Page 71 of The Breakup Bookshop

‘No, I was usually good as gold for Granny. At first, I was scared she wouldn’t let me stay here if I put a toe out of line, but after the first summer, I realized that she enjoyed having me as much as I loved being here. Whether I was naughty or good.’

I glance out of the kitchen window into the back garden, a place that I used to spend hours playing in.

‘Oh, Rory!’ I call, opening the door to the back garden. ‘Come and see!’

Outside, the space is exactly how I remember it. The reading nook that Granny created for me has been repainted, but, aside from a refresh, the area is untouched. I open the nook and, sure enough, find a row of books that Fiona bought from me, from my bookshop.

‘Oh, my heart,’ I say, pulling him onto the chair beside me. ‘This is where I used to spend hours, reading every book I could get my hands on.’

He pulls me closer to him and kisses me on the cheek.

‘No funny business in Granny’s garden,’ I warn him.

He nods with a smile as I look around, soaking it all in, from the long stretch of green grass to the view of the mountains in the distance that always made me feel so small. I remember looking at them from this exact angle, feeling so insignificant, while my granny made me feel like the most important person on the planet.

I feel my eyes fill with the inevitable tears. God, Imissher.

Rory pulls me in towards him, stroking my hair as the tears land on my cheeks. He wipes them away and kisses me gently. ‘I know it’s hard.’

‘But it’s also happy,’ I sniff. ‘My happiest childhood memories are right here, in this garden. Granny would be so happy to know that I’m back.’

‘Do you think she would approve of me?’

‘She would,’ I whisper in reply. ‘I know she would.’

We sit there for hours, watching the sun set over the mountains.

I feel at peace.

*

As we follow the road towards Rory’s house, lights spring to life, illuminating the path.

‘Sensors,’ he explains, as we traipse up the gravel walkway. At the end of the path, we turn a corner to see a large detached home surrounded by an immaculate sprawling lawn.

‘You didn’t tell me you lived in Downton Abbey,’ I gasp, gazing up at the huge windows.

He laughs. ‘It’s the family home, remember, not just mine. And for eight kids.’

‘So you’re not filthy rich, just your family?’ I ask, squeezing his hand. ‘God, now I’m embarrassed. You’ve slept over in my tiny flat with tiles falling off the walls and a lounge the size of a shoebox. My whole flat could probably fit in your living room.’

‘I love your flat,’ he protests, taking his house key from his pocket as we enter the large, tiled porch area at the front of the house.

‘Do you have a title or something? Oh my God, am I sleeping with the Duke of Ullapool?’

‘You’d better wipe your feet,’ he warns. ‘The serving staff hate it when we bring dirt in from the roads.’

‘You haveservingstaff?’

He pushes on the brass door handle. ‘Nah. I usually let them have a few weeks off after a busy summer of soirées.’

Judging by the house’s interior, I’m not even sure he’s joking. A grand staircase sits proudly in the middle of the entrance hall, its grey tartan carpet contrasting with the bright white panelled walls. There is even a chandelier hanging proudly above the staircase, with paintings adorning the walls.

‘Your paintings,’ I breathe, gazing up at them.

He nods. ‘How did you know?’

‘They’re like the shop mural,’ I say. ‘On speed.’