Page 23 of Finding Love at the Magical Curiosity Shop
Ren laughs. ‘She sounds like a special person.’
‘She was, I guess. I was too young to remember more than snapshots, but my dad filled my childhood with stories about her, the things she’d loved, things she’d done. He tried to make up for the photographs he’d ruined with mental images and tales of her escapades, and he never stopped searching charity shops. Every time we passed one, he went in and rooted through, but we never found anything else. But in all his searching, he realised something – that second-hand shops werefullof treasures that someone had once loved. He came across so many things that had clearly meant something to someone once. He started buying things that he felt had a story behind them. A well-loved teddy bear. A dog-eared Judy Blume book with significant paragraphs highlighted. A battered doll from the 1950s.
‘I don’t know what he initially thought he was going to do with them, but he felt they deserved better than being thrown in a charity shop’s “reduced price” basket. He feared that they’d ended up there by mistake and their owner might be frantically looking for them, like he was for Mum’s things, and when he happened upon Ever After Street in its early days and saw an empty shop there, waiting for an owner, it was like something clicked into place for him, and he found a way of showcasing these wonderful treasures. His advertisements were on the basis of, “Are you looking for something you thought you’d never see again? You might be in luck!” and it struck a chord with people. He realised he was never going to get things back to their original owners, but he could sell them on to other people who saw the value in the history behind them as much as he did, who would look after them and give them the new home he thought they deserved.’
‘That explains so much.’ Ren’s voice is soft and he sounds mesmerised by what I’m saying, and neither of us have even taken a forkful of our second cake slice yet.
For once, it doesn’t sound like a bad thing, so I carry on. ‘At first, the shop was just a little weekend side project, but pretty soon he was taking time off from his day job because customers couldn’t get enough of his treasures. His shop was a living tribute to times gone by. Antiques but with a story behind them, a story that was more valuable than their monetary value, and customers appreciated that.’
‘You’re making me feel bad about my initial aversion now.’ Ren’s eyes flick down to the table and then back up to mine. ‘Can we call it a misunderstanding and move on? I’m sorry I was so callous about your shop.’
I could accept his apology and call it a day. Ilikethe fact he’s willing to apologise and own his mistakes, and this is the perfect opportunity to prove thatIknow what I’m doing with my shop and he doesn’t, but no matter how brutally his opinions were voiced, he had a point, and it feels wrong to pretend he didn’t. ‘No.’
I glance at him and a look of disappointment clouds his face, and I clarify my point. ‘Because you were right, Ren. My shopisa hellhole. It’s crowded and cluttered and anything of real value in there is lost beneath quirky nonsense items that I’ve made up a story behind rather than stocking things with actual stories, like my father did. I’m losing customers daily, and it’s probably a matter of time until I actually lose one when someone wanders in and is never seen again or bumps into something and gets crushed by an avalanche of bric-a-brac. You were right, and you’re the only person who’s been honest with me since my dad died. He left some money in the business account, enough that I haven’t had to worry about expenses for the past couple of years, but now it’s running out, and itmattersthat I’m not earning much of an income. I need to change. Take it back to what it was years ago. I’ve been trying so hard to make him proud that I’ve lost sight of what he wanted to do in the first place.’
Ren’s finger traces a floral pattern on the tablecloth as he thinks about it. ‘Surely there’s room for bothhimandyou? Your shop is totally unique, andyouare the strength behind that because you’re totally unique too.’
Just when I thought I couldn’t melt any more today. I don’t know whether it was intended as a compliment, but that’s the nicest, warmest thing to say, and it makes my heart glow inside my chest, almost as red as his cheeks are glowing.
‘At the moment, both meandthe shop are overcrowded and cluttered, and I think people are going to buy things like dragon fruit tables.’
He laughs, but I continue. ‘I need to get rid of stuff. The trash that’s wormed its way in, the stuff that no one isevergoing to buy, and I need to be honest with myself. I need to admit that I’ve got too caught up in fantasy tales as a way of avoiding the reality of running my dad’s shop without my dad. I need to admit that I still live in the hopes that, one day, something that belonged to my mum will cross my path, and the clutter is a misguided way of clinging on to both my parents, and maybe it’s time to let it go and focus on the important things.’
‘You’re off to a good start. Admitting it,’ he clarifies quickly. ‘Not of decluttering. Yet.’
‘I’m only admitting it to you. I haven’t got as far as admitting it to myself yet.’
He smiles, that understanding smile of solidarity again. ‘It’s often easier to admit things to other people rather than to yourself.’
I never thought someone who was so harsh at first could be so emotionally intelligent, and it makes me think again about what Ava overshared on the first day, and what he’s been through to make someone with so much inner sensitivity be so prickly on the outside.
‘Do you want help?’
I would probably have been less surprised if he’d asked me to accompany him for lunch on the moon. ‘From… you?’
‘Yeah, why not? Someone sensible, practical, who doesn’t believe in fairytales and knows enough about history to possibly recognise some truth behind the fantasies you concoct…’
I can feel an eyebrow rising. ‘High opinion of yourself there.’
‘The opposite, actually.’ He pauses and I see that flicker of something in his eyes again. Shyness or lack of confidence or something. Whatever it is, I want to know more about it and what put it there. ‘Seriously, Mickey. Next weekend. Ava’s at her grandparents’ all day on Sunday – my ex’s parents – and well, Icouldcatch up on the housework, but helping you sounds like the more interesting option.’
Instinctively, I go to refuse, but I stop myself and think it over. On the one hand, this is aterribleidea. I will surely murder him within ten minutes, if we make itthatlong. On the other hand, he’s the only person who’s been honest about my shop in recent months, and a few of his barbs have hit closer to home than I would’ve liked. Whoelsewould be a better choice? Lissa doesn’t want to upset me and there’s no one else I could ask for help, and honestly, I don’t know where to start on my own and the thought of trying to throw things away feels overwhelmingly impossible. And I’m touched by his offer. He’s objective, he’s not sentimental, and he has no qualms about upsetting me. And after today, the idea of spending more time with him isn’t an altogether bad one… ‘You take your life in your hands.’
He grins, a wide smile that reaches his eyes and changes his sharp features into much softer ones. ‘Duly noted.’
‘I’m not a declutterer by nature.’ Thank God he’s not an English teacher, he’d probably have me arrested for butchery of that word. ‘It’s unlikely to end well for either of us.’
‘Oh, are you not? I hadn’t noticed.’ His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile any wider than he’s already smiling. ‘Do you honestly thinkanyperson haseverwalked into your shop and thought, “Ah, yes, nowthisis the lair of a minimalist!”’
The laugh that bursts out of me takes me by surprise. He’s unintentionally much funnier than he realises, and there’s something about his bluntness, how he says whatever pops into his head without second-guessing it, whether it’s good or bad or kind or insulting, and for just a moment, the thrill of getting to know him better outshines the fear of any potential decluttering.
6
By the following Sunday morning, the thrill has been entirely subdued by the realisation that he’s going to expect me to throw things out. This was a horrible, terrible, ill-fated idea, and I should just give up now and carry on as I am, hoping that something will work out if I just wish for it hard enough. Maybe I’ll find a magic lamp and give it a rub and out will pop a genie to make things magically better? It worked for Aladdin, itcouldhappen…
There’s a knock on the shop door, and the sight of dark hair through the glass is only enough to quell my doubts for a few seconds before they set in again. This is the worst idea I’ve ever had. I don’t know much about his life and thought processes, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of the worst ideas he’s ever had too.
When I open the door, Ren’s standing there with a Wonderland Teapot-branded cake box in one hand and two steaming takeaway cups in a cardboard tray balanced in the other. ‘Good morning.’
