‘I’m imagining.’
‘Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you go to work, every morning, to a normal nine-to-five job. Imagine there’s no Frederick or Frieda. No George, no Martin, no Michael, no books, no me.’
‘Okay.’
‘What exactly are you imagining?’ she asks.
‘I’m sitting at a desk, typing.’
‘What are you typing?’
‘A letter to you.’
‘In this job, you can’t write letters to me. This job doesn’t allow for writing in your spare time, or dreaming, or reading. You don’t really have spare time anymore. At least not unguarded spare time,’ she says, and I hear her shifting her feet around, sliding them through the sheets.
‘Now,’ she continues. ‘Imagine that you’re earning a decent wage. Imagine that Amy is waiting for you at home when you arrive. You live in a flat. You sleep in a regular bed. You have limited space for books.’
I stop imagining. ‘I know all this, Rachel. I know life won’t be great without the shop, but I also know the shop won’t be around forever. I can’t fight the future.’
‘The future isn’t here yet,’ she says, and refers me to my last letter.
Rachel
the soft push and pull of the sea It’s been a strange week. My dreams of Cal have been exchanged for dreams of Henry. I don’t think I’m imagining that he watches me at the shop. Every time I look over, I can feel that his eyes have been on me and I’ve missed it by a second. Every day I wait for Amy to walk in and end his looks. Every day she doesn’t arrive.
Henry’s been distracting himself from thoughts of her by talking and writing to me. I decided that wasn’t a bad idea, so on Tuesday I found myself texting Joel, and asking how he was doing, to distract myself from Henry.
I’m okay, he replied. I’m better now that I’ve heard from you.
I felt bad for using him, although I wasn’t entirely sure that’s what I was doing. I do miss him. The missing started up this week, after the kiss with Henry. I miss being with someone who loves me.
It makes no sense, but when I read Joel’s texts, I could feel the waves in them. I knew he was on the beach looking at the water as he wrote, and for the first time since I arrived in the city, I was desperate for the ocean’s rhythm.
I’ve wanted it before since Cal died. It’s why I sat near it every night, why Mum did too, I think. Pulled towards it by Cal, and kept away from it by him too. I could imagine myself walking in tonight, though. I could feel my feet at the edge, toes lapping up the salt and the cold.
I called Mum after texting Joel. I wanted to tell her that I missed the sound of the waves. After I said the words I expected her to cry, or to sound hurt or angry. Guarded at the very least. But she held out the phone to the water and I held it to my ear like a shell.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, after a while.
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Yes and no,’ she said.
‘When will it be yes?’ I asked, but there was no answer to that, so she held out the phone again and together we listened, to the soft push and pull of the sea.
When Henry texts me tonight, I almost don’t answer. It’s dangerous, talking to him, because it makes me want to talk more and more. I turn off the phone and then turn it back on. I look at the text for a while, and then eventually I give in and reply.
I text that I’ve finished Cloud Atlas. I tell him that I think all the stories are interconnected. I keep staring at the cover, at those pages rising to the sky, and wondering about transmigration of the soul. I don’t want to wonder about things like that alone.
I stop texting and call him when he sounds uncertain about the bookstore, because I know he’ll regret selling. I want to convince him of that without actually telling him. All I do in the end is make him angry. He can’t change the future, he says, and I think of him and Amy and how much I want him. ‘The future isn’t set,’ I say, and I hope that he will believe it. I can hear that he doesn’t. I think ahead to the time when he’s with Amy and the bookstore is gone. I can’t picture where I am.
‘Henry,’ I say before I hang up. ‘I want a do-over.’
‘A what?’
‘A do-over,’ I say again. ‘On 14 February, this Sunday night, I want another last night of the world. This time I want to spend it with you. I want you to promise me that whatever happens with Amy, you won’t ditch me for her. The end of the world will be at six in the morning on 15 February. Before then I want to hear Lola and Hiroko play their last song. I want to watch the sunrise.’
‘Why?’ he asks, his voice hinting that he knows the reason.
‘Because you owe me an apocalypse.’
‘True,’ he says. ‘And I always pay my debts. Can I ask you for something?’
‘It depends what it is,’ I say, knowing I’ll give him anything.
‘Tomorrow night is the one Friday night we don’t go to dumplings. We host the book club instead. I want you to be there with me. It might be our last one.’
‘Agreed,’ I say, and we hang up. ‘Last’ hangs in the air.
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens
Letters left between pages 508 and 509
11 February 2016
Michael
I know how upset you are about losing the bookshop. I’m upset too. But ignoring the sale won’t change the situation. As much as we both want the bookshop to do better, it’s not. Can we please talk?
There are developers making very generous offers. (See the paperwork I left on your desk.) We could also go to auction. If you won’t talk, will you give me permission to make all the decisions?
Sophia
Sophia
Frederick and I have been discussing the sale. Would you consider giving us some time to buy you out?
Michael
Dear Michael
I wish I could say yes. I know how happy it would make you. But have you looked into what the building is worth? Where would you get that kind of money? I don’t want to see you in that kind of debt and that debt would affect the kids. This is hurting me, too, but please accept reality for Henry and George’s sakes.
Sophia
Henry
I hold her hand tighter
The book club starts at seven on the second Friday of the month. Dad, Mum, George and I, usually, we’re always here for it. Tonight, though, Dad excuses himself and says we should order in whatever food we want, and pay for it out of petty cash. ‘I’m going out. Your mother’s not coming.’ Before I can say anything about anything to him, say that I’d like him to stay or ask him if everything’s alright, he walks out of the door, gets in the car, and drives away.
The shop feels empty without him, tonight. I feel empty without him. He looks crushed a lot of the time, now. Crushed and lost. I think back to the imaginings that Rachel made me do the other night. Dad will have done his own imaginings, I guess. I try to picture him away from the bookshop but I can’t.
‘Where’s Dad?’ George asks when she comes downstairs.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ I tell her.
She stands next to me for a while, straightening the wine glasses and the platters, and then eventually she says, ‘I need your advice on something.’
George doesn’t ask my advice on anything, not even English essays. ‘It’s about Martin,’ she says. ‘And about the boy in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.’
This is an exciting development. George is asking, which clearly means she’s open to the idea that Martin is the one for her, and this guy in the pages of Zombies, is not. Rachel walks back in from driving Martin home. I ask her to take over at the wine and cheese table so I can talk to George. ‘They’re a nice crowd,’ I tell her. ‘When they arrive, give them as much wine as they want, and stand back. George is about to tell me that she’s in love with Martin.’
I follow George into the reading garden. We take a seat and before I start offering advice, she launches straight into the problem. ‘I know you think that I should go out with Martin,’ she says. ‘I know you like him.’