Page 105 of The Bookshop By the Loch

“Yep. The bills have to be paid.”

Drizzles of morning light seeped in through the bevelled windows of Book Ends. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, allowing the soft tickle of warmth to caress my face. It had seemed like such a long week. Just thinking about it all again and what I’d achieved in the last few days was making me knackered!

“I’d love to paint you.”

Tobias’s words made my eyes spring open. “Pardon?”

I looked at him and there was a glow highlighting his features. “There’s an old-fashioned romanticism about your looks.”

“Old-fashioned? Gee. Thanks for that.”

Tobias laughed. “It’s a compliment. With your long hair and fair complexion, you remind me of one of those elegant, untouchable Victorian ladies in a sweeping off-the- shoulder gown.” He flicked me a look. “I would love you to sit for me, so I could paint you.”

Visions of Tobias painting me flashed before my eyes: me sat there, struggling to be still and poised, while he concentrated on his canvas, his cheekbones hard and uncompromising. No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Where did his mysterious female companion feature in all of this?

And how about preserving our working relationship? Still, it would be lovely to be painted for posterity, trilled an inner voice. A beautiful painting of myself, captured in my youth, would be something to gaze upon and remember when I was old. I thought of Celeste being painted by Tobias and it gave me a warm glow.

Tobias is offering to paint your portrait, not father your children, tutted an inner voice. That very image made my skin tingle. “That’s a very kind offer,” I croaked. “I’ll think about it.”

His eyes danced. “Sure.”

Even though I’d no idea what was taking place right now between the two of us, I didn’t want this – whatever this was – to stop pirouetting backwards and forwards between us, but Tobias’s mobile let out a series of insistent rings.

A good thing in hindsight.

“Excuse me,” he rumbled.

He had just turned away and was chatting amiably to whoever had rung him, when Maeve entered. Her usually, bubbly, expectant expression was solemn. “Hi, Lexie.”

“Morning, Maeve. Are you alright?”

She folded her arms. “Not really. Mum is far worse, though she won’t admit it.”

“Oh no. Has Celeste taken a bad turn?”

Maeve shook her straight fringe. “No. Nothing like that.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “It’s Corinne.”

“What about her?”

“Mum received a reply this morning.” Maeve’s mouth contorted into a grim line. “She’s refused to come and see her. She said my mother is sixty years too late and while she appreciates Mum making the effort to contact her, she has no interest in getting to know her.”

My shoulders felt as though they were shrinking to the bookshop floor. “Poor Celeste. How has she taken it?”

“Oh, you know my mother,” exclaimed Maeve with forced joviality. “She folded up Corinne’s reply with an ‘Oh well’ and then asked if she could have a cinnamon scone with her afternoon tea. She’s pretending to be all pragmatic about it, but you only have to take one look at her to see how wounded she is.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Maeve unfolded her arms and let one hand flap away my apology. “You’ve nothing to apologise for. You thought we were helping her. We both did.”

Outside the shop windows, a gull strutted up and down the pavement, past the gliding traffic.

“Do you think there’s any chance Corinne might change her mind?” I asked.

“Not if that letter is anything to go by. It’s very to the point. I’ve written longer shopping lists than that.”

Despondency cluttered inside my chest, on Celeste’s behalf. “If she knew your mum was ill, that might change things.”

“And that’s why my mother decided not to tell her. She didn’t want her pity. Oh sorry. That’s my phone ringing.”