Free Bookends by Jane Green Page A

that, as soon as I did, I would hand in my notice and get going.
    But of course enough money is never quite enough, and now, although I seem to have amassed a fairly sizeable amount in the Abbey National (thanks largely to my lovely grandmother, who died and left me her flat in Wembley a couple of years ago), I know it will never be enough to allow me to jump ship, because actually it’s not about the money at all.
    Si says I’m scared, and of course he’s right. Up until a year ago, I loved my job, I really did. I loved my clients, loved putting campaigns together, got a real buzz from it. But this last year it’s felt more and more like hard work. I seem to be less and less motivated, but every time I think about leaving, fear clutches my heart and I know I haven’t got the nerve.
    What if the bookshop were a disaster? What if I lost all my money? What if I couldn’t afford my mortgage? How could I give up my PPP? My pension plan?
    One day, I tell myself, I will do it. I will fulfil that dream. It’s just that I’m not sure when.
    *
    ‘Cath, darling! We need to meet. When are you free?’ Lucy’s voice is bubbling over with excitement, making me smile.
    ‘Why? What’s happened? You’re not pregnant again, are you?’
    Lucy shrieks. ‘God, no. Not yet.’ Then there’s a silence. ‘Bugger. I might be. When’s my blasted period due?’ she mutters. ‘Oh, anyway.’ Her voice is bright again. ‘This is much more important. I have a proposal to put to you.’
    ‘I can’t marry you, Lucy,’ I laugh. ‘I’d love to, but you’re already married.’
    ‘If I were a big strapping chap, I would certainly marry you, but this, Cath, is something else entirely.’
    ‘Go on, give me a clue.’
    ‘Can’t. Not on the phone. When can you meet me?’
    ‘How about Saturday morning?’
    ‘Saturday? I can’t wait until Saturday. How about this afternoon? Or early evening? But afternoon would be better.’
    I flick open my work diary on the desk and check the rest of the day. Thankfully there are no more meetings, and, although I don’t do this often, I agree to scoot off early to go to meet Lucy. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, considering the hours I’ve been working recently, but I do, and if it weren’t for her insistence, I wouldn’t be doing this.
    ‘Hoorah!’ she says, when I agree. ‘Come over to me, then, and we’ll have a coffee. See you later. Bye bye. Oh, Cath, wait. Did you speak to Portia? Was she there?’
    ‘I left a message, so now it’s up to her.’
    ‘Well done. Quite right. See you later.’
    There’s something luxurious about being at home, in my neighbourhood, at three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a completely different world at this time, the people so different from the ones I’m used to seeing at night or on the weekends, that I’m almost tempted to forgo Lucy and grab a window table in a coffee shop, just to people-watch for the rest of the day.
    So many young mothers with their babies. Where do they all come from? Harassed-looking young men in dark suits, mobile phones glued to their ears, must be local estate agents, I decide.
    But what astounds me most are the sheer numbers of people. Why are they not working? What are they all doing here, in West End Lane, in the middle of the afternoon?
    My flat seems strangely quiet at this time of day. It’s not like the weekend, when the phone never stops, or there’s music playing, or Si’s round, as usual, tidying up after my mess. It’s absolutely still, so still I start to feel guilty, as if by being there I’m doing something I ought not to be doing, as if I have somehow disturbed the flat.
    I dump my case, filled with research for me to look at over the weekend, pull off my right shoe by dragging the sole of my left down it, then use my bare right foot to do the same to the other side, thanking God that Si isn’t here to witness this, as it drives him mad.
    ‘ Don’t do that,’ he’d say, wincing.