Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters Read Free Book Online Page B

edition of
The God of Small Things
by Arundhati Roy. Reading copy only, so I popped it into the 30p bargain basket under the window, alongside the front door.)
    M y cat, Tara, and I lived a cosy life for many years. She greeted me with good grace every day when I returned from work, and curled up on my lap on Sunday afternoons while I read or watched the occasional film. She was faithful and devoted, unlike most cats, and I almost believed she loved me as much as I loved her. But last Saturday, I arrived home to find Tara stiff and cold on the doormat. I had to pick her up before I could get in the door.
    After dark, when nobody could see me, I buried her under the plum tree in my tiny back garden.
    It was with a large measure of serendipity that I stumbled upon the vacancy in the Old and New Bookshop. Philip had plans to open up a further room of the shop, to sell a decent range of new books. He needed somebody to manage that side of the business, as well as helping him with the second-hand books. I like to think my newly acquired degree in English Literature helped me to land the job. Philip tells me he liked my friendly, non-pretentious manner and my willingness to clean. He felt I would slot very nicely into his bookshop.
    We were a small, tight-knit team, Philip and I, in those early days. Just the two of us, in the shop from nine to five (often much later in his case), both of us for six days a week, most weeks. I have not minded giving up my Saturdays. My social life is sparse. But Philip has always been good company, funny and witty, and observant of his fellow man, if a little too critical. I have enjoyed his company since day one.
    As the shop grew, the need for another member of staff became apparent, and Sophie became the third employee. A lovely girl, inside and out – intelligent and kind – perfect for the shop. I think I resented her, at first. I wanted the shop, and Philip – I wanted it all to myself. Sophie was new and pretty and I was jealous, of all things, which was utterly ridiculous. I got over it.
    Sophie’s boyfriend, Matt, collects her from work on Saturday evenings, and they often ask me to ‘hang out’ with them. They are getting a Chinese, or a pizza, they’re watching a film. I’m welcome to join them. I always decline.
    ‘Oh, come on, Roberta. It’ll do you good,’ says Sophie.
    ‘No,’ I always say. ‘Tara needs feeding.’
    A soft shake of Sophie’s head. ‘You need to get over it! Go home and feed her, then pop round to ours. Stay the night. It’s just a cat, not a child. You should live a little. For God’s sake.’
    Philip and I have a professional relationship, but we can laugh and joke together, and often we do. We rarely talk about our lives away from the shop. Philip bought the eighteenth-century building housing the Old and New twelve, thirteen years ago. I believe, I get the feeling, there is no mortgage, there are no loans to repay. Sophie and I speculate that he may have won the lottery. Or inherited money from a dead relative. Of course, we never ask. Some months, I know the Old and New is lucky to break even. It often makes a loss, and usually only makes a profit in December – and even then, only in good years. Yet Philip continues to run his independent bookshop as a going concern, and he has converted the uppermost floor into his comfortable and handsome flat. He is simple in his tastes. Books, obviously, lots of books in his personal collections. And paintings, mostly prints, but I suspect a few originals too, all nicely framed. Plants, lots of houseplants – unusually, for a man, I think. That lovely sofa in the roomy lounge, an old rocking chair. A small television in the corner. No game stations, no Xboxes or whatever they’re called, just a handful of well-chosen DVDs. A clean kitchen, small and functional. All is simple and old-fashioned – or, at least, pretending to be simple and old-fashioned.
    One of Sophie’s recent ideas (Philip values her