He sounds like the James Bond of the second-hand book world, connected to a secret underground network, Martha thought.
‘I’ll make a note of some of these story titles.’ Owen picked up a pen and took hold of a scrap of paper. ‘Or perhaps I can keep this… for a while?’
Martha clicked her tongue. She didn’t want to let the book out of her sight.
‘I’ll take good care of it.’
‘Hmm, well, okay then. But I’d like it back as soon as possible.’
‘I promise to call you on Monday.’
Martha took her purse from her bag. ‘How much do I owe you, for the book and your research?’
‘Now put that away, I don’t want any money.’ He raised a palm. ‘Just buy me a coffee sometime.’
Martha took out a ten-pound note and waved it. ‘Please take this remuneration.’
He shook his head. ‘Tell you what. I’m just about to close the shop, and there’s a nice café called Love, Peace and Coffee just around the corner. It’s perfect for sitting in the window, reading and eating cake. Why don’t we grab a table, and you can tell me more about these intriguing family stories of yours?’
Martha felt her cheeks reddening. She hadn’t been invited out for a coffee by anyone for a long time. Plus, something her father used to say, when she was younger, popped into her head. ‘Watch your cake portions, Martha. You’ll always be beautiful to me, but you’re the type to put on weight easily.’
She paused for what felt like an age, thinking of a reason to give Owen for not joining him. Eventually, she said, ‘Sorry, but I don’t eat cake.’
‘Oh.’ He squinted. ‘Perhaps just a coffee, then?’
Martha started to back up, across the shop towards the door. ‘Not today, thank you. If you find out anything about the book, do let me know.’ She fumbled behind her and opened the door. ‘I’d be most obliged.’
‘I’ll need your phone number.’ Owen reached out with one hand, as if trying to catch her coat. ‘Or I can call the library…’
Martha stood with one foot inside the shop and the other on the pavement outside. She imagined Clive’s smug face, if he took a personal call for her. He’d enjoy berating her.
She stepped back inside the shop, took a piece of paper from her notepad and quickly wrote down her home number.
Owen made a great show of folding it neatly and placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
The Reading Group
On Monday afternoon, when Martha pushed her trolley towards the library, it felt like it contained bricks rather than bottles of cordial, biscuits, Horatio’s fish food, some of his potted plants and copies of her new book-rating spreadsheet. She wanted to turn it back around, to wheel it home, but she’d offered to host the fortnightly reading group session. Suki was attending a maternity appointment.
Martha had spent the previous day filled with worry and regret that she’d left the book with Owen to research. Her eyes kept seeking out her phone, to see if he might have found something earlier than expected and left her a message. However, no one called.
The illustrations and stories in her head were like a film that wouldn’t stop. It was as if the book held a hypnotic power over her. Memories were beginning to trickle back, of her stories and the atmosphere in the Storm household that influenced her to write them.
Trying to sleep last night had been hopeless. She tossed and turned and, when she was awake, her concentration flitted away from the tasks she’d assigned herself for the day. Will’s trousers remained unfinished and she’d tripped over a box of Branda’s chandeliers. The Chinese dragon’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room.
She usually hoped that all the reading group members would turn up, but today she wished that no one would. Feeling frazzled, she just wanted to go home and wait for Owen’s call.
Branda was already waiting outside the library. She waved a violet-taloned hand. ‘Enchanté. What book are we reviewing today?’
Martha stifled a sigh. The group were supposed to have read Lucinda Lovell’s latest, in preparation for the Valentine’s Day event that didn’t happen. ‘Distant Desire,’ she said, as she unlocked the door. She pushed her trolley into the corridor and walked with Branda into the main room.
‘Oh. I didn’t read it. Not noir enough for my liking,’ Branda said.
Covering a yawn with her hand, Martha took her Wonder Woman notepad from her pocket. She examined the green ticks and amber stars, but her weary eyes made them look fuzzy. Not able to concentrate properly, she put her pad away and began to rearrange chairs around the table. She took out copies of her new spreadsheet, ready to hand out to the group.
Branda smoothed down her orange skirt, with a graffiti design on the front, and didn’t help. ‘We should read a thriller next,’ she said. ‘A dark Scandi one.’
When a dragging noise sounded from the hallway, Martha paused in mid-spreadsheet distribution. Nora entered, pulling two overstuffed black bin bags.
She had been single for a few years, since her husband died in a car accident, and was now on the lookout for Husband Number Two. Even though she was almost as wide as she was tall, and dressed in jewel-coloured velour tracksuits, Nora wasn’t short of male attention on the numerous dating sites she’d started to frequent. However, she expected her suitors to look like the bare-chested men on the covers of the racy novels she devoured, so was always disappointed when she met them in person.
‘I honestly do not know where all the washing machine engineers have vanished to,’ she huffed, as she deposited her bags in the middle of the floor. ‘Can I leave these with you, Martha love? Just another bit of washing and ironing, to add to the stuff you’re doing for me.’
Martha had already laundered numerous loads for Nora and received little thanks in return. She pressed the tip of her tongue against the back of her teeth, trying to form the word no. But she couldn’t let it out of her mouth. Like a smoker trying to quit who finds their fingers reaching for a cigarette, she found a weary smile. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Cheers, my dear.’
Horatio was next to arrive. He wore his captain’s hat and a navy suit with gold buttons. He ran a small aquarium from his garage, charging £2 for adults and £1 for children to enter the gloomy space during the summer season. His wife often accused him of loving his fish more than her, and he was slow to deny it. Setting his hat down on the table, he ran a finger over his white brush of a moustache. ‘Did you bring my fish food back for me?’
Martha nodded and handed over two shopping bags. ‘And some of your potted plants, too. Don’t forget that you still need to collect your fish.’
‘That’s grand.’ Horatio reached into his pocket, took out a two-pound coin and pressed it into her palm. He curled her hand around it and patted. ‘Treat yourself to something nice.’
Martha unfurled her fingers. It had cost her several times that amount for the extra fish food she’d bought, but it seemed churlish to mention it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
Siegfried entered the room and sat down. He took off his grey hat and held it on his lap with both hands. He didn’t say hello to anyone, but muttered something about Clive being late and to start without him.
Martha waited for the group to settle down, take off their coats, shuffle in their chairs and take things from