For all I like Jude’s idea, sadly life has taught me that there’s more chance of Dad turning the bookshop into a multinational corporation than there is of me receiving a sign.
2.
FRAN
The sound of Carly and Jude running down the stairs takes me back to the days when I’d work in my study while the two of them cavorted about the house: building dens in the living room, playing dress-up in Carly’s room, or using the staircase from top to bottom as their very own helter-skelter. It catches me by surprise when the two of them appear in the kitchen as fully-fledged adults and not primary-aged children.
‘Morning, Mrs H,’ says Jude, looking almost as cherubic as she did when she was three. Their contrasting beauty has never been lost on me – Carly dark and angular, Jude effortlessly blond and soft. I laugh at her greeting, still after all these years unable to call me Fran. Jude surveys the kitchen, every oak cabinet open, the contents spread all over the granite work surface. ‘What happened in here?’
‘Mum’s got writer’s block,’ explains Carly, words that seem unconnected to me, since I’ve never experienced this in over twenty-five years of writing contemporaryromance. My literary agent keeps telling me that something will come when I least expect it, but so far I’ve only had a few scrappy ideas, nothing that will help pay the bills.
When Carly was little, my advances were enough to keep the whole family for a year, and the royalties covered holidays, birthdays and Christmas. The bookshop ticked along nicely, easily enough to cover unexpected costs. But over the last decade my sales have gone down, having become lost in the myriad of books online, and so too have my advances. Consequently, Robin’s income has become more critical at a time when independent bookshops are struggling to keep their doors open. Any savings we had were used up long ago.
‘Are you hoping you might find an idea at the back of a cupboard?’ Jude jokes.
Jude’s gentle humour casts a different light on my frantic cleaning and I laugh, some of the tension loosening in my back.
‘You need to relax, Mrs H – go for a swim, read a magazine, get out of the house.’
‘She’s right, Mum. You told me once that ideas come from the everyday: a magazine article, a current interest, a place you’d like to visit. Take some me-time, see what comes.’
Carly isn’t wrong, I did give her that advice when she was doing a creative writing module at university. The difference is, she was a student who had to write a short story over the space of a term, whereas Iwasa best-selling author. Now I’m just a writerwithout a book deal and no significant earnings due any time soon.
‘I need to come up with something fast. I haven’t time for sitting around hoping the next idea will just land in my lap.’
‘But you have got time for gutting the kitchen,’ Carly rebuts.
‘Carly,’ I start, about to let off a tirade about the state of our finances, and the cost of upkeep on an ancient five-storey house that’s never really had the attention it needs. I stop myself, if I’m honest, only because Jude is present. Too often, Carly is the butt of my temper. ‘Shouldn’t you be looking for a job, or helping Dad in the shop?’ I breathe, the tension returning to my back.
‘You’re right, I should be helping Dad,’ she says, casting Jude a ‘let’s get out of here’ look.
‘Good luck with it all,’ Jude says kindly, causing a wave of guilt to pass through me.
‘Kitchen looks clean,’ says Robin when he appears for his mid-morning coffee break.
Same can’t be said for you, I think, giving him the once-over. He looks as if he hasn’t showered in days. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair is lank and in need of a cut, and he’s sporting several days of growth.
‘What have you been up to this morning?’ I ask.
‘Accounts,’ he mutters.
‘You should let Carly make some changes,’ I say as he reaches past me at the sink to fill the kettle. ‘You know she likes to help, and now that she’s temping, she has more time.’
‘Haven’t got the money for changes.’
‘It doesn’t cost anything to send a weekly email.’
‘There’s no point. Anyone who’s buying in person is going to the chains,’ he says, pushing the kettle switch with more force than necessary.
‘It doesn’t hurt to remind people that we’re here,’ I say as we both reach into the mug cupboard at the same time. I step back, gesturing for him to go ahead. ‘Or I could do an author talk; it might help sell a few copies of the last book.’
Robin doesn’t reply, something increasingly common between us these days. He spoke more to our lodger than he did to me. Now that the lodger has gone, he seems more withdrawn than ever, despite Carly being home.
‘It would give us an incentive to do a tidy-up,’ I continue, aware that I sound like a cheerleader, hopeful that I might hit on something that will reignite the passion he once had for the bookshop and turn things around. ‘Carly’s down there now putting things in order.’
Again he ignores me, reaching for the biscuit barrel, something he could do without. I can’t remember the last time he went for a walk or a bike ride, with or without me, nor when his trousers fitted properly. For months he’s been roaming around the place in sweatpants and an old shirt, a far cry from the well-turned-out Robin of old, who could command the attention of any room he stepped into.
‘How’s the hunt for your next book idea going?’ he asks.
