Page 29 of The Breakup Bookshop

‘I knew he’d say yes,’ Donna nods.

‘Great guy,’ Finlay adds.

Bloody Rory.

When it’s just me and him he’s belligerent, stubborn and downright unfriendly, but as soon as there’s an audience, he becomes so amenable.

Can no one else see why Rory MacGregor is driving me mad?

‘My taxi’s here! Ava, I know you’re just up the road, but Donna, do you want a lift home?’

‘Erm…’ Donna says, considering it. She sneaks a look at Finlay.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ Finlay offers, looking at the ground rather than at Donna. ‘Then I’ll head home.’

‘Great,’ Donna gives a businesslike nod. ‘Let’s do that.’

As I make my way home in a whisky-fuelled daze, I wonder what exactly is going on between the pair of them.

10

Iam barely alive by 8.56 a.m. the next day.

This hangover is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. As soon as I wake up from a sleep that feels like I actually died, albeit temporarily, it kicks in. This is my punishment for the ice comment and for winding Rory and Finlay up about whisky drinking. The Scottish gods have teamed up and struck me down with the hangover from hell.

I pull the covers back over my head, cursing Rory, the smug whisky dealer, for the sheer volume I consumed the night before. I hadn’t even felt that drunk, although I can recall standing up in the middle of the bar attempting the Gay Gordons with him.

Did I initiate that? Oh,God. I shouldn’t be allowed out.

Rory. My skin prickles across my neck as I think back to the moment he pulled me to my feet in the pub last night. Had he whispered ceilidh instructions in my ear, or was I embellishing now? It’s all a little hazy. Dizzying. I now know that he’d hoped to buy my shop to use as his own art space, which makes me feel pretty bad. But he finally agreed to paint the mural, following a dramatic rant from me outside. Christ. Would he even remember agreeing to it? I should have whipped up a contract on the spot and urged him to sign it there and then so he couldn’t back out on me.

Urgh. The headache is getting progressively worse.

I have so much to do today. I can’t just lie around feeling sorry for myself. But as I fling back the covers, my body recoils, and forces me to climb back into bed. I have to take some paracetamol. If I can ever move again.

I look at my phone. A record of my drunken interactions. Last night, I’d demanded that Eilidh text me to let me know she’d arrived home safely, which she had. I’d replied with an SOS emoji sign by accident. She’d called immediately to check what was wrong. I’d apologized for giving her a heart attack and hung up.

And then I remember.

I check my messages with a shaky hand, my stomach churning. This is not happening. But the cold, hard evidence is there in black and white: a message to Seb, with a taunting blue double-tick to indicate that it has been successfully delivered and read.

Two words.

Why Macy?

I had done so well in the weeks since their betrayal. I never drunk dialled either of them or asked for an explanation or even an apology (though surely they owed me that?!). I went quietly about my business, making plans to exit London, and then duly left the keys in his flat. I didn’t trash the place or cut up the blue and black designer suits he left behind (although I was sorely tempted). I maintained a dignified silence, which, apparently, could only be broken by whisky.

Damn the whisky. Damn all the bloody whisky.

A loud buzzing noise from downstairs makes my head feel like someone is drilling a hole right through to the core of my brain. I groan. This isnotthe time. If Rory is out with his bloody drill again… Another loud buzzing noise infiltrates the apartment. I can’t get up yet. Please. I am in recovery.

Then I remember the delivery that’s due this morning. Pete asked one of his postman pals to help him with the heavy antique book cabinet that I’d fallen in love with online. It is destined to be in my bookshop. The only problem was that it had to be shipped from a furniture store in the Cotswolds. Pete assured me they would be able to handle it, but now it’s here, I have to let them in. Get up, be a grown-up and get moving. Forget about the text. I sigh.

As I put on my slippers, a thought taunts me at the back of my throbbing head. Seb hasn’t even replied. I’d secretly imagined that if I ever reached out to him, he’d take the floor and offer me some long-winded apology. But he hasn’t. He’s said nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Why had I texted him? One night out in Ullapool and my whole brain drains itself of common sense. I’d managed to forget everything I’d built to protect myself. The six hundred miles between me and all that hurt. I blame Rory. Bloody Rory. He is infuriating, blowing hot and cold with me. Mainly cold, but then last night he held me far too close during that stupid dance. That was the problem. I hadn’t been touched by any guy since Seb. It scrambled my head.

Damn Rory. Damn Seb and the stupid text.