Chapter 1Ask Me on Monday

“Don't tell me you've sold the Hardy first editions.” Helen's pen slipped and left a blue line across the price sticker. Sam was leaning on the counter, hair shorter than she remembered, in a coat that had never seen a Yorkshire February. “They're not mine to sell,” she said, peeling the ruined sticker off. “And you're meant to be in Melbourne.” “Was. Flew back Tuesday.” “Tuesday.” She set the pen down. “If you'd sent one email, I'd have made an effort. Bought milk.” “I know.” He turned a bookmark over in his fingers, then put it back in the wrong basket. “I wanted to look at the shop first. See if it had survived without me.” “It's survived. The windows have been covered in newspaper for a year, but the shop's survived.” “Smells the same. Dust and coffee.” “People expect it.” He nodded slowly. A customer came in and went straight to the crime shelf, and Helen watched him out of habit until the bell above the door stopped swinging. “So,” she said. “What's wrong?” “Nothing's wrong. I've taken the lease on number four.” “Number four?” She looked past him, through the glass, at the empty unit beside hers. “The one with the damp?” “That's the one. It's been left to rot for a year, which is why I could afford it. I'm putting in a coffee machine. Sandwiches. Somewhere people can sit.” “That's a good idea,” Helen said, and meant it, and felt the floor tilt under her at the same time. “Run it with me.” “No.” “You haven't thought about it.” “I don't need to think about it. I've got rent on this place and a boiler that groans like a dying man.” She picked up the paperback again and put it down again. “The boiler's been looked at twice. Both men said the same thing about it. And you didn't write. Not once. Two years.” Sam's thumb traced the edge of the counter. “I know.” “Not a postcard. Not even one of those stupid photos of you on a beach.” “I'm not good at—” He stopped. Started again. “There were things. It got away from me.” Helen looked at the dusty crime shelf, at the customer's bent head, at the empty shop next door. “Ask me again,” she said, “on Monday. Not before.” Sam reached for his coat. At the door he paused, and she thought he would say something clever, but he only said, “The boiler's still groaning, then.” “Louder than ever.” The bell rang behind him. Helen went back to pricing books, and her hand was steady now, which surprised her.