Free Bookends by Jane Green

calling.
    ‘Neither of us?’ I look at Si. ‘Why didn’t you say she said “neither of us ”? That means she’s married.’
    ‘And what decade are you living in?’ Si is horrified. ‘ The fifties ?’
    ‘Okay, not necessarily married, but living with someone, then.’
    ‘Could be her flatmate,’ Si says.
    ‘Right.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Because we do have flatmates when we’re thirty-one and earning packets of money.’
    ‘We do if we’re lonely,’ Si says seriously, and it shocks me that Portia might be lonely, and I want to step in and stop her loneliness. ‘Actually,’ Si says, looking pensive, ‘it could just be for security. There was an article in Cosmo about looking after yourself, and it said that if you lived on your own you should always refer to “we” or “us” on an answer phone to deter potential burglars.’
    ‘ Cosmo !’ I shriek with laughter. ‘Jesus, Si, aren’t you a bit old for Cosmo ?’
    ‘I didn’t buy it.’ Si looks shifty. ‘I just happened to pick it up at a friend’s house.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grin. ‘A likely story.’
    ‘Look,’ Si says, gesturing at the phone, ‘this is the perfect opportunity. You want to talk to her, but you don’t actually want to talk to her, and I know you’re terrified of how she’ll react. I am too. This way you can leave a message, and then it’s up to her. She may not call, but at least if she does you’ll know it’s because she wants to.’
    I grab the phone, hit the redial button and listen to her message again, trying to smile so that I sound cheerful, happy, successful, and keeping a hand on my heart to try to calm down.
    Beeeeeep .
    ‘Portia, hi. Umm. This is, umm, quite strange, hearing your voice on the machine.’ Si rolls his eyes at me. ‘I mean, it’s not strange, because it’s your machine, but we haven’t spoken for ages. Years. Your name came up the other night at dinner – we met Dan, umm, the guy who sold you his flat, and it’s just that we were wondering how you were, and it would be really nice to see you, to catch up. Anyway, umm, give me a call, if you want. Oh. It’s Cath, by the way… beeep .’
    ‘Shit!’
    I redial, feeling like an idiot. ‘Sorry. Your machine cut me off, but do call me, it would be lovely to hear from you…’ I put the phone down, feeling incredibly pleased with myself.
    ‘There,’ says Si. ‘That’s done, then.’
    ‘Do you think she’ll call?’
    ‘If she hasn’t changed, she will.’
    ‘You’re right.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘If she hasn’t changed, she’ll call.’
    Ever since I can remember I have loved books. Not just loved, but been passionate about. I regularly spend hours at a time browsing in bookshops, losing track of time, losing myself in another world.
    There’s a bookshop near my office, and a couple of times a week I go there in my lunchbreak, and spend a good hour wandering around, smiling softly to myself, sometimes just brushing the covers on the hardbacks grouped on tables in the centre of the floor, other times spending the full hour engrossed between the covers of a new release.
    My dream has always been to own a bookshop. Actually, my dream has always been to own a bookshop that also encompasses a café. I envision it as the sort of place that would attract regulars, lovable eccentrics who would step in to make the cappuccinos if I needed a hand.
    It would be a laid-back kind of place. There would be beaten-up old leather sofas, squashy armchairs, possibly a fireplace in winter. Of course when it’s summer, and I remember how much I love the sunshine, I envision it in a completely different light – my summer fantasies make it light, bright, breezy. It has stripped pine floors and slick chrome chairs, huge glass windows and Mediterranean-blue walls.
    I indulge in this fantasy far more frequently as I get older. I used to think, in my early twenties, that I would work until I had enough money in the bank to open my bookshop, and