Page 24 of Love from Pretty Beach

A few days had gone by. Darby had indeed replied to the text to say she had enjoyed the evening too.

That was where the text conversation had stayed and ended.

Archie had given the thumbs up to the text and nothing else.

Cheek of the man. Well used to the trials and tribulations of relationship letdown, Darby had buried it.

To be quite frank, she’d been busy at work, she’d edited another video for her channel and Lola had had her annual vet check-up.

So, all in all, she hadn’t had a vast amount of time to worry about Archie and his texts or lack thereof.

Or she’d totally analysed it to death and wanted to kill him.

Hurrying along the laneway in Pretty Beach, she was not late but close to it.

There was one thing she knew without a doubt; it was freezing.

Unusually cold for the time of year, she was bundled up in her huge black full-length coat with fur trim on the arms and its matching hat on her head.

Taking in the bunting in the laneway strung from one shop to another and looking in the bakery window as she passed, she smiled at the bookshop in the distance.

Every little thing about the shop was right up her alley and she’d loved it from the very first day it had opened its doors.

The bookshop did not fail to please anyone’s eyes, whatever time of day they decided to walk past and on the freezing evening, as Darby approached it was no different.

Lovely soft golden light dropped from the bookshop's front windows onto the cobbled pavement and everything seemed to twinkle. Darby was on her way to the local author’s event that had been mentioned in the hospice shop.

She’d been invited by Daisy and had bought a ticket in a show of support.

Despite knowing that Archie had said he would be there, she’d been in two minds whether to go.

He’d not taken the messages any further and she’d decided the drink had been what she’d thought and to keep her sweet.

However, she’d forced herself to put something nice on, she’d done her hair and makeup and made herself walk out the front door.

Stopping just down from the shop’s window, she peered in and smiled.

Everything looked so gorgeous, she was pleased she’d made the effort to attend.

In the window, stacks of novels were arranged at different heights, a hand-lettered sign in loopy handwriting announced 'New Arrivals' and tiny fairy lights had been woven around just about everything.

Talk about magical. The place oozed magic bookshop vibes from its every pore.

In one corner adjacent to the window, a couple of wingback chairs with a tartan throw draped casually over one arm sat next to a side table with a small stack of books and a little grouping of lanterns.

Window boxes filled with greenery flanked the entrance and tiny white lights twinkled.

Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and rolling library ladders made Darby shake her head in happiness.

She'd always had a bit of a bookshelf ladder fetish, now, although not her own, she could fantasise about it to her heart’s content.

Feeling a tad on the nervous side about attending the event, yet again on her own, Darby told herself that she would probably have an enjoyable evening.

She didn’t mind going to things alone, and for sure she’d had to jolly well suck it up and get on with it.

However, often when push came to shove, she’d rather just stay on the safety of her very own sofa and watch other people living their lives.

Nonetheless, she’d told herself that if she didn't go, she wouldn’t be invited again.

It hadn’t taken her too long to work out that if Pretty Beach and its locals decided to take you under their wing, you reciprocated.

Sometimes, though, the thought of making small talk and having to go over her same old boring story for the millionth time made her lose the will to live.

The same old exclamations when she told new people her story.

Yawn, she had her children when she was how old?

She looked way too young to have three grown-up children.

She’d heard it so many times before. It regularly arrived with a sort of pitying look.

She would often see it go across people’s faces that perhaps she was somehow rough or stupid or both.

The truth was that back when she’d had her first, she’d loved it.

So much so that in about as many years, she’d done it twice more just to make sure.

With as many men. She didn’t tell anyone that bit, though. Best not to scare people away.

Pushing open the door, a little bell jingled overhead and right by the doorway, Daisy’s partner, Miles, whom she’d met a few times in the pub, beamed. ‘Hello. How are you?’

‘Hi. Good, thanks.’ Darby gestured around the busy shop. ‘How’s it all going?’

‘Yes, very good. Okay, what can I get for you? Mulled wine might go down well. What with the weather.’ Miles pointed out the window. ‘How cold is it? I can get you tea or coffee. We have some of Lottie’s shortbread on the go, too. What do you fancy?’

Darby thought about the fact that, firstly, she was cold and, secondly, that she had left her car at home.

She wasn’t quite looking forward to walking up the hill on the way back, but she’d checked the bus times and had that as a backup if her legs were not feeling up to it.

The mulled wine sounded perfect for the cosiness of the evening.

‘You know what? I’ll have mulled wine if that’s okay. ’

‘Of course.’ Miles turned to the shop’s old-fashioned counter, where on the far end it was doubling up as a dumb waiter. He spooned mulled wine into a glass and handed it over.

Darby inhaled cinnamon, star anise and all sorts. She closed her eyes for a second and then sipped. ‘Ooh, lovely.’

‘Be careful. It’s potent.’

Darby laughed. ‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’

Miles pointed to the main area of the shop where lines of chairs were laid out near the wingback chairs. Candles flickered from the floor-to-ceiling shelves and cosy jazz music played. ‘Take a seat anywhere you like. We’ll be starting soon.’

The room had been transformed and was more sitting room than retail space. Folding chairs had been arranged in a rough semicircle facing a small table where a woman with silver hair and an expensive-looking scarf was arranging papers and checking a microphone.

A few minutes later, Darby was sitting chatting to Maggie, Daisy, the shop owner’s sister, as she sipped her mulled wine.

Not long after that, from the front, Daisy tapped on a microphone.

'Good evening, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out on such a cold night. A warm welcome to Margaret, an author local to us all. What a turnout. We have the lovely Lotta with us this evening, who will be interviewing. Without further ado, I’ll let you listen… ’

The audience settled as Lotta started to ask questions and Darby tried not to stare at a man to her right, who had pulled out a typed-out list of serious literary notes.

The author adjusted her microphone, smiled and launched into what was clearly a well-practised, overly rehearsed presentation.

On and on she went; about her writing process, the inspiration she drew from village life, and the way that small communities could harbour the sort of secrets and conflicts that made for compelling books.

Darby did not find the author in any way entertaining.

Talk about full of herself and, man, did she love the sound of her own voice. Maggie, next to her, stifled a yawn.

It had to be said that Darby was bored within, oh, about two minutes, but she tried not to be. The book, something about a werewolf from a small English coastal town travelling and falling in love on Mars, wasn't really up her street. Each to their own.

Just as she was staring at the author, trying to ascertain quite how one cooks up a story about a werewolf from a small town who could also travel to the planet Mars and she was thinking that she would most certainly need another glass of mulled wine to get though the rest of the launch, someone quietly slid in two rows in front of her and sat down next to Suntanned Pete.

Darby immediately sat up a little bit straighter.

Her evening had just improved immensely.

Archie had snuck in late and had taken a spot in the audience. Things can only get better.

'The thing about small towns is that everyone knows everything about everyone else, but they all pretend they don't. And that combination of intimacy and denial creates exactly the sort of tension that writers dream about. Someone can keep a secret for thirty years, and everyone in the village will know what it is.’ Margaret, the author, spoke as if that fact had taken her a lot of sincere research time.

Darby tried not to roll her eyes. Keep a secret like flying to Mars? Yeah, sure.

The audience, however, by the low muttering noises of agreement and knowing chuckles, suggested most of them had personal experience with the sort of dynamics Margaret was describing.

'Of course, these days, villages are complicated by the internet.

Social media means that village secrets can become global news overnight, and local drama can suddenly have an audience of thousands.

It adds an interesting layer to contemporary modern writing.

The way that technology can both reveal and conceal information, often simultaneously, is staggering. '