Page 3 of Hook, Line and Single

‘I love you, you know that, right?’ she says.

‘Of course I do. I love you too. Now go.’

I watch as she potters off in the direction of her bedroom, carrying the glass of wine. Sensing that she’s not going to meet his demands, Samson switches his attention to me. I pick him up and put him over my shoulder, causing a fresh outbreak of purring so intense it feels like my brain is vibrating.

‘All right,’ I tell him as I reach into the cupboard. ‘One treat. That’s all though, remember what the vet said about your weight.’

Samson nuzzles my neck with his cheek. If he could talk, I reckon he’d be saying, ‘Screw the vet, what does he know about anything?’

Having dealt with the cat, I turn my attention back to dinner and start rummaging through the vegetable drawer in the fridge to see what I can use to bulk out my cottage pie for one. Samson watches me hopefully for a minute or two, clearly wondering if he can con another treat out of me, before giving it up as a bad job and stalking off in the direction of the sitting room with his fluffy ginger tail held high. I know I joke about him meeting my emotional needs, but he’s just affectionate enough without being needy, which is perfect for me. Sam and I got him as a kitten from a rescue centre when we first moved into our ground-floor flat in Margate. We ran through hundreds of possible names for him before settling on Samson – the joke being that he’s Sam’s son. Despite him being named after her, we both absolutely dote on him and he takes full advantage whenever he can. We did have a conversation a year or so ago about who would keep him if one of us moved out but, thankfully, it wasn’t prickly. Sam had been typically generous.

‘The only thing that would make me move out, Ruby, would be if I was madly in love with someone and we were going to live together,’ she’d said. ‘If that happens, you’ll miss me so terribly that you’ll need another redhead in your life to cheer you up. Samson fits the bill perfectly.’

I’d laughed at the time, but she had hit a nerve. I know we won’t be flatmates forever, but she’s my best friend and I would miss her horribly if she moved out. We’ve known each other since primary school, where she was bullied horrendously by a couple of the boys in our class for having ginger hair. I found her crying in the girls’ toilets one day after a particularly vicious attack, and the injustice of it just tipped me over the edge. I was into Judo at the time, so I used a few moves on the boys, and it worked. The fact that they’d been humiliated by a girl was too much for them, so they steered well clear of both of us after that, and Sam’s and my friendship hasn’t wavered since.

I can hear the bathwater running as I chop some carrots and add them to a pan of water. I’ve got a head of broccoli as well, and I was stunned to find a tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer that we somehow must have forgotten about, so we’ve actually got enough for a reasonable feast. It’ll be nearly nine by the time it’s ready, as I was distracted by my book and lost track of time earlier. It’s a whodunnit with more twists and turns than a rollercoaster, but that’s actually worked out well. Normally, I’d have eaten and cleared up by the time Sam got home, but that would have meant she’d have had most of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, and I have enough experience with her to know that wouldn’t have ended well.

‘How are you feeling now?’ I ask when she pads in a while later. She’s changed into her pyjamas, with her fluffy dressing gown over the top.

‘Bruised and battered,’ she replies. ‘Angry, disappointed, like I’ve had my time wasted. I’m not getting any younger. Do you think I should freeze my eggs, just in case I can’t find the one decent man in the world before I hit the menopause?’

‘We’re twenty-eight,’ I remind her with a smile. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about the menopause just yet.’

‘You’re probably right,’ she sighs as I dish out and carry the plates over to the table. ‘I’ve made a decision though.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘No more men. Not for a while, anyway. I’m going to come off the apps and just enjoy being me.’

I smile at her but wisely say nothing. This is also a familiar refrain, and I’d be prepared to bet my bastard bingo prize money, if there were any, that she’ll be back in the saddle before Samson has caught his next mouse.

2

Two weeks have passed and my prediction has been proved wrong. Samson has delivered the heads of three mice to the mat by the cat flap, but Sam appears to be sticking to her guns. She’s deleted the dating apps from her phone, although I know that doesn’t mean much. I’m pretty sure her profiles are still there, so all she needs to do is re-download them when she changes her mind, as I’m sure she will.

It’s a glorious summer morning as Samson and I make our way to my bookshop. I say it’s mine, but I actually co-own it with another friend from my school days, Jono. The main part of the shop, which is my domain, has all the new releases and bestsellers that you’d expect to find in an independent bookshop, and Jono rigorously curates our small second-hand section when he’s not serving drinks in our instore coffee bar. If you’re after the type of cheap and cheerful fare you’d find in a typical charity shop, Jono’s second-hand section isn’t for you. If you’re after something esoteric or a first edition, he’ll either have it or take your details and do his best to find it for you. It wasn’t easy persuading the bank that our business plan was viable to begin with, especially as bookshops aren’t known for being massively profitable enterprises now that most people seem to buy books online, but we were eventually able to persuade them that there are enough customers who still love to buy from a real store. Our coffee bar was a last-minute addition to the business plan, but it was comparatively cheap to install and has proved to be a real money-spinner.

Samson started following me to work pretty much as soon as he was old enough to be allowed outside on his own. He doesn’t walk alongside me, and sometimes I can’t see him at all, but I know he’s there, either sauntering along the top of a fence like a high-wire artist or trotting along the pavement a few yards behind me. Sometimes, he gets distracted by something and doesn’t turn up until an hour or more after we’ve opened, but usually he dashes ahead as the shop comes into view, settling himself by the front door to wait for me and adopting an expression that I swear translates to ‘What took you so long?’

This morning is a dash-ahead morning, and I’ve barely opened the door a crack before he’s pushed through the gap and hopped up into his favourite armchair to begin a lengthy spell of grooming. Samson likes to look his best for the customers and most of them will detour to give him a stroke at some point during their visit. Jono wasn’t at all impressed the first time Samson showed up, but he’s actually good for business too. Lots of people call by regularly to see him and, once they’re inside, the new releases table and the smell of fresh coffee are pretty much guaranteed to part them from at least some of their cash.

I’ve just finished switching on the lights when Jono arrives. He has what is best described as an eclectic sense of fashion; his long moustache is always immaculately waxed into points, giving him the air of a 1920s cad, and he owns an impressive array of floral shirts. Today’s example has large purple roses on it.

‘Morning, Ruby. Morning, Fleabag,’ he trills as he closes the door behind him, bolting it to stop any over-eager customers from trying to sneak in before we open. ‘It’s Tuesday, the sun is shining and I can smell money in the air.’

‘Samson doesn’t have fleas, do you, darling?’ I coo as I reach out to stroke him, interrupting his grooming regime. ‘Anyway, all the fleas in this shop have probably been frightened away by Uncle Jono’s shirt.’

Jono leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I breathe in his scent, which is heavy with bergamot today.

‘Nice aftershave, but I prefer the sandalwood,’ I tell him. I don’t have a preference, actually, as all his aftershaves are nice, but I feel I need to score a point to get him back for calling Samson ‘Fleabag’, even though he does it every morning.

‘Robbie says it’s a bergamot week, and who am I to argue with him?’ he replies matter-of-factly. Jono’s partner, Robbie, is an aromatherapist-cum-massage therapist with a salon a couple of streets away from the shop, and one of his quirks is to give every week a particular base scent that theoretically stimulates various neural pathways to improve your mood. I reckon it’s nonsense, but I do enjoy smelling Jono’s different aftershaves.

‘How was your weekend?’ he asks after he’s plugged in the barista coffee machine and switched it on to heat up. When we first opened the shop, we worked six days a week, only taking Sundays off, but we quickly agreed that was too punishing a schedule and, as Mondays tended to be quiet, we decided to shut the shop and start our working week on a Tuesday instead.

‘Same old,’ I tell him. ‘I finished the new Amrit Kumar novel.’

‘Love and Loss Under an Indian Sun? How was it?’

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