Jane Green - Bookends

Now I know you’re not stupid, even though I, quite obviously am, but there on the doorstep, surprise surprise, is James.

‘Ah,’ I say, still squinting through the shampoo, slowly bringing James into focus.

‘Ah,’ he says, looking, it has to be said, slightly horrified by my appearance. ‘I suppose I ought not to just drop in like this.’

‘Actually I rather like people just dropping in. Except when I look like this of course. Do you want to come in and give me a few minutes?’

‘No, no, don’t worry.’ He starts backing off. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

‘James! Just come in, for God’s sake.’

I practically pull him through the front door, push him on to the sofa and scurry along the corridor to the bedroom.

Shit. It’s worse than I thought. No wonder he looked horrified, but, shoving the embarrassment aside, I run back into the bathroom, kneel by the bath and shove my head under water to quickly rinse my hair of the shampoo (I know it’s more hygienic to use the shower but quite frankly I just didn’t have the time).

I wash the mascara off my face, grab a hairbrush and run back into the bedroom, frantically pulling my hair back into the elastic band. And finally, letting the towel drop, I shove on some leggings and a baggy old sweatshirt, pausing before I walk out serenely to dash to the cupboard and pull on a bra because I do not need to hoist my boobs up from around my kneecaps in James’s presence.

And eventually I walk sheepishly into the kitchen, as I shout at James over my shoulder, asking whether he wants a cup of tea. I hear him close a magazine and get up to join me in the kitchen, saying he would love one.

He comes in and sits down as I pick up the dirty plates that are covering almost every available inch of workspace and pile them in the sink, covering them with Fairy Liquid and hot water, then dig around for a bit until I find two mugs to wash up for us.

‘It feels like ages since I’ve seen you,’ I say brightly, as I open the fridge and tentatively smell the milk that, thank God, is still fine. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Actually I’ve been incredibly busy painting,’ he says, grinning, lifting an arm up from the table and examining the honey stain now spreading on his sleeve.

‘Oh Christ! Sorry.’ I run over with a cloth and clean the table, but James just laughs.

‘Jesus, Cath. I remember that night you came over to the studio and it was a pigsty, you said you were worse than me, but I thought you were just joking to try to make me feel less embarrassed. But you really are more of a pig than I am, aren’t you?’

‘I can’t help it,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I try so hard to be clean and tidy, but the pig inside just won’t stay down. She’s too strong. At least the mugs are now clean.’ I grin, showing off the sparkling mugs, having scrubbed furiously to remove the week-old tea stains. ‘So… painting. What are you working on now?’

‘You probably won’t believe it. God, I can hardly believe it, but after you exhibited my stuff in the shop, North West magazine came over and did a feature on me, and suddenly I’ve got phone calls left, right and centre, asking where people can buy my work.’

‘Oh, James! That’s amazing!’ I sit opposite him, beaming, genuinely thrilled for him and completely filled with remorse, because I’ve been so wrapped up in Josh and Lucy that I haven’t even given his exhibition a second thought.

‘I mean, I’m not surprised,’ I add quickly, because I’m really not. ‘Your paintings are beautiful, but it’s still incredible to have such a lucky break. Does this mean you’ll be able to retire before forty?’

He grins. ‘I don’t think I’ve reached quite that level of success yet, but you never know…’

‘Listen, today Bookends, tomorrow the Saatchi Gallery.’

‘God, don’t I bloody wish!’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ I laugh, ‘to people who create things a hell of a lot more strange than you do.’

‘Anyway, that’s enough about me, what about you? How’s everything with you?’

‘The same.’ I shrug, longing to be able to tell him exciting stories about my life, to make him laugh with witty tales of hanging out in glamorous places, but there’s very little to tell.

‘Had any more mad people in the bookshop lately?’

‘Nah, and I’m slightly worried about it. I’m sure every bookshop should have its token eccentric.’

‘I could always put an ad in the paper for you?’ James grins. ‘Wanted: true eccentric, sixty-plus, pink or blue hair, to add character and charm to local bookshop. No pay, but all the cappuccino you can drink. What d’you reckon?’

‘I reckon you’d have to hire coaches to bring in all the lonely old dears who’d answer the ad,’ I laugh.

‘You could always borrow my nan,’ he says. ‘She’s lonely.’

‘But is she eccentric?’

‘Not yet. But I’m sure she could learn. She could sit in the corner and screech at everyone in her thick Yorkshire accent.’

‘And she wouldn’t mind dyeing her hair pink?’

‘It would make a change from misty mauve.’

‘You are joking? Please tell me your grandmother doesn’t really have misty mauve hair.’

‘Okay, okay. She doesn’t. But she was born in Yorkshire, does talk with a thick Yorkshire accent, and lists screeching as a hobby. God knows I should know, she’s always telling me I don’t ring her enough.’

I shake my head as I start to laugh. ‘James, you do paint the most extraordinary mental pictures.’

‘Thank you. That’s the best compliment I’ve had all year. Now, there was something else I’d been meaning to talk to you about.’

‘Yes?’

‘My grandad.’

‘You are joking?’

‘Yes, actually. I know it’s a bit of a pain in the arse, that I keep dropping in like this, but actually I hate the telephone…’

‘James, love, you’re an estate agent. You spend your life on the telephone, how can you hate it?’

‘But that’s work. That’s exactly it. Once I leave work I hate the bloody thing, and it’s much easier to talk to someone in person, particularly when you want to see them anyway, plus this is getting ridiculous now.

‘The last time I tried to take you out for dinner it all ended up in a shambles, and I would really like to see you properly.’

‘What do you mean, see me properly?’ Although I know what he means, and he knows that I know, because there’s a huge grin on my face.

‘I mean go out for dinner. Spend some proper time with you. Get to know you properly .’

‘We could always start tonight,’ I say coquettishly.

‘Tonight?’

‘We could have dinner tonight.’

‘You’re not busy?’

‘Nope. The only thing is you’ll have to wait around while I get dressed and stuff.’

James looks delighted. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, looking at his watch and standing up. ‘If this is a proper date, and I bloody well hope it is, then I’ll be back here at eight o’clock to pick you up. How does that sound?’

‘Perfect.’ I walk him to the door, and then a thought occurs to me. ‘James, you know the last time we had dinner, when we saw Josh and… well, you know. Aren’t you going to ask about Josh and Lucy?’

‘Not my business, Cath.’ He shrugs, at which point I’m incredibly tempted to kiss him. ‘If you want to talk about it with someone, then I’m happy to listen, or try and help, but you should only tell me if you want to.’

‘James,’ I laugh. ‘You’re just too good to be true. I’ll see you at eight.’ And I close the front door behind him and squeal to myself for a bit, suddenly feeling things I thought I was incapable of feeling any more – excitement, exhilaration and more than a touch of anticipation.