Kill him and bury him in the castle.
Those intrusive thoughts did not help.
But what better way to save your shop than to have a murder scandal to distract Harold?
Stop it.
He was more confused than ever. He opened a new tab open to IMDB and found the profile of Matty.
Turns out, Matty hadn’t been in much of anything.
In 2018, he starred in an independent, straight to DVD horror film, which, after further inspection, Quinn saw still hadn’t been distributed or released. Then, most recently, he starred as a minor character in BBC’sCasualty.And that was it.
No writing credits.
No directing or producing credits.
Going back to the results page, Quinn came across an article about the closing of his bakery in London, open for a year and a half in Camden. Photos showed a café that was exposed brick and recycled wood. It struck Quinn as one of these hipster places that appeared all over the place in 2012. The shop closed because of rising inflation, according to an old social media post.
It offered a new insight into Matty, an entrepreneur, opening a business in London of all places, and making a good go of it while he could. Quinn admired that, but the words that came from Matty’s lips left a lot to be desired. If Matty was honest and down to earth about his struggles, maybe Quinn would have liked him more. This side of Matty, the real Matty that may have failed sometimes, would have endeared him to Quinn.
As Quinn flipped through the photos of the now extinct bakery, he tried to imagine the moment Noah would have walked through those double wooden doors with its peeling rustic paint. He wondered what music might have been playing, what sweet smells had wafted around the room. Did Matty serve him? Or did Matty approach him afterwards, maybe when Noah was eating a rocky road with a mug of coffee next to him? He pictured the day turning to night, the busy shop coming to a close, but Noah and Matty were still in the same spot, getting closer, under the spotlight of the old oil lamps hanging around the shop.
He couldn’t think like this anymore. He could be his own worst enemy, and he needed to ignore these thoughts, this imagination of his. Until a few weeks ago, Noah hadn’t known he existed. Quinn only had a crush –stillonly had a crush. Soon, Noah would go back to London and life would get back to normal.
Normal.
What would Quinn’s normal look like when Noah left, the locals returned to their post-Christmas lives, and his shop closed for good?
Quinn closed his laptop, trying to put any thoughts of tarot out of his mind. He made his way to the kitchen, opting for a decaf tea rather than a coffee at this hour. Underneath him, his shop was prepared for the early afternoon signing of Blair Beckett. Tickets sold well, but as long as people were prepared to wait, they could get a moment with Blair. He agreed to sign as many books as he could. Quinn wondered if that meant until a hair was out of place, his wrist hurt, or he ran out of the limited stock Quinn had of that book.
Quinn knew which books would be the bestsellers in his shop. Anything LGBTQ would sell with speed, along with any queer authors, some of which Quinn advertised under his ‘queer spotlight of the month’.
Blair Beckett’s book, however, rarely shifted any copies. Probably because of its age, and because it wasn’t fiction. So tomorrow would be the first time since ordering the stock that Blair’s book would sell out.
When he thought of what might happen after Christmas, it left him with the feeling of swallowing something sour, which then made way for a taste of sweetness, which lingered on his taste buds. He would make enough money this week to afford some time to recoup and decide on what to do next.
As he raised the mug of tea to his lips, he thought about life outside of Hay.
He’d been here all his life, and now, what would be here for him?
He couldn’t open another shop. Rent was rising, and so were business rates. He wouldn’t work for someone else. He valued his freedom too much. All of his profits let him live how he wanted to live and going to a lower paid job would not be workable.
He looked around his apartment, with the furniture he hand-picked and bought himself, where his plants stood lusciously green, catching the sunlight from the windows. The fear that he might not be able to afford this apartment, or in fact, have to leave it, now became real. It clung to him like a demon, threatening his very identity.
Hermione’s book offered him some respite, but the money would run out quickly. With no agreed publisher and no concrete revenue, Quinn knew he couldn’t rely on the money from Hermione’s book forever.
So, where would he go?
What could he do?
The publisher in London. His connection. A promise that if he ever needed them, he could get in touch. Quinn didn’t want to change his small-town life to one of trying to fight for your life in a city, but it might be his only option. Publishing and books: that’s what he could do.
That was almost always in London.
Quinn sighed.
He was giving up, and he couldn’t afford to give up.
