Her dad had been true to his word and had arranged the first of many skips, and had been able to shore up in the joists in the hallway and cut off the supply to the leaking pipe. She had shooed her parents away eventually, knowing that she really could only make limited progress that day and also knowing that she really, really wanted to have some time alone with her thoughts, and her memories of Grandad Ernie, in the shop. She allowed herself some time to dream a little more – to close her eyes and imagine the transformation this place could undergo. The exposed brickwork she would make use of, copper light fittings, comfy chairs, repurposed bookcases. She wanted to give it a sense of always having been there, but also offering everything the modern reader might want.
It was enough to light a new little fire in the pit of her stomach and she decided to make a start on putting her own mark on the store. First of all, she liberally sprayed the old drapery counter with sugar soap and set about scrubbing it down – revealing a lovely soft varnished finish underneath the layers of grime. When it was done, she stood behind it, and allowed herself a little role play – chatting to imaginary customers, hitting the buttons of her cash register and grinning like an eejit at the thought of this shop coming to life.
She’d been so engrossed in her task, she hadn’t noticed the change in the weather outside – blue skies now gone and replaced by ominous clouds. She only realised when she moved on to her next task – that of beginning to tackle the windows – that it was starting to rain, but not even a deluge of rain could dampen her spirits.
The shop’s many window panels were one of the things she loved most about it, but she didn’t like the matted newsprint stuck to them, or their general state of disrepair. Some of the wooden frames were slick with mould, and that was when they weren't rotting due to the damp air. Then, of course, there were the panes of glass which had been broken and long since boarded over. She had already booked a glazer to come out and measure up the following week, but for now she scraped off the newspaper and poured copious amounts of window-cleaning cream onto a cloth and rubbed it in large circular motions over the glass. Nothing said ‘this is a place undergoing a transformation’ more than windows obscured by large swirls of pink gloopy cleaner.
Arms aching, T-shirt long since dirt-splattered and damp, Libby decided to step outside to look at her handiwork – and only cursed a little when she heard the click of the door to the shop closing behind her as she stood in the now much heavier drizzle and tried to look through the obscured windows to where her keys – to both the shop and the flat – sat on the counter, right beside her mobile phone.
She rattled the door, as if the action would jolt the lock to open and let her in. She contemplated kicking the door in – but she doubted she had the brute force needed and it would only be an extra cost she would have to cover.
Looking around her, Libby tried to think of a clever solution to her problem, but the only thing she could think of was taking her damp, dirty and probably very smelly self to the bar across the road and trying to ask a hopefully friendly barkeep if she could use a phone to call for help. She’d given her parents her spare set of keys and if she could just get them dropped round to her, she could possibly save the rest of this day.
The Ivy Inn looked like a fairly amiable spot from the outside. It didn’t look like an exclusive wine bar, but nor did it look like a student drinking den.
Since they were going to be neighbours, she figured it was a good thing to say hello and introduce herself anyway. Although she would have much preferred that she was looking slightly more presentable than she currently was, she left her pride in a puddle at the door of the bookshop and crossed over the road.
With its hanging baskets, resplendent with multicoloured blooms, The Ivy Inn had a welcoming air. It promised a beer garden to the rear, and Libby was relieved she didn't have to walk through the plumes of second-hand smoke as she pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked in.
It was already busy for early evening – groups of friends sat around chatting over glasses of wine and half-drunk bottles of craft beer. A few family groups were enjoying an early tea – children colouring in with stubby crayons or lost on their tablets while mum and dad had a medicinal drink to get them through to bedtime. The bar had once been three houses, which had now been knocked together, so it was filled with little nooks and crannies where the most reclusive drinker could escape for some peace and quiet. The entire atmosphere was warm and welcoming, just as she hoped it would be.
Libby was conscious of leaving wet footprints on the slate floor, so she walked quickly to the bar, where a tall, dark-haired barman was deep in conversation with a couple of perfectly preened ladies.
She shivered, even though it wasn’t that cold, the wetness of the rain having soaked through her clothes, and waited for him to notice she was there.
And waited.
Eventually, she tried a polite cough, which went unnoticed, and she was forced to attempt an impression at something more consumptive. That got his attention – and a rather disgusted look from the two blondes, who clearly didn’t make much of Libby’s drowned-rat appearance.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, his expression warm. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, well I was hoping you could. I’m Libby Quinn,’ she said, reaching her hand out to shake his – and then instantly regretting moving her arms from covering her chest which, thanks to the rain, had given her the look of a wet T-shirt competition entrant.
He gave her hand a cursory, but firm, handshake but didn't offer his name.
‘Erm, I've just bought the shop across the street.’
‘I'm sorry for your troubles,’ he said with a cheeky smile, but Libby was not in the mood for humour. She already felt protective of her new home, and even though she knew it required a lot of work, it made her feel uneasy to have anyone else suggest this to her.
‘Actually, it has loads of potential,’ she replied. ‘Or it would, if I could get back inside it. I stepped out, and the door shut behind me – and my keys and phone are still inside.’ She sniffed, and shivered a little. ‘So I was hoping, as my new neighbour, you might be so kind as to let me use your phone to get someone to bring over the spare keys?’
‘Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be very neighbourly of me to say no, would it?’ he asked, his tone light.
‘It really wouldn't,’ she said through chattering teeth.
‘I suppose I'd better then,’ he said, walking to the end of the bar and lifting the hatch to gesture to her to come through.
Libby smiled at him (it took all her effort to do so) and followed him through to a back office, where he pointed to a phone on the table.
‘You can leave 20p by the phone for the call,’ he said, and while she was fairly sure he was joking, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he wasn’t.
‘When I retrieve my purse from the shop, I'll be sure to do so,’ Libby said, as she watched him walk back towards the bar – leaving the door open. Did he want to listen in? Or did he think she would make off with whatever mess of letters, invoices, empty Coca Cola cans and scrunched-up crisp wrappers that were lying on the desk?
She dialled her parents’ home number first, swearing when it rang out. She didn’t know either of their mobile numbers off by heart. In fact, there were only two mobile numbers she did know by heart – and one of them was her own. The second belonged to Jess. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was late enough for Jess to be done with her surgery for the day. She wouldn’t have dared call her if she had still been seeing patients. Tapping the number in, she waited for her friend to answer.