Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Opportunities and Emergencies

On Monday Anya woke up with a headache. Low dark clouds shrouded the sky, and it felt like some sort of a cast iron, industrial size vice squeezed her skull. She took a Nurofen tablet, which she always tried to avoid, because it made her stomach dicky. Sally and Martin were home as well, and the atmosphere was tense.

While cooking lunch for Henry and Varya, Anya caught herself on the thought of escaping the farm - and going to the Ekollon. She stubbornly reminded herself that if she continued this way, he'd surely catch on her daft and unrequited pining for him. The worst thing was that if it were to happen, he'd probably be considerate about it. He wouldn't take the mickey or humiliate her or take advantage of it in any way; he'd just feel embarrassed and probably try to avoid her as much as possible.

In a way, her current situation reminded her of when she'd had a crush on the most popular boy in the secondary school, and he'd told her to stop making an idiot out of herself. 'As if!' he'd said. 'Have you seen yourself in the mirror?' She knew, of course, that they'd been fifteen at the time, and that teens tend to be cruel, and it had been just because she was so loudly Asian, and he was a son of the best Jewish GP in Almaty. And of course, in the UK, where most of the people around her were immigrants, she was perceived differently. And yet, that old shame had never quite gone away.

When they met, Dom had been so obviously out of her league: he'd been fit and lush, and talented, and bright, and everyone wanted to be his friend. These days, his weakness and his habit were starting to show: in the drooping line of his jaw, the unhealthy skin, the small beer belly on his overall thin, untoned body.

Vladimir, the only other man she'd ever dated besides Dom, was the epitome of a 'regular bloke,' with his rough hands and dirt under his nails. He was heavy bodied, loved watching footie with a lager in his hand, and complimented her 'nosh.' She'd thought then that he was exactly the kind of a partner that a woman like her had the best chance with. She'd liked him well enough, and his touch hadn't made her flinch. When he slapped her for the very first time, she'd even had a moment of surprise at how much she'd reacted to the pain. It had hardly been a surprise that he'd decided to 'set her straight.' It was when he'd shouted at Varya for the first time when Anya had started packing their suitcases.

She'd reminded herself again and again that it just wasn't in the books for her to have a husband like her Father had been to her Mum - never raising his voice at her, buying her flowers for special occasions, asking for her opinion on important matters, and even showing occasional affection with a peck on a cheek. It's not like she wanted any film-worthy romance or passion - she hardly knew what those would even be like - but was it too much to ask to have a tad of support and just someone to hug her after a hard day of toiling in a deli or cleaning other people's flats? And most importantly, Varya needed another parent. What if something happened to Anya - a car accident, a sudden illness, an assault? In the last estate where they'd lived, a woman from the flat above them, was raped and killed on her way back from work. She'd left three children behind. The chances of their so-called father sticking by had been pretty much non-existent. He'd probably bolted within a week, leaving them to the state.

Beggars couldn't be choosers - neither could they be dreamers. Putting her silly crush aside, even a job in a yet-to-be-built bookshop wasn't something she had the luxury to hope for. She needed to be realistic: at the moment, scrubbing Klaus Bjornsson's bathroom tiles and washing up his dirty tea cups that he tended to stack next to his sofa in a semblance of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, was her only source of income, which meant she needed to make sure nothing gave him or his Uncle a reason to get rid of her.

Her phone rang at around one.

"Ms. Rosenfeld?" a pleasant female voice asked. "Hi! My name is Eddie Sparrow. I own a bakery in Fleckney Woulds. Cornflower & Sparrow. I believe we've met, you've stopped by, but we never had a chance to chat."