Oke raised his eyebrows. That was not, if he was being honest, which he always was, the response he had hoped for. He liked the passionate dark-haired girl. He liked her a lot. But she had … well. Normally Oke did well with girls. But this one … He remembered the man in the very expensive clothing she’d been with in the Grassmarket. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who was very interested in how much money a man made, but who could tell? He didn’t know Scottish women at all.
‘Thanks again,’ she said, gingerly stepping out onto the slushy pavement.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, and disappeared into the throng, his distinctive gait making his hair visible in the crowd as she watched him bounce up the hill of the Lawnmarket in the direction of the tidy orderly university, and Carmen scrambled down the icy steps and back into the higgledy-piggledy disordered world of the bookshop.
The following few days remained trying. Sofia had ordered a gingerbread kit for Carmen to do as a family project on her babysitting night. It had not been a success.
Phoebe had licked her bits of the kit together, and eaten all the Smarties decorations as Pippa, who was doing her own carefully, harangued her. Jack had looked at it, said, ‘What’s the point of this?’ which Carmen had found very difficult to give a good reason for, before he added, ‘Can you just do it and tell Mummy I did?’, then Phoebe collapsed in floods of tears when she couldn’t get anything to stick and Carmen, who was not remotely crafty, didn’t do a much better job, and when Sofia came down from her nap, she almost cried because in fact the sections were meant to stack on top of each other and make a perfect replica of their own house and the kit had cost a solid fortune and, apart from Pippa’s layer, it all looked like a dog’s dinner and Sofia ended up staying up till 2 a.m. redoing everything and was teary and exhausted and hormonal which Carmen felt was not her fault and they had both attempted to pull their mother round to their point of view.
On the other hand, it looked sensational.
It had been a chilly morning. And now Carmen, while grateful for the custom – rather sweetly, she’d bumped into Crawford, who had bought three beautiful books on winter birds for his window display, and added a note explaining where to buy them and they’d had lots of queries – was not feeling at her best.
‘Because,’ she was saying, ‘a place where you borrow books is called a library. And in fact twenty metres away across the road is the National Library of Scotland. And in there they have every book ever written! And you can have any one you want!’
The old woman, who was Mrs MacGeoghan, was still looking belligerent.
‘But I want to read this one.’
‘You can,’ said Carmen. ‘But I’m afraid you have to buy it.’
She could hear Mr McCredie rustling about in the back, getting nearer to the shopfront which wasn’t ideal as he would probably let the lady take it if she promised to bring it back, and they weren’t out of the woods yet, money-wise. Sofia had told her if they made a profit and paid a few of their debtors by the new year, it could go up for sale as a going concern. What Carmen would do then, they didn’t discuss. Idra had mentioned restaurant jobs going and her mum had said there were community initiatives happening. She’d find something.
‘But I’m a pensioner,’ the old woman continued.
‘I realise that,’ said Carmen. ‘That’s why I absolutely would suggest a library. They are wonderful, amazing places. But this isn’t one.’
‘Well, that’s just … evil capitalism!’ said the old lady who was, Carmen couldn’t help but notice, wearing the same incredibly expensive brand of wellingtons Blair had bought.
Although the day hadn’t been all bad, she reflected. Before she left the house that morning, amid the usual school hubbub, Phoebe had sidled up to her and pressed something warm into her hand.
‘Uh, thanks?’ Carmen had said, glancing down and realising to her horror that Phoebe had given her a piece of warm cheese.
‘It’s for the mices,’ Phoebe had whispered. ‘At the shop.’
‘Oh,’ said Carmen. ‘But you know, they’re not real.’
‘In the DAY they’re not real,’ whispered Phoebe. Her gaze strayed towards the room with the television in it. They’d watchedThe Muppet Christmas Carolevery single second they’d been allowed to.
She leaned up on tiptoe, casting a sharp gaze around the room first in case Pippa was listening in.
‘I think at night they come alive,’ she whispered. ‘And that’s when they’ll need cheese.’
‘We certainly will get alive mice if I put down that cheese,’ said Carmen. ‘But they won’t be wearing bonnets.’
She looked at Phoebe’s disappointed face.
‘But it’s a brilliant idea,’ she said. ‘I bet we could make some cheese to add to the house. Not real cheese, but maybe … what looks a bit like cheese?’
They both frowned and looked for a moment extremely similar, although they didn’t realise it. Phoebe grinned suddenly.
‘My sponge!’
‘You’re a genius!’
‘I hate my sponge,’ she said.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ said Skylar suspiciously. ‘Have you done your thankfulness this morning, Phoebe?’
