have to ask her which Rachel. Again, there’s only one Rachel.
‘I saw her aunt in the supermarket last week,’ Mum says. ‘She told me Rachel was moving back to the city, but the job Rose lined up for her at the hospital café fell through. Rachel’s good with computers, so I told Rose she could have the job.’
I listen to Mum and try to think about what conditions would have to exist for Rachel to accept a job working with me at Howling Books. Maybe she suffered a blow to the head and she’s got amnesia.
‘I thought you’d be happy,’ Mum says when I don’t respond. ‘You’re best friends.’
‘That was before she moved,’ I tell her. ‘We haven’t spoken in years.’
‘Should I un-hire her?’ she asks. ‘I don’t think I can un-hire her.’
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see Rachel. Lying if I said I hadn’t missed her. And if she’s taken the job then maybe she feels the same way. ‘Don’t un-hire her,’ I tell Mum as George comes back and says she’s not hungry anymore and wants to go home.
Mum leaves with her, so it’s just Dad and me. We sit at the table with too many dumplings and a whole heap of quiet. ‘You’re disappointed,’ I say. ‘I haven’t officially cast my vote yet.’
‘We all have a vote. We’re all part of the decision. Don’t look so worried.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m not disappointed in you.’
‘I read an article that said second-hand books will be relics eventually,’ I tell him, still trying to make excuses for how things went tonight.
‘Do you know what the word relic actually means, the dictionary definition?’ he asks, offering me the prawn crackers.
I take one and tell him I don’t know.
‘It means sacred,’ he says, breaking his cracker in half. ‘As in “the bones of saints”.’
The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Letter left between pages 8 and 9
Undated
To my love
If I knew where you were, I would post this letter. But I don’t, so I will have to leave it here. I know how you love F. Scott. More than you love me, I think. I searched every inch of the bookshelves. I feel certain you’ve taken our copy. We bought it together. Don’t you remember? So it wasn’t really yours to take.
Your letter arrived. It was better than a text, I suppose, but you’re wrong. It wasn’t the kinder way to end things. It would have hurt just the same if you’d said goodbye to my face, but it would have stung less.
Where have you gone, my love? After ten years together I think knowing this is more than my due. Write me one line to let me know where you are. So that I do not wonder, for the rest of our lives when I imagine you, what is the background to your face.
John
Henry
shit days generally get more shit
I walk back from the restaurant towards Laundry thinking about Rachel and the bookshop, about whether or not I should sell, and about what I should do when I see her.
The problem with the bookshop is that selling makes sense. I’ve been thinking it for a while now. Mum makes a good argument, and she’s always been the practical one in the family.
The problem with Rachel is that I don’t know what to say when I see her. I don’t know if I can be her friend again if she doesn’t say that she missed me, or give me a good explanation as to why she didn’t write. I don’t have a whole lot of dignity, but I’ve got some.
I’m worrying about this when I walk straight into her. We collide on the street, and I’m in the middle of apologising before I realise it’s her.
The first thing I think is: thank God she’s back. The second thing I think is: she’s grown up gorgeous. She always was gorgeous, of course, but she’s grown up even more gorgeous than I thought she would. There’s something different about her, and I can’t stop my eyes from roaming all over her, checking out the changes – her hair’s short and bleached, she’s wearing an old black t-shirt and black jeans, she’s taller, or maybe it’s just that she’s thinner, or maybe it’s both.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ she says, and then looks away, like she barely recognises me.
‘Henry,’ I say. ‘Henry Jones. Best friend for seven years. Ringing any bells?’
‘I know,’ she says, still not really looking at me.
She