Page 65 of One Summer

Then I realise he’s motioning to the claw machine in the entrance of the arcade. Put in fifty pence and watch it weakly grasp a teddy before dropping it again.

‘No, I learned my lesson with those things when I was a kid, and lost my entire twenty pounds of holiday money trying to win a miniature giraffe that was on sale in the beach shop for a quid. I’m actually looking for the bookshop. I’ve heard there’s a book club, with free cake.’

‘Then you’ve found it. A woman called Betty arranges it all.’

‘Betty, I have met,’ I say, looking around at the bulky machines. ‘Maybe I’m being dense, but all I see is a games arcade.’

‘Look harder.’

‘How can a bookshop be in a games arcade?’

‘Not in. Behind. They’ve converted the staffroom into a bookshop. Same guy owns both businesses. They had to move all the stock here after a storm. What with the roof coming off and ending up in the sea. Shame, really. The original bookshop had a hell of a view.’

He points to a tiny, white building with a tarpaulin roof at the entrance to the harbour road, before it winds down to the fishing boats and cottages.

‘That’s the real bookshop up there?’

‘Yep.’

‘But now it’s down here? Behind the video games arcade?’

‘Correct.’

‘And this is where the book club meets? Of all the places on Loor, it meets here?’

‘Also correct. Everywhere else gets too busy with trade in the summer.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘I’ve been meaning to go for the free coffee and cake. Are you coming?’

‘Yeah, I’d love to, thanks!’

I’ve just answered him as if he’s asked me on a date. The absolute mortification of it.

‘But I probably won’t get round to it,’ I add, trying to backtrack and just making myself seem even more of a bunny boiler.

Fifty-Five

Hover

‘Cool,’ he says, running his hand through his wavy hair and making me go a little bit weak at the knees. ‘I’d better get these to the restaurant,’ he says, nodding to his extremely potent bucket of fish. ‘Nice seeing you again, Lindy.’

When I try to say goodbye to him, nothing comes out except a croak that sounds like a tiny belch, but he’s already on his way, swaying bucket at his side.

Why is it that when I’m not interested in a man, I’m perfectly fine at holding a conversation, but when I fancy him, I’m reduced to a gibbering wreck? Betty’s grandson, for instance: no interest whatsoever, and I’m able to be my authentic self.

No sooner have I had this thought, than he whizzes by me on the pavement leading down to the harbour beach on what appears to be a hoverboard. It makes him look about seven feet tall, and completely ridiculous.

‘Aren’t you a bit old for a hoverboard?’ I say, as he hops off the board and walks with it swinging from one hand.

‘It arrived this morning, so I thought I’d try it out.’

‘You actually purchased that?’

‘No. It was sent to me… And look, it’s more like a Segway. It has a telescopic handle, for extra support.’

He demonstrates the telescopic handle.

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