Page 19 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
We met through a charity event. Mum and I had donated a shopping spree at the bookshop, and Rick had donated a series of cooking lessons, and I won them. He invited me to his restaurant kitchen. I didn’t learn much about cooking, but there was chemistry sizzling between us. He was sweet and attentive, funny and exciting. At the last lesson, he poured us a glass of wine each and shyly asked me to go on a date with him.
It didn’t seem to matter that we didn’t have anything in common, not even reading or an interest in books. Opposites attract, I told myself. My mum was overjoyed when he proposed. He was the son she’d never had and she was the mum he’d always wanted. He was everything she’d ever wished for in a son-in-law. He treated her like a queen. Nothing was too much trouble.
And then the diagnosis came. He was wonderful throughout it. He was by my side, from driving us to hospital appointments to choosing a coffin. My mum’s last ambition in life was to make it to our wedding, which never happened – neither her making it nor it ever occurring. Because other things happened instead.
One of the things Rick did that I thought was so lovely and supportive of him was to look after the shop for me. When I was with Mum throughout the treatment, when I didn’t want to leave her side, and then after she’d gone and the grief pressed down so heavy that I’d rather have chewed my own arm off than stand behind the counter and face conversational enquiries about where my co-owner was from well-meaning customers who were used to seeing two of us, Rick was there instead of me,always. My rock. The man I thought I’d marry one day, despite our differences.
And then I caught him with his bookmark in Shannon’s pages and discovered that the main reason he’d been so eager to cover the shop for me was because he’d been getting closer to my shop assistant, which he then blamed on me for being too preoccupied to give him the attention he needed, and revealed true colours that had been well hidden until then.
‘Roses.’ He points to the yellow and red flowered plants, one on either side of my hexagonal counter. ‘Who’s been buying you them then?’
‘No one,’ I say, because he’s already made enough disparaging comments about Darcy, I certainly don’t want him to know we’ve been talking.
‘You’re never going to find another man who’d treat you like a princess, you know that, don’t you?’ He raises an eyebrow in what’s probably meant to be a seductive way, but it makes my stomach churn, which is not a reaction Rick will have ever experienced before.
‘Good thing I’ve never wanted to be a princess then, isn’t it?’
‘Sure you have. That woman with her head in the books all the time.’ He waves a dismissive hand towards the watercolour paintings on the walls. ‘I could buy you a castle with a library. Just say the word and it’s yours.’
‘No, thank you.’ I give him a polite smile. ‘There’s the door.’
Instead of listening, he starts walking between my display tables and bookcases, moving books that I’ve just put out and painstakingly placed at the best angles to catch people’s eye. I hate this feeling of powerlessness. I cannot get this man out of my shop. Asking politely doesn’t do it, and I’m not big enough to physically push him out. I’m alone, and I desperately want tonotbe alone with him.
That loneliness settles over me again. I amalwaysalone. I don’t know why it’s reared its ugly head lately, but instead of enjoying my own company, I’m wishing I had someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, someone to share problems with. The only times lately when I haven’t felt alone are when I’ve been outside talking to Darcy.
‘Please stop doing that.’ I look longingly towards the door, willing someone, anyone, to come in.
‘Trying to help, Marn. Not like you’re any good at this stuff by yourself, is it?’
‘Yes!’ I snap. ‘This is my shop. We’re organising a book festival and everything. It’s going really well.’
‘You?’ He glances at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit far out of your comfort zone, isn’t it? And we all know Marnie Platt doesn’t leave her comfort zone, ever. Who’d come to something as dull as a book festival anyway?’ He does that familiar laughing-at-me sound. ‘Although I’ll cater it for you, if you like. Give it at least a chance of succeeding.’
‘No, thank you,’ I say through gritted teeth as my nails dig into my palms and my hands clench into fists. Do not rise to it. That’s what he wants. He’s trying to make me feel like I need him – exactly what he did when we were together.
‘Your silly board is looking dusty.’ He goes over to the board that’s mounted on the wall directly opposite the counter and waves a hand in front of it, disturbing dust motes and the odd cobweb. ‘No one’s using it, I see.Quelle surprise– people just aren’t that nice.’
‘You’d know,’ I mutter. ‘And it’s not a silly board, it’s a pay-it-forward board. It’s there for people who can afford to leave a little extra towards the cost of a book for a stranger who can’t afford one.’
‘Yeah, but no one’s that generous, are they?’ He gestures to the two paltry tags on the board that have, admittedly, been there for a few months, undisturbed.
The idea is that someone pays an extra amount of their choice, and then they put a book-shaped tag of that value on the board. Anyone who can’t afford a book can take a tag and use it to pay for their purchase with no questions asked. It was heart-warming at first, but now the only tags are two I put up, and no one’s bothered to take one or add one in ages.
‘The greedy beggars who used them won’t have needed them anyway, they’re just trying to swindle you out of a free book. And if anyone’sthatpoor, they’re not going to bother about boring old books, are they?’
‘Oh, sod off,’ I snap, at a loss for anything more fitting to say. I defended my pay-it-forward board many times when we were together – Rick thought it should be taken down and replaced with another display shelf to show off more stock – and I disagreed. Such a simple act of kindness can make all the difference to someone who’s struggling and I refused to give up hope that customers who have money to spare would pay for an extra book on behalf of a stranger who doesn’t.
‘Happily. All these dull books are sucking the life right out of me.’ He returns to the counter with a cheerful grin. ‘So, Paris?’
‘No, thank you,’ I repeat, hoping how disinterested I sound will make him take the hint. ‘We’re over, Rick. I wouldn’t go to the end of the street with you, never mind a different country.’
‘Oh, you are in a mood today. Time of the month, is it?’ He taps his nose like it’ll be our little secret. ‘Say no more. I’ll come back at a less premenstrual moment.’
‘Don’t come back ever, you sexist pig,’ I shout after him as he finally heads for the door. ‘I don’t need to be PMSing to despise you!’
I brush his flowers carefully into the bin. I didn’t want to be rude to him. He was good to me when hewasgood, and there’s still the lingering feeling that my mum would be disappointed to know I’d broken up with him. He was all she ever wanted for me in a partner – excitement, chivalry, financial stability and a head for business, the looks of a Disney prince… but that doesn’t make him whatIwant, especially now. There will never be anything between us again, and no matter how obvious I make it, he never takes the hint. I make a noise of frustration at the ceiling and a customer chooses that exact moment to come in.
Perfect timing. It’s a bloke looking for a book for his son as a reward for having a good week in school, and he picks out a Roald Dahl and comes to pay at the counter.
