‘It’s nothing!’ he snaps uncharacteristically. The two of us are usually as thick as thieves, me having spent more time in the shop with Dad over the years than with Mum tucked away in her study and her head. He reaches out to take it from me, but I hold it just out of reach, reading the red-letter demand.
‘I had no other choice,’ he confesses, when it becomes clear he’s taken out a significant loan.
‘Does Mum know?’ I ask, shocked.
He shakes his head and wipes his eyes. ‘She doesn’t need to know. Phil’s rent was helping with repayments but, well, you know . . .’ He indicates towards me. I reason he doesn’t mean to make me feel bad, or regret his decision to let the lodger go, but still a part of me can’t help thinking,Mum and Dad are in deeper trouble because of me, their almost thirty-year-old daughter who needed to come home because she can’t afford to rent a place of her own.
‘I can find somewhere else to live, I can take on any old job,’ I say, prepared to give up the temp work, and put passion-searching on hold, if it keeps the wolves from Mum and Dad’s door.
‘No! This is for me to fix, not you.’
I stand for a moment, not sure what to say or feel other than sadness for Dad and a great desire to help, but how, I don’t know.
‘Maybe you should tell Mum; she might know how to help.’
‘I don’t want your mother knowing; she’s enough on her plate as it is. Understood?’
I’m not entirely sure I agree, pretty certain Mum would want to know and help, but Dad’s stare, one I haven’t seen before, tells me not to mess with his decision.
‘Fine,’ I say, holding up my hands, figuring it’s his business not mine. ‘But at least let me help you write a newsletter this month.’ Ideally he needs to be doing them weekly, but given he hasn’t been receptive to the idea since I started suggesting them ten years ago, I figure baby steps is the way forward for now.
‘Maybe later, Carly,’ he says, and I bite my tongue, ever hopeful that one day he’ll take advice about what might transform the place back into the burgeoning neighbourhood bookshop it once was, and which I know he can make it again.
Through the door next to the office, I head into the entrance hall which is lined with jackets of every fabric and size, shoes for all weathers and hats in every colour of the rainbow, anything to keep the cold Edinburgh winds at bay. I ascend the stairs I used to slide down as a child. There’s a staircase leading down to Elsa and Bill in the basement, another heading up to Mum and Dad’s apartment on the first and second floors, and a final set of stairs goes to my flat right at the top. There are no doors between the apartments; only the artwork helps differentiate between the spaces: pottery and wall-hangings in the basement; my mum and grandmother’s paintings in the middle floors, and framed photographs on my walls.
‘Hiya, love,’ Mum calls as I head up to my space.
‘Morning,’ I call back, catching sight of her cleaning the bathroom, a sure sign that she’s still suffering from writer’s block. It dawns on me that Dad is probably right not to tell her about his debt – the worry would only further hinder her creative flow.
‘Did you enjoy your reading time?’
She appears on the landing when I’m halfway up the last flight of stairs, a cloth and cleaning fluid in hand.
‘It wasOK,’ I say, deciding not to tell her about how it felt to run into Paul; Mum and I have never reallybeen ones for sharing our emotions, she having always been more concerned with the practical aspects of life.
From the stairs above, I look down at her slight figure in a cable sweater and jeans, her brown hair pulled back messily in a ponytail. As a child she was a dancer, which still shows in her sinewy body. At her turned-out feet are books and baskets filled with notebooks, magazines and pencils, items that have been moved from one room to another but haven’t completed the journey back. Like Dad, she looks tired.
‘Just grabbing a shower then I’ll help Dad sort some donations.’
‘It’s a wonder to me where all those books come from,’ she says quietly.
‘Mostly local, some from further afield,’ I say, thinking her comment an odd thing to say; Mum knows better than I do that the bulk of our donations come from local house clear-outs.
‘I mean the content of the books, the actual words,’ she says absently, looking at the cloth and bottle in her hand as if she’s only just noticed them.
‘Mum, quit worrying. You’ll find your next idea; you’ve written twenty-five books already, remember?’
‘Yes,’ she sighs, shaking herself back with it. ‘You’re right; ideas are everywhere.’
‘When you stop looking . . .’ I offer, continuing up the stairs.
Figuring it’s time I look for a job, I scrunch-dry my long dark hair and apply a skim of make-up at my vintage dressing table, then select some wide jeans, aT-shirt and slouchy cardi before heading to the kitchen.
Juice in hand, I park myself on my mustard sofa and plonk my feet on the tapestry footstool, then take out my phone. Through the trees of the crescent’s garden, the castle looms large in the distance with the top of the Scot Monument just visible. Both remind me of late summer evenings spent roaming the city centre as teenagers, Jude always with me, in search of fun.
Above the fireplace, a photograph I took at university of Fringe street performers reminds me of summers handing out flyers in return for free tickets to shows. And on the shelves, photos of yoga weekends and mini-breaks with Jude sit amongst crystals and books, and plants I try desperately to keep alive. But it’s one photo in particular that catches my eye, of me with Jude and her husband Adam on their wedding day. Jude and Adam are lit up with love, and I am too, on the outside, but on closer inspection, my smile is slightly forced, and my eyes aren’t sparkling. I remember thinking as the shutter clicked that here was a moment that Jude was experiencing that I might never experience or, if I did, might not be capable of sustaining for ever.
Casual friends would never recognise that anxiety in me. They’d call me footloose, ‘Carefree Carly’, as Paul called me, just as my mother hoped I’d be.
