Page 7 of Right Place, Right Time
‘Sorry. The books remind me of happier times, that’s all. Happier times long gone …’ He gives a little shake of his head as though he’s clearing away those memories. ‘How about we get that drink now?’ he asks, sounding much more like his usual self again. ‘I could do with a pint. Who knew antiques were such thirsty work?’
I can’t help wondering what he means by ‘happier times long gone’, but it’s really not my business so I glance at my watch. ‘Perhaps just a quick drink?’ I agree to be convivial. After all, the deal isn’t 100 per cent completed yet – we still haven’t talked money. ‘I do have to be back at my shop for five, though.’
‘Do you have staff that finish then?’ Adam asks as we begin to walk towards the front door.
‘No, it’s just me today. It’s actually the other shopkeepers in Clockmaker Court – they’re putting something on for my birthday.’ I feel embarrassed telling him. ‘It’s nothing much, but there’s going to be a cake and I think a few drinks afterwards. I can’t let them down.’
Adam nods. ‘Lucky you, to have people that care it’s your birthday. It sounds cool.’
‘Are you doing anything for yours?’ I find myself asking. Even though I pretend my birthday isn’t something I’m overly bothered about, when you only get a proper birthday every four years, I know that actually you care very much about marking it.
‘No, not tonight.’ Adam shrugs dismissively. ‘I don’t know anyone here – only you now, of course – all my mates are in London.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘We plan to go out next weekend – you know, for a really big night out.’
He doesn’t look quite as convinced about this statement as his words suggest.
My idea of a good night these days is settling down on my sofa with a blanket, a box of chocolates and a good book. The luxury of being left to read undisturbed for several hours far outweighing any temporary high alcohol might give me.
But I don’t tell Adam this.
‘Are you heading back to London tonight, then?’ I ask instead.
‘Nope, I’m staying here. Probably heading back tomorrow.’
Before I know what I’m doing, my mouth – despite trying to teach it over the years to always listen to my head first – says, ‘Why don’t you come into town and join us for a few drinks? I can’t have a fellow leap-year baby on his own on our special day.’
I don’t know if I’m more shocked by the fact I’ve actually said this, or the fact that Adam looks delighted by my invitation.
‘If you’re sure I wouldn’t be crashing your celebration?’
‘No, of course not. I mean I’m sure it won’t be the kind of thing you’re used to. The pub we usually go to is pretty quiet and—’
‘I’d love to,’ Adam says firmly before I can change my mind. ‘You can tell me more about your antiques business and how you got into it all. I’m sure your story will be just as interesting as some of the items you sell in your shop.’
Interesting is not the word I’d use to describe my story,I think to myself as I wait in the hallway for Adam to lock up the house and accompany me back to Clockmaker Court.But the chances of me telling my story to you – a virtual stranger – is about as likely as me finding a lost Van Gogh in the attic of this house.
3
Adam and I walk out of Past Times House with me assuming we are going to catch the bus back into town. But when Adam says he has transport, I accept his offer of a lift and wait for him in front of the house by a row of apple trees.
‘What’s that?’ I say, not hiding my disdain as he reappears, not in a car as I had assumed, but proudly pushing a motorbike. I gaze in horror at the contraption in front of me – I don’t know much about motorbikes, but this one looks a beast of a thing.
‘It’s a vintage Suzuki,’ Adam replies, still smiling proudly at the red-and-white bike. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ He looks up at my horrified expression and frowns. ‘Oh … did you think I meant a car?’
‘Yes, yes, I did. Most sensible people would.’
‘I guess I’m not that sensible, then!’ Adam says, beginning to prep the bike.
‘Look, no offence, but I can’t go on that thing.’
‘Why not? I ride it all the time.’
‘Because … I don’t have a helmet,’ I say in a stroke of genius.
‘That’s all right.’ Adam reaches around to the back of the bike and opens up one of the panniers. ‘I usually carry a spare in case I give someone a lift.’ He passes me a ruby-red helmet and then expertly pulls his own jet-black helmet over his head.
‘But … is it safe?’ I ask, still holding the helmet at arm’s length. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this without seeming like a wimp in front of Adam.
‘It will be if you put that helmet on. Your coat isn’t perfect, but it’s quite thick so it will help.’
