Page 15 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘I’m Jazz,’ the young woman repeated. She let the blanket fall and held her hand out to Sophie. Sophie reached for it, then changed her mind and, letting Fiona’s torch light the space, put her phone down and offered up her left hand instead. ‘I’m not a ghost,’ Jazz added. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, but it’s hard to get comfortable and every sound echoes in here. I just came for some fish and chips.’
‘Excellent.’ Fiona sounded completely flustered. She peered at Jazz, then Sophie, her brows hooded with concern. ‘This is a somewhat unexpected turn of events,’ she said, which Sophie thought all three of them could probably agree on.
Chapter Seven
‘The hostel I was staying at in Norwich got full up.’ Jazz had her hands curled tightly around a steaming mug of tea, her knees pressed together as she took up as little space as possible on Fiona’s cream sofa. It was late, and Fiona had turned on the lamps, casting the room in soft shadow, the French windows looking out onto the night. Poppet, Fiona and Ermin’s miniature schnauzer, was sitting patiently at Jazz’s feet, and the young woman bent down to stroke her head. ‘They can’t guarantee you a place every day, and I was late arriving one night, so then I was out.’
‘How long were you there?’ Fiona asked.
Jazz shrugged. ‘A couple of months, on and off. But this time I thought … it’s so cold, it’s going to be coldeverywhere, and at least here I get to see the sea, have fish and chips, so fuck it. I took a bus up here. Longest bus journey ever. I must have been on it for three days.’
Sophie laughed. She surreptitiously rubbed her wrist,trying to loosen the ache without anyone noticing. ‘Where were you before Norwich?’
‘Ipswich,’ Jazz said. ‘Bury St Edmunds before that. Chelmsford. I’ve been all over, really.’ A catalogue of different towns in her recent past. Sophie wondered, if they compared notes, how long their respective lists would be.
‘How old are you?’ Fiona asked, an edge of steel in her voice. Sophie didn’t think it was aimed at Jazz.
The young woman kept her eyes on her tea. Beneath the blanket she’d been wrapped in, she was wearing a dirty purple hoody with holes in the cuffs, jeans, and trainers that looked as if they were falling apart. ‘Eighteen,’ she said.
‘Eighteen?’ Fiona sounded outraged, as if it should be impossible for this to happen to someone so young, but Sophie – while she agreed it was awful – wasn’t surprised. In some of her foster placements she’d met teenagers who had spent time on the streets, some who left the safety of the homes because they clashed with the adults, and ended up sofa-surfing or in hostels. There were too many of them and too few people who had the time, resources or desire to look out for them, so inevitably some slipped through the cracks. There were a couple of times when she had almost been one of them.
‘Your family home wasn’t a safe place?’ she asked gently.
Jazz looked up. ‘My mum died when I was fourteen, and my dad remarried. They brought out the worst in each other. Lots of drinking, sometimes drugs. They didn’t care what I did, and I decided I’d rather be anywhere else than there, so I made it happen.’ She took a chocolate biscuit off the plate that Ermin had produced. ‘It’s OK when it’s warm, but right now it’s fucking freezing. That old shop was agood place to hunker down.’ She smiled wistfully, as if she missed it.
‘We can do better than that,’ Fiona said. ‘You need a bed and a bowl of porridge in the mornings.’
Jazz sat up straighter. ‘I’m not Goldilocks. I can look after myself.’
‘As demonstrated by the fact that you’re here,’ Fiona said, ‘and you look incredibly healthy for someone living rough.Candoesn’t meanshould, however, and there are enough rumours about the old bookshop being haunted without you adding fuel to the fire.’
‘There’s aghost?’ Jazz’s smile was bright and crinkled the edges of her eyes, and Sophie felt a twinge because she’d seen girls and boys who smiled so rarely that it felt like a miracle when they did.
‘You probably know more than anyone else,’ she said. ‘You’ve been staying there.’
‘Only for one night before you found me.’ Jazz shook her head. ‘But nah – not even rats.’
‘Thank God for that!’ Fiona picked up a biscuit. ‘You don’t want them getting next door and nibbling your beautiful notebooks.’
‘Fiona, I’m not—’
‘You sell notebooks?’ Jazz asked.
Sophie nodded. ‘I make them. They’re great for all sorts – for lists, or making plans, or writing down your worries … I always have one with me.’
Jazz chewed her lip.
‘I’ll give you one,’ Sophie continued. ‘Tomorrow. Come into the shop and you can pick your favourite.’
She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t use it.’ She’d brought a rucksackwith her, saggy and far too empty, considering it contained all her worldly possessions. There was definitely room in it for a notebook.
‘You could give it a try,’ Sophie said softly. ‘See if anything comes to mind. The blank pages will wait as long as you need them to. Think of it as a Welcome to Mistingham present.’
‘AndIthink you should stay here tonight, rather than the bookshop,’ Fiona said. ‘You’ll have to share your sleeping space with a couple of broken mannequins, but if you’re fine with that, then you’re very welcome.’
Jazz’s mouth fell open. ‘Youwhat?’
‘You probably aren’t planning on being here long term,’ Fiona went on. ‘But we can look at things afresh in the morning.’
