Page 33 of No Safe Place
She picked up her glass, swilled the last few mouthfuls of whisky around in it.
One wall of the living room was covered by bookcases. Floor to ceiling.
They spent the night Lily officially moved in pulling all his books down from the shelves and unpacking hers from boxes. They’d eaten Chinese from the containers and arranged the books by theme.
The bottom shelves were the books they were both a little embarrassed to admit they owned. Dan Browns andGame of Thronesfor him, theTwilightsandFifty Shadesfor her.
The vast Mills & Boon collection, which Callum’s nan had built over fifty years, had pride of place across the top shelves.
There was a whole section dedicated to children’s books – mostly hers. A sombre run of grey and dark green titles on First World War poetry of Callum’s, with a separate shelf for Edward Thomas.
He had a shelf of books about OCD that David had recommended over the years. Invariably he got a few chapters in, and then lost interest. Lily had read them all.
There were thin volumes of plays above those. Cookbooks on the right. Books about art on the left.
Lily bought Cal a stand for one particularly beautiful coffee-table book about the Sixties, and he had propped it open on a double-page spread about Woodstock.
Then their life together. Years and years of pulling books from shelves and shoving them back at random. More books bought and crammed wherever they would fit. Loaned to friends, while they could still visit.
Lily looked over her shoulder, then stepped up to one of Cal’s shelves. Took down his battered copy ofHamlet. The faded cream cover was well worn along the spine, and an illustrated theatre mask grimaced up at her. She opened it carefully, his most precious book.
On the inside, in looping handwriting, was the message Lily had seen so many times before:
Dear Callum,
I thought you should have a copy of this, as it’s my favourite.
Remember: ‘There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’
All my love – P
Lily put the book back, tipped more whisky into her glass and took a step backwards from the shelves.
Tried to imagine them full of gaps.
‘It’s not funny,’ Lily protested, still laughing. ‘I have to teach that kid for the next two years.’
Cal threw his head back and laughed, almost knocking his whisky flying.
They’d moved to the dining room. It was in the middle of the house, between the living room at the front and the kitchen in the extension at the back. A large, square space with a round table in the centre and booming speakers, where the world was put to rights.
Callum hadn’t redecorated since his nan died. She’d left him the little two-up two-down six years ago, mortgage paid off. It had been a lifeline to both of them, especially as his OCD had got worse again over the past two years, and he’d stopped going out.
‘Incredible.’ Cal downed the rest of the whisky and winced, taking a swig of beer after.
‘I thought you liked whisky.’ Lily took a demure sip of wine, eyebrows raised.
‘I do.’ Cal pointed the bottle at her. ‘But I’m very proud of my Scottish heritage, andyou, Lily Stewart. You bought Jameson’s.’
‘It all tastes like nail varnish remover to me, Scottish or Irish.’
‘Take that back,’ he exclaimed, mock outraged.
‘What if I don’t?’ She smiled.
He stared at her for a second, the breeze from the window ruffling the tablecloth.
‘What?’ she prompted.
