Jemma sighed out a breath. Then she picked up a cushion with a sunburst on, which she had brought from her own flat, and hugged it. ‘I thought I’d get used to it,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought it was just a bit more sophisticated than I was used to, and I’d grow into it. But it isn’t me, not at all.’
Carl reached for the pink fleecy throw and draped it over the sofa. ‘It’s a start.’
Jemma managed a shaky smile. ‘It is,’ she said. Then she glanced at the carriage clock that she’d never liked. ‘Aren’t you rehearsing tonight?’
Carl looked at her. ‘I’m supposed to be,’ he said. ‘They’ve got scripts, they can manage without me. If you want me to stay—’
‘To be honest,’ said Jemma, ‘what I’d really like is to get out of this flat, and the shop. Could I come and watch?’
Carl beamed. ‘Sure you can,’ he said. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere with it, I’d love to see what you think.’ A sudden, shy smile. ‘I thought you weren’t interested.’
‘Of course I’m interested,’ said Jemma, ‘it’s your thing. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She got up from the sofa and held out her hand. ‘Have we got time for food first?’
Carl grinned. ‘You’re definitely feeling better.’
It’s amazing what a difference someone else’s view makes, thought Jemma, as they strolled down Charing Cross Road hand-in-hand. Now she was bursting with things to get on with, both in the shop and in her flat. But all that could wait until tomorrow. First, she had something far more pressing to do.
Chapter 10
Jemma woke with a pleasing sense of anticipation. Today’s the day. She reached out and smoothed the duvet cover. It wasn’t one of the superfine Egyptian cotton duvet covers which Brian favoured, but a slightly faded Indian sari-print one she had bought in the sales years ago, when she was getting things for her first flat. It may not be posh, she thought, stroking the soft, slightly pilled fabric, but it’s mine.
Watching Rumpus the night before had been a strange, out-of-body experience. She had known beforehand that Carl’s play was set in a bookshop, and she had also known that they were rehearsing downstairs at Burns Books. But seeing it, seeing characters move around the shop being customers or staff, and handling the books as if they worked there, was bizarre. Almost as if I’m a ghost haunting the place. I really should develop some outside interests.
She had worried that the setting would remind her of the day’s events; but Carl’s small cast of characters was so well-drawn, so real, and so different from herself, Maddy and Raphael that she had no difficulty in sinking into the drama, to the extent that she was cross when one of the actors fluffed their lines, or when Carl, who was directing, stopped the action to give notes.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Carl asked her afterwards, when the rest of Rumpus had dispersed and he was making his usual checks before locking up. He asked the question when he was busy locking the toilet door.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, from the front-row armchair where she had acted as their audience. ‘Of course I did. I’m not just saying that because I’m – you know.’ The word girlfriend stuck in her throat. Partner, too. ‘Because we go out,’ she finished.
He turned to her then, and smiled. ‘We do,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you liked it. I was – a bit worried.’
‘Why wouldn’t I have liked it?’ said Jemma. ‘It was funny, it was moving—’
Carl raised his hands, palms upwards, then let them fall. ‘The others say the same, but I still worry. Call it imposter syndrome. It’s the first time I’ve written a whole actual play. We improvised sketches at uni, but this is different. This feels big: serious. The idea of putting on an actual thing that I wrote—’
Jemma grinned. ‘The play what I wrote,’ she said.
Carl grinned back at her. ‘This play is like my shop window. I’m putting my work out there and worrying that people will decide it’s not their thing, and I’m no good—’
Jemma walked over, touched his arm, and kissed him. ‘Let’s go for that drink,’ she said.
***
They had made it one drink then parted company, since Jemma had plans for what was left of the evening. As soon as she got home she changed the bed. I can’t bear to sleep in his sheets any more. Then she went to the big cupboard where she had stored everything she had brought from her previous flat which didn’t fit with the new one. Big bright towels that looked incongruous in the tasteful bathroom. Framed posters, some from her student days, which had seemed unsophisticated compared to Brian’s art prints and watercolours. The scented candles in glass holders she had bought from IKEA, and the bundle of postcards which she had stuck to her fridge with souvenir magnets. She brought it all out, and stared at it.
Not everything, she thought, picking up a particularly horrible pottery rabbit which her mother had brought back from somewhere or other. But this, and this—
She moved around the flat, taking down pictures and replacing them with her own. A couple, which she liked, she moved to a different room. Brian’s placemats, featuring scenes from Renaissance Italy, were replaced with her multicoloured woven straw ones. The abstract ceramic figures on the mantelpiece, which unnerved her every time she looked at them, were boxed and put away. And the deep-pile pale-beige rug in the sitting room, which she never walked on for fear of making it dirty, was rolled up, and a more colourful and forgiving rag rug laid in its place.
Jemma picked up the carriage clock; the hands said it was a quarter to midnight. I’d better stop there, she thought, carrying the clock to the cupboard and swaddling it in a pillowcase to muffle it until it wound down. She closed the door and locked it, and suddenly she could have floated away, she felt so light. As if she could do anything she wanted.
***
Jemma moved easily around the flat, getting breakfast. She smothered her guilt that she was scrambling her eggs in Brian’s heavy copper saucepan instead of one of her own cheap ones. That’s my choice, she thought. Maybe when I’m earning more money I’ll replace this with one of my own. That made her smile.
She even managed a smile for Maddy when she came into the shop. ‘Good morning, Maddy,’ she said.
‘Good morning,’ said Maddy warily, her eyes searching Jemma’s face for signs of trouble.
‘Let’s get on with things, shall we?’ said Jemma.
‘Yes,’ said Maddy, and bit her lip. ‘We are a little low on stock—’
‘Oh, because you’ve been selling so many books,’ said Jemma. Maddy gave her a quick glance, as if trying to winkle out a hidden, sarcastic meaning. ‘Well, I’m planning to go and see Raphael today, and that’s on my list.’
‘Oh,’ said Maddy. She picked up a couple of auction catalogues and handed them to Jemma. ‘Brian used to go to these regularly, and some other dealers. I can give you their addresses if you want.’
‘Yes please, that would be helpful,’ said Jemma. Maddy drew out a small black book from the drawer under the counter, and began leafing through it. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ Jemma continued. ‘I might wait until Raphael’s got a good amount of caffeine inside him before I head over.’