The Christmas Bookshop(90)

‘He did.’

‘And did he say anything about me? Did he ask about me?’

Mr McCredie looked sad.

‘Well … he did actually.’

Her head shot up.

‘He asked where you were and I told him you weren’t here.’

‘AND THAT WAS ALL?!’

‘I’m so sorry, Carmen! When he didn’t show up the other night, I confess I thought that I’d made a mistake with you two, and I shouldn’t be interfering anyway.’

Carmen’s heart was pounding dangerously.

‘But he still came in?’

‘Well, he needed a book … ’

Carmen grinned.

‘This is Edinburgh. There are more bookshops per head than any city in the world. He can get a book anywhere. I am taking this as a sign.’

Mr McCredie sighed.

‘Oh lord, we are going down the path of the dreaded lunch-break again, I see.’

Carmen blew him a kiss. Then she glanced at the till.

‘I’ll make it up to you with Burns Night sales,’ she said cheekily.

‘Ooh, I say,’ said Mr McCredie, as what she’d intimated suddenly made sense to him. No horrible bungalow in the suburbs … no two rooms … was it possible?

Then he said, just to make sure, ‘What?’

Thinking about Oke hadn’t been the only thing that had occupied Carmen the night she had stared over the battlements of Edinburgh Castle. She had meant to find a better time to mention it, but it had just slipped out. If possible, she didn’t want to leave this beautiful city. She didn’t want to leave Phoebe, and the other two (well, three now) if she could possibly help it. And Victoria Street. This lovely shop.

She wanted to build a life here. They had done well so far. Why not have a shot?

‘Um, you know your house upstairs?’ she said. ‘Just out of interest, how many bedrooms does it have?’

Mr McCredie looked puzzled.

‘Well, a few, I suppose.’

Carmen looked at him.

‘Okay. Well. Now I have to go because my boss failed to tie the man I love up in the stacks until I got back. But can we discuss this when I get back? Maybe … prolonging things?’

Mr McCredie nodded, surprised.

Carmen apologised to the man in the kilt, who said that was absolutely fine, he’d just take a seat if that was okay, and banged out of the shop. Then banged in again.

‘Where’s the biology department?’

‘King’s Buildings!’



She’d just ask him for Christmas, she told herself, a mass of febrile agitation.

God, Christmas. With a sudden sense of shame, she realised she’d left it – as she always did, every year – for her mum and Sofia to work out between them. Even more shamefully, she thought, her heart starting to pound, she’d moaned at them when they’d asked her what she was doing for Christmas – whether she was coming home (or, latterly, to Sofia’s) and she had resented being expected to spend money on the brats, couldn’t see the appeal of watching them open their presents – for God’s sake, didn’t they have enough junk? – didn’t want to wear matching bloody sweaters. It used to be a busy time at Dounston’s; she usually went out and got drunk with her friends and normally turned up hungover …

That wasn’t … that wasn’t what she wanted this year. Not at all. She wanted to be part of all of it. All of it.

She looked at her phone in dismay. She thought the university was in the centre of the city but it turned out half of it was absolutely miles away, on the south side. In her rush, she hailed a cab, jiggling anxiously all the way down town, wincing at every traffic light, until the cabbie turned round.

‘You need the bog, hen?’

Carmen frowned. This wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping for from a love dash across the city. She frowned as around her new flakes started to fall from the sky.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Oh bollocks. More bloody snow.’

‘It’s nice,’ said Carmen.

‘It’s a bloody nonsense,’ said the cabbie. ‘Cannae get anywhere. Naebady’s gawn anywhere. Hate the bloody stuff.’

‘Okay,’ said Carmen, biting her lip. She hadn’t expected there to be so much small talk in her dash.

She thought of Oke though, and felt a thrill go through her. He had come into the shop. Surely there was a chance? Surely?

She sighed happily and glanced at her phone. And God, she would get his bloody number.

She WhatsApped the concert videos off to Sofia with an eye-heart emoji and got a quick thumbs up message back, together with a tiny pic of the baby captioned: ‘What do you think about Jesus for a name? Too much?’

She laughed and sent it to her mother too, who to Carmen’s slight embarrassment, typed back: ‘Darling, just checking. Are you going to be around on Christmas Day?’

Carmen typed back, ‘Can I do anything?’

‘Oh, no, don’t tell anyone but it’s just a big roast,’ came the response.

‘It will be so nice to have us all together.’

‘It will.’

Carmen felt a bit guilty typing it, as if she were tempting fate, but even so she did it anyway: ‘Can I maybe bring someone?’