‘That was fun,’ he laughed, ‘but I did tell you to be careful. These people know a newbie when they see one. They’ll bump the price up quick as anything.’
‘I thought it was a fair price,’ Libby lied. ‘I’d done some research and it wasn’t that far off the mark on prices I saw similar pieces going for.’ She knew her lie was see-through, but she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to distance herself from him and the confusing feelings that had swamped her with that stupid pretend kiss.
Noah stopped and looked at her, raised his eyebrow, and smiled. A slow, shy smile. He was quite handsome, she realised. Not perfect. Not groomed like Ant. A little rough around the edges. Hair just a fraction too long, but he wore it well. Dark, with the slightest wave to it. Tanned and toned arms. A plain white T-shirt, jeans and Vans. Cool but not trying too hard. His face had that slightly weather-beaten look to it. She wanted to know more about him, she realised, then pushed the thought away. This was absolutely not the time to be having any kind of lustful thoughts about her neighbour. No good would, or could, come of it. Ever.
‘Really, Libby?’ Noah asked and she could see that he saw right through her and suddenly it made her very nervous. Nervous enough to clam up and shut down whatever madness had overcome her.
‘The shelving units,’ she said, not breaking his gaze. ‘Tell me about those.’
‘Oh, that’s the icing on the cake. Keith, who I’ll introduce you to, has just closed his bookshop in Bangor. He has a job lot of shelves – that he just wants sold. He has a couple of interested parties, but, as it happens, I was able to talk him into offloading them to this bookseller I know – if she wants them, of course. And all for a knock-down price, some dinner and drinks in the pub next time he’s in Derry and a book token or two.’
‘When you say “knock-down price”?’ Libby asked.
‘Two hundred pounds. And when you see them, you’ll snap the hand off him.’ Noah looked so incredibly proud of himself, and so he should be. He had just saved Libby a small fortune.
She kept her hands in her pockets this time though. No hugs, or pretend kisses or over exuberance. She simply said. ‘Let’s go and look at them, then.’
She could hardly believe her luck when she saw them. A set of four oak shelving units, which she already knew would look amazing along the back wall of the shop. They would fit in well with the rest of her design scheme and there’s no doubt she would be saving a fortune. It seemed almost criminal to offer the asking price.
‘Your pal there was telling me your story,’ Keith said. ‘About your grandfather and this shop being a part of his dream. I can’t think of a better home for these shelves in that case,’ he said. ‘We were heartbroken to have to close our bookshop. This will make it feel a little more bearable.’
It was Keith who Libby hugged, and when she escaped to the loo shortly after, and just before the auction started, she allowed herself a few moments to sob into a hankie. And this time it wasn’t just for Grandad Ernie, it was at the confusion she felt welling up inside her.
Libby was grateful for the radio in the van on the drive home. It allowed her the chance to sit back and distract herself from whatever was going on in her head.
She tried to focus on what was real and solid about the day that had passed. The furniture and lamps secured in the back of the van that she would take to the disused garage at the back of her parents’ garden for storage until the shop was ready for them. The shelves that Keith would arrange to be delivered in about ten days – giving her the chance to get the majority of the heavy work done in the shop.
She thought of the third desk – a second ercol, which she had won at auction, and she indulged in one of her favourite hobbies: imagining how the shop would look when it was all up and running. She closed her eyes, tried to picture it as a busy, cosy escape from the real world. The low hum of the radio commentator, combined with the vibration of the van driving along lulled her into a doze, from which she was rudely awakened by a gentle jab to the ribs.
‘Wakey wakey, time to stop snoring and drooling and tell me exactly where your parents’ house is?’ Noah asked.
‘Larkhill,’ she mumbled, dragging her arm across her mouth before declaring she didn’t drool or snore, to which, of course, Noah laughed.
‘You even did the biggest snort when I nudged you there. How you didn’t wake yourself up, I’ll never know.’
She blushed, the thought of snoring in front of anyone, let along Noah, making her feel embarrassed. ‘I was tired,’ she said. ‘And snuffly. Probably all the dust from the warehouse. Or a cold or something.’
Noah just laughed. Libby sniffed. She did feel a little congested. She hoped it was just a reaction to dust and not the sign of an oncoming cold. She simply did not have the time to get sick. She had the tech people scheduled to come on Monday to discuss her requirements – phone line, internet, WIFI, stock management and till.
Not to mention she had to finally settle on a name for the shop and start working on her promotional material, and get the signage in place for the shop.
She felt her head thump a little, so she rubbed her temples.
‘I’m only teasing you, you know,’ Noah said. ‘You only snored a little bit. I barely noticed. I mean, compared to Paddy, you were practically silent.’
‘Paddy snores?’
Noah laughed. ‘Oh God, yes. I never realised that dogs snored before he came to live with me. I’ve been known to resort to earplugs.’
Libby couldn’t help but laugh too. ‘Does he not sleep in a different room?’
‘Oh no. Poor thing was abandoned, you know, before he was rescued. He doesn’t do well being on his own. That’s why he’s down in the pub so much. The rumour that he only comes down to sniff out a sneaky bowl of Irish stew is just that. He needs the company.’
The thought of Paddy being abandoned made Libby feel sad. So sad in fact that she wondered if she would cry. What the hell was wrong with her? Mood swings and tearfulness and a sore head. Maybe she was due her period. She tried to count back in her head. No. She wasn’t due, not yet anyway. Not for another few days. But PMS could be a bitch all the same.
‘Poor Paddy,’ she croaked.
‘Poor Paddy nothing,’ Noah laughed. ‘He’s the most spoiled dog in Derry! Everyone fusses over him. He’s fed well, gets his walks every day – round St. Columb’s Park or over the Peace Bridge and back – he sleeps on top of a king-size bed. He does okay. He deserves it all, of course.’
Libby wondered if she could detect a small crack of emotion in Noah’s voice. It endeared him to her in any case, but she immediately stiffened, thinking she could not, and would not, let him under her skin. There was no point. And she was just premenstrual and emotional and, chances were, when her hormones aligned again, she would go back to seeing him just as her nosy, occasionally helpful and sometimes supremely patronising, neighbour.
When the furniture was unloaded and Libby’s father had oohed and aahed over her choices, while Noah had bigged her up as a very canny businesswoman, she travelled with him back to the pub, where she had left her car that morning. As Jo had promised him, he was home by five – in time for the early-evening crowd, with a quick bite before their night began.