Martha shifted in her seat, not entirely comfortable about being here with him. If she ever went to cafés, it had been to take her parents out for a bowl of soup, to escape the monotony at home. As she perused the menu, she wasn’t sure how an Americano differed to a macchiato. When the waitress sidled over, she said, “Just a normal coffee for me, please.”
Owen clicked his tongue as he tried to decide. He unfastened a button on his jacket and swept his hand through his hair, making a small tuft on top. “I’ll have the same, and a slice of date and walnut cake,” he said. “Hmm, but then there’s the sticky toffee pudding, and the carrot cake sounds good, too.”
Martha preferred it when people knew their own minds, weighed things up and made decisions. It was something she’d had to do for her parents. It was something she did when she had to break things off with Joe.
She peered at Owen over her menu, silently urging him to choose quickly. “Sometimes there’s no right decision. Just the one you make at the time,” she said.
“No, it’s okay.” Owen grinned at the waitress. “I’ll stick with my first choice, date and walnut. The cake is famous here. You should try it, Martha.”
As she placed a hand on her stomach, Martha smiled politely. Feeling its fleshiness, she remembered her father’s words about getting chubby. It was funny how she could still hear him in her head, even now. “Not for me, thanks.”
When their coffees arrived, Owen stirred his and leaned forward in his chair. “It is so amazing that you’ve managed to trace Zelda.”
Martha slowly angled her body away from him, as tactfully as she could, to create more space between them. “I know, though I don’t think her carer, Gina, is too enamored about it. And I’ve had to take a day away from my other jobs to travel here.”
“I thought you worked at the library—do you have another job, too?”
“Not really. I help people out with their things.”
“That’s kind of you. I suppose if it’s Gina’s job to look after your gran, she might feel protective over her.”
Martha sipped her coffee. “That would be understandable but she seems rather overzealous. And everything feels very strange, too. Zelda and I are different people to who we were, all those years ago. I was only fifteen when she died. Or, um, didn’t die.”
“You’re still the same people, underneath,” Owen offered.
Although he was trying to be kind, his statement rather oversimplified things, Martha thought.
She had once been a shiny-eyed teenager, and Zelda a vivacious blonde. Now they were both mature women who hadn’t seen each other for more than three decades. She had no idea if they were still the same people, or not.
“Rita’s personal copy of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas is wonderful,” she said. “I need to find out how Zelda came to publish the fairy stories.”
“You’ll be able to ask her, face-to-face.” Owen tore open three sugar sachets and tipped them into his coffee, one after the other. “It’s a shame we have to grow up, isn’t it? When you’re a kid, you never question if a man can really turn into a frog, or if a girl can be the size of a thimble.”
“I think my sister, Lilian, always did,” Martha said with a tight smile. “I used to love writing stories, when I was younger...” She trailed off her words, not sure that she wanted to share more information than this with him.
“And do you still write?”
“I grew out of it,” she said quickly.
“Maybe it will come back to you one day. I bet you like to read, though?”
“Anything and everything, if I get time.”
If I don’t feel guilty not doing other things, she thought.
Her heart still pulsated at cheesy vampire romances and teen dystopian adventures. She was partial to a good biography, particularly by ageing but still glamorous film stars, though never ones by reality TV stars or footballers. Her back chilled when she turned the pages of thrillers with spiky orange capital letters and she brushed away tears after reading misery memoirs. She couldn’t understand library-goers who turned their noses up at commercial books, announcing that they only enjoyed literary reads. To her, authors should write what they wanted and readers had their pick of thousands of books to enjoy.
She thought about the stack of unread books piled high on her dining table that she’d neglected, to focus on her jobs for other people instead. Whenever she lifted one to read, a voice in her head (her own) told her to put it back.
“You’ve got other things to do, Martha.”
“You should always make time for books,” Owen said. “Do you have a favorite?”
Martha knew her answer straight away. “It’s got to be Alice in Wonderland. I like Alice’s practicality and how she takes everything in her stride. She meets these odd creatures in magical situations and it never fazes her.”
“So, you’re a bit like Alice, then?” Owen dug a fork into his cake.
Martha gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “What, sensible and orderly?”
“I mean that you’re inventive and curious, and make sense of strange things...”
Martha dipped her head, surprised he had seen her in this way. She supposed it was a compliment of sorts, and it made her feel a little shinier. “Thank you,” she muttered and fiddled with her hair slide. “And what book do you like best?”
Owen thought for a while as he finished his cake. “That’s like choosing a favorite child or pet. But I do enjoy a good Jack Reacher. It’s because he’s the opposite to me. He’s tough and I’m not—I bet he’s got rock-hard abs.” He pointed at his stomach with both forefingers. “But my belly can double as a book rest.”
“I bet he can’t repair books the way you can.”
“That’s true.” Owen laughed. “I don’t think he owns monogrammed slippers.”
“I’ve only read a couple of the books. Does Reacher have many wives, too?” Martha asked, then wished she hadn’t.
Owen gave her a bemused smile. “I don’t have any wives at the moment... I have a few of the books, though. I can lend you one.”
Martha gave a small laugh. “I work in a library.”
“Aha. So you do.”
They finished their drinks and Owen insisted on paying, even though Martha shot out her hand and tried to grab the bill. “I really should pay for the coffees, to thank you for your help,” she said.
But Owen had already taken ten pounds from his wallet. “You can pay the next time,” he said. “When you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll drive you home.”
As she took the last sip of her drink, Martha didn’t argue with him. She rather liked his words, the next time.
If she dwelled on them too much, she’d manage to persuade herself they were terrifying. So instead she focused on seeing them for exactly what they were, friendly and something she should welcome.
14
Postcard
Over the next couple of days that followed, nothing could spoil Martha’s mood. Since she’d reconnected with Zelda, she felt lighter, reenergized, her fatigue lifted. When she headed down to Sandshift Bay for her morning circular walk, she no longer punched her arms to motivate herself. Her limbs moved fluidly, without effort.
When she read the names on the mermaid statue, they still tugged at her heart but she found a positive in that Siegfried had survived. As she looked across at the lighthouse, she wondered how he coped with losing his fellow crew members from the Pegasus. She knew from experience how events from your past could shape your future.
Martha also started to work her way through her tasks with renewed interest and vigor. She squirted washing-up liquid into a bath full of warm water and dipped Branda’s chandeliers into it. She lightly worked on each individual crystal with an old toothbrush. They now sparkled and looked like new. Will’s trousers were hemmed, pressed and bagged. She planned to start working her way through the Berlin Wall of boxes. If Lilian didn’t have time to help her, then Martha would do it, anyway. It would keep her busy while she waited for Gina or Zelda to get in touch.
Each time Martha completed a task, she moved its plastic box or bag to the side of the dining room. When she gave the job a big green tick in her notepad, her cheeks shone with pride.