Page 14 of The Breakup Bookshop

The landscape drawings feature the mountains I spent hours staring at during my Ullapool visits, alongside beautifully drawn fishing boats and mesmerizing sunsets. There are vivid sketches of the surrounding area, from a field of sheep and a telephone box in a grassy field to a red squirrel and an eagle, soaring in the sky. I bend my head to admire an intricately rendered butterfly wing. There are some portraits of people in the village that I recognize. The attention to detail in every picture is jaw-dropping. There’s Pete’s warm half grin and Donna’s sweet blush; he’s even managed to capture some warmth from steely Margaret upstairs. The whole collection is breathtaking.

This is not the Rory I’ve met so far. Seeing this, it’s like I’m getting a glimpse of the real him, like I’ve had a sneak peek into his soul.

I snap the book shut as the bell rings to signal another customer’s arrival. Fleeing back behind the counter, I feel all jittery, guilty somehow.

I recognize her instantly: Margaret, my neighbour and Rory’s biggest fan.

Her face drains of colour as she catches my eye.

‘Where’s Rory?’ she spits as she leans on her walking stick.

‘Oh, hi, it’s Margaret, isn’t it? I’m your neighbour, Ava. I’ve moved in next door.’

With all the politeness and charm I can muster, I smile at her. I’m not going to give her any excusenotto like me.

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Yes, so I’ve heard. So, whereisRory?’

Hearing her reply in the stern, no-nonsense accent of my granny, I’m suddenly conscious of my own rounded, so terriblyEnglishsyllables. I try to tone it down as much as possible, but I can’t change it altogether. It’s not like I can dive into a full Scottish brogue or start conversing with her in Gaelic.

‘I’m sorry, Rory’s at an appointment just now. Can I help you?’

She frowns, as if a bad smell has overtaken the shop. I’m certainly not going to tell Margaret that her precious Rory was injured by the ladders I’d left lying out. She’s likely to whack me with her stick.

‘I’m here to help you with whatever you need,’ I say, with a tight smile. ‘And I’m looking forward to welcoming you to my bookshop next door, once it’s opened. Are you a reader?’

‘I’ll pop back in tomorrow,’ Margaret says, ignoring my question. ‘See if Rory’s back then.’

With a harrumph, she turns to leave.

What was it Granny always used to say? Kill them with kindness.

As I gallop ahead to open the door for her, she glares at me.

‘Goodbye, Margaret. It was lovely to meet you!’ I call, determined to go high when Margaret goes low.

No response. She does mutter under her breath, though. I think I hear something about a bookshop being a pale replacement for The Old Tea Shop.

After she leaves, her words swirl around my brain. Tears spring into my eyes and, feeling silly, I blink them back, but I can’t help it. What if Rory and Margaret aren’t the only ones who think a bookshop isn’t needed here? Maybe the whole community feels the same. They may all miss The Old Tea Shop, the gorgeous coronation chicken sandwiches I’d read TripAdvisor reviews of and the delicate teacups that I’d found forgotten in a box under the till.

I’ve been so focused on what I love about Ullapool and whatIwant that I haven’t properly considered what they might want from me in return. Certainly, Margaret wants to keep The Toolbox and Rory, patron saint of Ullapool; he’sneeded. Maybe Margaret wanted Rory to place the highest bid and secure my shop too. Maybe I am just a flighty girl with a pipe dream.

Just because I want Ullapool, it doesn’t mean Ullapool wants me.

I sigh as I peer through the hole in the wall to see the disaster area that is my own work in progress. I see my uneven shelves and my shoddy carpentry. The to-do list on my phone is growing by the minute. Fixing the hole also needs to go on the list now too, thanks to the Tool himself.

I wonder how Rory is getting on at the doctor. In an attempt to combat the guilty feeling hanging around my stomach after Laddergate, I sweep the floor of The Toolbox and clean all the surfaces until they’re spotless. I hold off on sending him a text to ask for an update. I don’t want him to think I can’t handle things here. He needs to know I can run a shop. I need to know it too. Instead, I pass the quieter time flicking through his drawings again.

While I’m hardly a member of the Rory fan club, I can’t help but be impressed by his sketches. Then comes my light bulb moment. Rory is anartist. I need an artist. I appealed for someone on social media, shared the post to local artist forums as far as Inverness and even wrote a press release for local media to find someone to create the mural, but I’ve had no luck so far. Perhaps the right person has been sitting under my nose all along. One who strongly dislikes me, and who I’ve inadvertently attacked on more than one occasion, but this is business. While Rory might not share my vision for the bookshop, maybe I can still get him to create the mural. It might even bridge the gap between us.

It seems like I’ve found my artist. Now, I just have to convince him to help me.

*

I serve customers with a big smile and a can-do attitude, figuring out along the way where to locate what they need. My eager, over-pleasing mode is met with nods and tight-lipped thank yous, but I slip in mentions of the bookshop where I can.

Gosh, doesn’t retiling feel like a hard bit ofCrime and Punishment? Do you know who else liked doing a bit of joinery? George Orwell. I don’t know if that’s strictly true, but I’m sure old George wouldn’t mind.

When one customer confirms they will visit when it’s opened, I do a little victory lap around the counter after they leave.