Page 29 of Book People

Everything is geared to tasks rather than aesthetics, and I rarely have people over. Only Dan comes with any regularity.

Like the shop, it’s my private oasis.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I offer, dredging up my hostly manners from somewhere.

She turns from the windows. ‘Oh, yes, please.’

‘I have scotch.’ I like a single malt. Islay distilleries for preference. Lowland malts are too sweet for me. I like my whisky rougher and a touch salty. ‘And if not scotch, then coffee or tea.’

‘It’s too late for coffee for me, and I don’t think tea is quite the vibe.’ She looks around my living area with wide eyes, as if she’s never been in the living area of a house in her entire life. ‘Scotch is definitely the vibe.’

I’ve never heard scotch be described as a ‘vibe’ and somehow the word scrapes across my already wired nerves.

She’s here. In my house. In her pretty blue dress, her long golden hair lying loose across her shoulders, and she’s talking about ‘vibes’.

Fuck’s sake. What am I doing? I’m offering her drinks and being pleased with her calling my interior decorating non-effort ‘lovely’.

I should have made her wait in the shop while I got the letters from my study and then brought them down, given them to her and shoved her back out into the street, leaving me to my quiet twilight.

But no, here I am offering her whisky and no doubt a seat on my couch, and then I’ll get the letters and we’ll pore over them together . . .

Tension crawls through me.

I need to calm down. I need to get a fucking grip.

Grabbing two tumblers and the scotch from a cupboard, I take them over to the living area and put them on the coffee table in front of the couch.

‘Sit,’ I say, gesturing to the couch. ‘Please.’

She does so, putting her battered leather bag down beside her and smoothing the flounces of her dress. It leaves her knees bare.

‘Do you want water?’ I ask, definitely not staring at her knees.

‘Water? No, I said I’d have the whisky.’

‘Do you want water with the whisky?’ I explain patiently.

‘Why would I want that?’

‘It releases the flavours.’

‘Oh . . . well, do you have water with it?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘A book snob and a whisky snob,’ she says, grinning up at me.

She’s teasing and I don’t know if I like that or not. No, I’m sure I don’t like it. Definitely sure.

‘I prefer to think of myself as a purist.’ I hear the insufferable note in my voice and feel suddenly trapped and restless. Itching for some reason I can’t explain. It’s a terrible combination. I usually go for a run when I feel that way, but I can’t now, because she’s here.

‘Well, Mr Purist,’ she says. ‘I’ll have it whichever way you’re having it.’

Silently cursing this ridiculous conversation, I pour the scotch into the tumblers, not bothering with the water. Then I put the bottle down. ‘Wait here,’ I say tersely.

The letters are in my upstairs study, which used to be Dad’s room when I was a child, in a big box in the closet. Dad had had them for years, and when he moved to Bournemouth he didn’t take anything with him. He just left the box here. I haven’tlooked at the contents. I’d actually forgotten all about it until Miss Jones started talking about Lisa Underwood andColours, and then the story of the letters she’d bought reminded me.

I grab the box from the closet and take it downstairs.

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