Page 20 of The Breakup Bookshop

It’s inevitable that I’m thinking about her today, when she’s celebrating her thirtieth birthday. It’s such a milestone that I can’t quite believe I’m not at her side. We’d talked at length about our thirtieth birthday plans. I’d even put in some calls earlier in the year to start arranging a party for her. We’d discussed a trip abroad in September, when the sun was likely to be kinder on my pale complexion. Macy didn’t need to worry about that, with her gorgeous, bronzed skin, but she was willing to go when it suited me.

I can’t help but wonder who she’s celebrating with today. Is she having her party? Have her brothers come to visit? Will her mum and dad ask where I am? What’s she told them about me?

Once we became friends, Macy was the only pull away from Ullapool that I had. I couldn’t have given two hoots about leaving Mum and Dad, but I always missed Macy. I hate to admit it, but part of me still does, in spite of everything.

We spent every summer texting back and forth. I’d call on this day each year to wish her happy birthday. She was usually in Spain, Greece or somewhere equally beautiful with her family. They’d all take turns saying hello to me on our calls, while playing volleyball on the beach or chilling by the pool. Her older brothers would tease us about missing each other, that we were soulmates, but we never denied that. We solemnly confessed we missed each other like mad and couldn’t wait to be reunited.

Oh God. IsSebcelebrating with her today instead of me? Are they toasting her over some champagne? Is he singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of his lungs? The thought makes me queasy. Grabbing my phone, I check their social media pages for any evidence of family celebrations, boozy brunches or, my stomach drops at the thought of it, a romantic getaway. But Macy hasn’t posted anything since completing the marathon she spent months training for last year. She beams at the camera, clutching her medal proudly with both hands. I check Seb’s page, but he hasn’t been active since his work trip to Dubai two years ago. He’d been so excited about flying business class for four days of back-to-back meetings and client dinners. I’d secretly thought the whole thing sounded exhausting.

I glance down at the pair of sturdy boots on my feet that Granny would have been proud of. My London look of tailored trousers, blazers and high heels are, thankfully, long gone. I’d never felt truly comfortable in the formal workwear. When I first moved to London, I lived in comfortable clothes, but my wardrobe evolved over the years. Now, I’m back to casual wear and wouldn’t look out of place hopping on board with the fishermen at 5 a.m.

I did contemplate dressing up to visit the finance guru, Eilidh Stewart, to look as though I’ve got my shit in order, but I decided against it. An unexpected letter from the tax man sent me into a flap earlier, so I plan to turn up at Eilidh’s listed address to see if I can catch her. It seems she isn’t willing to answer her phone, no matter how many times I call. I am determined to shop local, so even if the local accountant is a recluse, she is going to be my accountant.

At the bottom of the pier, a group of tourists huddles together at the Summer Isles boat-trip stand. It’s something I never got round to when I was younger, but always wanted to do. Once the bookshop opens, I vow to finally do the trip, as a mini celebration for myself.

I haven’t managed to bring myself to venture up to Granny’s old cottage just yet. Although she’s constantly on my mind as I traipse through the streets, it’s like there’s a mysterious force repelling me from venturing in that direction. I’ll need to own up to it and go eventually – in a village as small as Ullapool, you can’t avoid a whole section of it – but I can’t seem to do it just now. I don’t want to see someone else standing at the window, washing dishes the way she used to, weeding the front garden on hands and knees or reading a book in the garden nook she created just for me. I’m pretty sure the sight would break my heart, and it’s been through enough recently. I think I’ll just stay on my own path.

I cross the road towards Eilidh’s house on the edge of town. Following my phone’s map I find myself on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by greenery. In the distance, I spot Finlay, the village dog walker that Donna mentioned, ambling down the hill, surrounded by his army of pups. He often comes to the courtyard at the back of our shops to chat with Rory, but I’m not going to hold that against him. Everyone loves chatting with Rory, after all. Everyone except me.

Looking ahead, I climb up the hill and follow a long and winding path. The views of Loch Broom and the village below are incredible. I can even see my own little piece of Ullapool, my flat and future bookshop, and my heart swells with pride. I’ve almost done it. I escaped, like I said I would. I’ve started taking the walks that I promised myself. The bookshop is almost ready to unveil and then I’ll be able to start my apartment makeover. Take a boat trip. Keep on breathing. The future will be here soon.

I turn the corner to see the home of the elusive Eilidh Stewart. Gasping at the sight of the elevated house on the hillside, I realize that Eilidh must be quite well off, as most finance types are. I’d be a recluse, too, if I lived in a house like this. The sprawling stone-built house is set over two levels and boasts a balcony the whole length of the upper floor. Behind the house, I spot a long, flat grass area with a football goal at each end. Lucky kids growing up in a house like this. Walking up the long drive, I picture the superwoman who lives in this house, a pen in one hand, kids’ football boots in another, phone crooked between her neck and shoulder.

But as I approach the front door, I hear a quiet whimpering noise. A woman, who looks to be in her late thirties, sits on the bench outside the door with her head in her hands. She’s clearly having a moment, interrupted by my stomping up the grassy path. I think about turning around, but she clocks me before I can back away.

‘Can I help you?’ she calls, wiping her eyes.

‘I’m, erm, sorry to intrude. I’m looking for Eilidh Stewart? I’ve been trying to call, but…’

‘Ah,’ she says, raising an eyebrow above her bright, blue eyes that are red from the tears. ‘You’re 658.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your phone number ends in 658. I’ve been wondering who it is that keeps pestering me,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a scam caller.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s me. I’m not a scammer, though. I’ve just moved here to open a new business – a bookshop in the village. Donna recommended you as the one-stop shop for all my accountancy needs. But I can see you’re in the middle of something, so shall I come back?’

She thinks for a second, before shaking her head. ‘No, come on in for a cup of tea and you can tell me what I can help with, 658.’

As she pulls open the heavy wooden front door, I’m eager to get a glimpse of this beautiful house’s interior. I follow her straight up the stairs, past the array of family pictures featuring Eilidh, her partner and two young sons, to the expansive open-plan living area, which includes a kitchen with a huge marble island and a dining space that overlooks the balcony, with an uninterrupted panorama of the loch and the sea beyond.

‘Wow, your house is amazing,’ I breathe. ‘Look at that view!’

‘Yep, it is beautiful.’

She doesn’t seem too happy about it. In fact, as she pulls her cardigan around her sunken shoulders and lifts a coffee cup to put it in the sink, all she radiates is sadness.

‘Well, itwasbeautiful,’ she continues, as she starts scrubbing at the coffee cup. ‘It was pretty perfect, in fact, until Mark decided it wasn’t.’

She lets out a long sigh, places the cup on the worktop, and promptly bursts into tears. Oh shit. I’ve obviously picked the worst possible time to drop in unannounced on Eilidh. Advancing towards her, I think of Donna and her love of big hugs, but somehow Eilidh doesn’t seem like the type. I place a hand on her shoulder instead.

‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘I’ll make the tea.’

She lets me. I busy around her kitchen, opening random drawers to look for spoons and mugs. Eilidh doesn’t move. She sits at the breakfast bar, staring out at the view with a melancholy expression.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I’m sorry you’ve found me this way. It’s the first time I’ve had to send the boys away with my husband. Myexhusband,’ she sighs. ‘My sons, Harry and Caden. They’re only five and seven. They didn’t want to leave. They kept asking why I wasn’t coming too.’