, some art books, a table with some limited editions. Make sure the children’s end has lots of shop copies and buy some of those beanbag things, but top quality, no point in getting cheap ones and have them burst open in a few weeks. This shop is going to be the best independent bookshop in the south, Rachel.’
‘Which is something to aim for but it’ll take more than expensive fittings, you know.’
‘It will take you and whoever you choose to employ, someone knowledgeable and enthusiastic. And that’s another thing – we pay him or her properly. Wages in retail are deplorable. We don’t just want to get the perfect person, we want to keep them.’
Now, she gazed round the empty shop with pride. The carpet was dark blue, the walls pale blue, the wood painted white. The shelving had been made by a local firm of fine craftsmen and it looked very good. The sign was going up later. And tomorrow, stock would start arriving.
She picked up her mobile from the desk and rang Rupert again. She wanted him to come down now, if possible, and see it before the books arrived, then come and help with putting them out. She and the new assistant manager, Chloë, whom she was delighted to have wheedled away from a large bookstore, one of a major chain, would be working from dawn till dusk to meet the opening date. But that was fine, she was up for work and so was Chloë. Together, they made a formidable team.
‘Rupert, it’s Rachel again. Sorry to keep ringing like this … Maybe your phone’s out of battery. Or signal. Anyway, ring me when you get this. Everything’s looking really good here, I want you to come down and see.’
The door opened on Chloë, smiling happily.
‘This is sooooo exciting.’
She gave Rachel a hug. ‘Let’s go!’
They worked all morning, and broke for a salad lunch at the brasserie before going back to it.
Rachel was standing on the step-stool putting some books on a high shelf, when her mobile rang. She gestured to Chloë to hand it up to her.
‘Rupert? Is everything all right?’
‘It’s not Rupert, it’s Cat. Where are you, Rachel? I can’t do this over the phone.’ Her voice sounded different.
‘It’s Simon, isn’t it? What’s happened? Oh God … I’m in the shop … I’ll come. I’ll come to you.’
Rachel clipped a corner as she turned onto the country road and narrowly missed a cyclist as she sped round the next bend. She took a deep breath and slowed down. A couple of miles on, a river of sheep was being moved from one field to another, and she was caught behind them, inching along, watching the two dogs chivvy the bleating creatures on either side. She banged her palm on the wheel and the dogs scurried to and fro but the sheep took their time.
‘Cat?’
Rachel could not take in the change in her. She looked twenty years older, pale, hollow-eyed and oddly blanked out, as if she were not fully functioning. Always, anyone who arrived was offered coffee, tea, a glass of wine. Now, Cat did not even ask her to sit down.
It did not take long. Cat’s voice was almost robotic, as if she were reading from a prepared script. She listed Simon’s injuries, the stats, the prognosis, without pausing, without emotion.
‘I want to see him,’ Rachel said, when she had fallen silent. ‘I have to go.’
‘They won’t let you in. Dad and Judith are on their way. Not that it makes any difference. He won’t register anyone.’
‘I can’t just be here waiting.’
‘Yes, you can. I am.’
‘Where are the children?’
‘School. Cricket. People are taking over. People always do. I forget how many real friends I have until there’s a crisis.’
‘Do they know?’
‘Sam does. Hannah’s got her show in two days, I can’t tell her. Felix … I don’t know. He doesn’t have to know now, does he?’
‘No.’
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll get us some coffee … what time is it? I don’t even know what day it is.’
But she didn’t move and so they sat at the kitchen table, not looking at one another, not speaking. Neither of them really there.