The weather, in its quixotic English way, had brightened up over the weekend and a cautious sunshine greeted Amy as she flipped the bookshop’s sign to open. She stepped out for a moment to enjoy the view. The sunrise glossed the harbour buildings in pink and the sea was tranquil and quiet. She watched as a gull wheeled overhead, its underbelly plump and glistening. She could hear Petra getting organized in the Millie Vanilla kitchen next door and Radio Two drifted across the still air, along with the aroma of coffee. Amy’s stomach growled. She’d given in and eaten part of the cake last night and then had been so disgusted with herself, had put it back in the bin, dropping teabags all over its remains to stop further temptation. She took in a huge lungful of briny sea air. Today was the first day of the new diet. And this time she planned to succeed. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had time to stock up on fruit and vegetables and healthy low calorie food. She’d used the last of her milk making Katrina tea yesterday, so had none for cereal and was starting the day running on empty. She took in another breath in the lame hope fresh air would fill her up. At least it had zero calories.
Turning on her heel, she went back into the shop. Today was going to be busy. On top of the usual morning chores of going through the email enquiries and sorting the post, a large new order was due. Plus, she had to finish preparations for Patrick’s book signing that evening. He had refused a London book launch and had asked Amy to host a more low-key signing of his latest book in the shop. In the little back office a display of promotional posters was ready, Amy had ordered a range of freebies well in advance and Millie was providing the food and champagne. Patrick planned to do a short reading, a Q&A session and then the signing. His agent would be attending too. There probably wasn’t much more she could do until later but Amy was twitchy. What if she had forgotten something? It didn’t help that Patrick had been away for three days, not that she was counting. She’d missed his reassuring presence and it would have been handy to ask him last minute questions. Hurrying to the office and her checklist on the computer, she was waylaid by the phone ringing.
Expecting it to be the delivery driver asking for directions – they always got lost – she answered with half an eye on the computer screen. ‘Good morning, The Little Book Café, Amy speaking. How can I help you?’
‘Ah now, if you could help that would be grand. I’m looking for Patrick Carroll,’ said a woman’s strong Irish accented voice.
Amy went on guard immediately. Anyone who needed direct contact with Patrick, his agent and publisher for instance, already had his number. She assumed any family, not that he ever mentioned any, also had it. She found herself going into received pronunciation. ‘I’m so sorry, you’ve come through to a bookshop, not a private number.’
‘Oh, my darlin’, does Patrick not come into you?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Amy thought, ruefully. There had been no coming in any direction and of any sort in their friendship so far. The woman’s voice was young-ish – it was hard to tell how young over the phone though. Wife, girlfriend, daughter? Patrick had never admitted to a wife. What if he was married? What if he had been in Ireland with his wife and family these last few days? Amy’s throat constricted. Of course a man like Patrick might be married and there would be no reason to tell his dowdy, bookshop-managing friend.
‘Hello there, are you still on the line?’
Amy cleared her throat. ‘Can I ask who is calling?’ she said, stiffly. ‘I might be able to get a message to him.’
The woman chuckled. ‘Tell the lazy arse when he gets there, he’s only gone and left his scarf here. Tell him the next time he’s at Dymphna’s to collect it. I’ve tried his home number but there’s no answer. He’s the very devil to get hold of, so he is.’
‘I’ll … I’ll be certain to tell him,’ Amy said, faintly. He’d stayed with a woman called Dymphna? A young woman with an attractive voice and no doubt attractive, flashing Irish good looks to match. Her imagination ran wild.
‘Thank you, my darlin’. Tell him to have a good book launch, won’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you for calling.’ Amy put the phone down carefully. She was still frozen in position when her mother hustled the lost delivery driver in and brandished a sheaf of diet papers at her.