My job is to look after any customers who come in—like Mr. Ahmed who buys one hardback P. G. Wodehouse a month for the collection he’s building, and wants to put in his will for his son. Also Wilf Baker, who works in the real estate office across the road and likes thrillers, especially Harlan Coben books. When Wilf comes into the shop he always looks out of place; he’s big, with ginger hair, and he walks with a long untidy stride, and he always looks like he wants to make a big announcement but he’s not sure what about. Daphne calls him “the sack of potatoes” and a klutz, but I can tell she likes him. She always mentions it if he hasn’t been in for a few days.
When the shop’s empty I take care of orders and returns and bring Daphne cups of coffee, which she likes strong and black, no sugar. Sometimes, she gets up and paces around, thinking about what she is going to write next, and I like the sounds she makes clacking her heels on the wooden floor. Then she’ll stop suddenly and say something like, “Hell’s teeth, I haven’t got a clue. Fancy an iced bun?” And I’ll go along to the baker’s. This morning, though, she stays sitting, legs stretched out, gazing at her screen like she wishes the novel would write itself. Daphne is about fifty, and wears miniskirts and a leather biker jacket, so I guess she really is mutton dressed as lamb. Which suits her, by the way.
Maybe it’s because I know Tilda is visiting that time goes by so slowly. Only half a dozen customers come in, and three of those don’t buy anything, so they aren’t technically customers at all, and one buys only a Good Luck in Your New Job card from the display stand by the counter. Customers walk past Daphne like she isn’t there, which, given her length and her obviousness, makes me think they would walk past a baboon. Daphne’s pleased, though, that she isn’t interrupted. She likes the combination of activity and anonymity and feels that she has purchased her own personal coffee shop. Nicer than Starbucks because of the books, and there are no crumbs on the floor.
Just before one, Wilf comes in to tell me he’s finished Tell No One and to ask if I have any more recommendations. Daphne calls out: “You again,” and he just shrugs and says he’s a fast reader. Then he tells me that he’d like to branch out, and asks if I’ve read John Grisham. He’s kind of looking at me intensely and then inspecting my hair, then looking away unhappily. I feel myself blushing and looking at his chest rather than his face, and I feel horribly embarrassed. But I try to act normal, saying he should try some Scandinavian writers. While I’m telling him about The Artist, our doorbell jangles and Tilda comes in, wearing a long tweed coat, a man’s coat I think, because it’s too big on the shoulders, and a man’s trilby hat. She would have looked ludicrous in any circumstances, but in the summer heat she looks mad. Because Wilf and I are busy with our conversation, she starts browsing the books, picking up something in the self-help section, though she really isn’t an Eat Pray Love sort of person. As I feared, Daphne stares at her intensely, like a dog that’s spotted a rabbit, then she gets up and says, “Hi, I’m Daphne, I own the bookshop.”
Tilda doesn’t smile, but she holds out her hand politely and says hello. Daphne starts talking too much, in a high voice, telling her how I’m such a great employee, always on time, committed to the book trade, and she adds, “I’m very fond of Callie, very serious about making sure she’s okay and looked after.” I hate this effect Tilda has on people, making them fall over themselves to impress her or make themselves likable, even someone like Daphne, who’s a confident person. And it’s typical to talk about me in a patronizing voice, and to assume that Tilda is the older sister. But we are twins. And, if only they knew, I’m the one looking after her.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I’m aware that I’ve left Wilf without a decision on his next book, and I mutter a “Sorry” as I pick up my bag, registering a forlorn look on his face that is somehow hound-like, like a big scruffy dog that’s been told he’s not going for a walk. “Daphne can sort you out,” I tell him, thinking that, as soon as we leave, Daphne will start talking about Tilda, about how she was so fabulous in some TV drama and how she looks so strange now. And how she hasn’t been in anything recently. I just know it.
I take Tilda’s arm and steer her swiftly along the street to the Albany pub. It’s only a couple of minutes away, and there’s nothing fancy about it—a plain wooden floor, rickety tables that wobble until you put a beer mat under one of the legs. We find an empty table in a corner. “This is on me,” I say. “What would you like?”
She looks over at the bar. “God, I don’t know.” Her voice sounds weary, like the pub and its food has failed to meet her high standards. “I’ll have one of those blueberry muffins and a glass of white wine.”
An odd choice for lunch, but I don’t question it, and I order myself a cheese-and-Marmite toasted sandwich and a Coke, then walk back to the table, carefully balancing everything on a tray, while Tilda sits leaning on one elbow and looking around nervously. She has put her man’s hat on a spare chair, but she still has her coat on and is shivering as she runs her hands through her hair to mush it up, and I notice how spindly her wrists are, how her skin is dull and pale. I want to force up the sleeves to see if she has marks on her arms. But I don’t, and I can see that, despite everything, the thin face and cracked lips, she still looks starry. She has these wide-apart blue eyes that people like and high cheekbones. If you didn’t know her like I do, you might think her paleness was sort of chic or romantic.
“So, Callie, how’s everything?”
“It’s been two months.”
“I know. I’ve just been so hunkered down. Reading crappy scripts. You’ve no idea the pile of shit that comes my way, and I have to wade through it all metaphorically barefoot. It’s tiring.”
I give her a skeptical look. “How’s Felix?”
She stares at her muffin, and when her answer comes it’s in a rat-tat-tat way, like she’s typing at me.
“He’s fine. He got some humungous bonus at work, and we’re thinking of going away to celebrate. I’m desperate for sunshine. We might go to Martinique . . . where no one knows me.”
I have no idea where Martinique even is, and I note that London is in the middle of a heat wave. But I don’t want to be diverted, and I say, “How come you never invite me to your flat anymore? It’s Felix, isn’t it? He doesn’t like you seeing me.” So much for subtle.
She looks at me now, and changes her voice into a kind of pleading:
“Really . . . Nothing personal. He’s forgiven your crazy outburst—but he thinks it was damaging for him and me. Really, it’s just that he works so fucking hard that he’s got no energy left for socializing. We haven’t done much lately—no parties or concerts or anything. Actually we’ve become really boring. Just work, sleep, work, sleep.”
Except in her case, she isn’t working.
“Does he know you’re seeing me today?”
Now she’s pulling her muffin into small pieces, moving them round the plate with the tip of her finger.