I can’t believe you heathen americans working on boxing day – my 3rd yr and it still seems wrong

<welcome to America Al!>

and St Johnstone actually won for a change and I missed it all

<could be worse, you could be here cleaning the oven with me>

sounds delectable promise me you are only wearing rubber gloves 😀

There are certain things that an American who is in a relationship with a British person comes to expect after their beloved has come to live in our great and barbarous nation for a while. Expressions of grudging respect for our hospitality. Wonder at the sheer number of breakfast cereals in the grocery aisle. Shock at our medical bills. Whingeing about the unavailability of (fill in the blank with a particularly beloved British foodstuff) and the general unpalatability of (fill in the blank with a particularly vile American specialty, though one of the favorite targets is our bread).

And of course our paltry vacation time. Back in London, when he was working in the same job he is now in San Francisco (and will again shortly in Santa Monica), Alex had five weeks’ paid holiday, plus all the bank holidays, amounting to just over six weeks of time off. As much as he could, he spent that time with Lucy, as much as Minty would permit. It had taken nearly a year after their separation for Al to make the case that what he had done to their family was not a sin that should bar him from overnight visits with his daughter. (The judge agreed.) Even these, however, were only ever one night at a time, and rarely outside of the tiny village in which Lucy and Minty made their home. The one time he had lured Minty up to London for a week had been when they were attempting (without my knowledge) their unsuccessful reconciliation.

Their reunion had been a disaster, which was no great sadness to me when he confessed. “I thought a week of us staying in adjoining rooms at the Dukes Hotel, keeping the doors open, taking meals together, letting Min rack up time at the spa while I bustled Lucy about Green Park, might be an opportunity to show her I’m responsible again. Responsible enough to be a father and a husband. Earning enough to make us a family again, enough for Min to have her old lifestyle back, or near enough. And I thought if she and I were just near each other again, our love might be real again. We could pick up where we left off, before I ran everything off the rails. I was wrong, and I never should have hid it from you, sweetest. Can you forgive me?”

(I forgave him. Even now, I try not to think about how he’d cheated on me, even if he was still technically married to Minty at this point.)

But this Boxing Day, Alex was at work while I spent the day ticking off the few remaining tasks before the big move, a list of chores which dwindles by the day now that I’ve officially stopped working at the shop. Ben spent my last morning weeping into the low-foam caramel latte I’d fetched for him on what would be my final coffee run. “Petal, how will I manage without you? No offense, Luisa.” (Luisa is my replacement, and far more knowledgeable than I will ever be about used books. Unlike me, she was hired for her experience in retail rather than her ability to look pretty on the shop floor and amuse Ben with stories of rich English people behaving badly when he got bored.)

Molly had put the word around that this was to be my last day, and some of our regulars stopped by to bid me adieu. Cool Prof gifted me a genuinely cool selection of 90’s riot grrrl ‘zines, along with a copy of his spirulina cookie recipe (yuck), and even Sour Milk got a little misty-eyed before taking me into a fairly foul-smelling embrace. After classes had ended for the day, Katya dropped in to thank me for getting her prints on the wall (she’s sold all but one of them now). The finality of my decision to abandon the Good Ship Berkeley came into focus as I pushed the outside racks inside the shop for the very last time, locked the door and pulled down the green roller blinds for the day.

Up at the front desk, Luisa closed the register as Ben talked her through the process once more; she’d be closing the shop herself for the first time the following evening. The front desk would no longer be the lodestar of my days, the site of confessions and gossip and jokes. That was the desk where I’d almost let Alex fuck me one evening this summer, the same one where Fenn had put up her feet and fussed with Ben’s modelling clay, the one where I had confessed my secrets day after day to Ben, where he’d cried to me when his not-really-a-boyfriend-so-why-does-this-hurt-so-much dumped him in early November.

No more. I was back to being the decorative partner of a well-heeled man, possessed of enough money (my own now) not to have to work. My days will be my own to fill as much as I please in Santa Monica, with shopping and pilates and charitable do-goodery. I could take classes in needlepoint or dressmaking, or jog along the beach. It all sounded uniformly dreadful, and I’d been pressing Ben hard on his plan to restart his own side hustle, dealing in better stuff than what we sell in the store. Initially, I’d worried that he might be competing against the owner of the shop, keeping the best volumes for himself and dealing only with our usual low- to mid-range stock in-store. We both got spooked enough about Ben getting fired that we completely killed it for a while, filing it away in a “nice to have but Mel doesn’t really need a job” drawer.

And then something curious happened. Our boss came into the shop for the first time in six months on my third to last day working there. When I said he was hands off, I meant it — Stan had fucked off to his castle on the Adriatic in June and we’d had a grand total of five emails confirming he’d received the monthly receipts and the quarterly P&Ls when sent by Molly, and a single postcard from Budva, Montenegro, containing only a stanza from a Byron poem I knew too well from Josh:

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

Yet here Stan was in his teal blue half-zip pullover, dragging a red Radio Flyer full of Dorothy L. Sayers paperbacks and a box of cupcakes into the middle of the shop. I’d only met him a handful of times, but our brief conversations stuck in my mind. He’d made his (reported) billions running a private equity fund that had phenomenal results, then packed it in when he got a terrible case of A Conscience sometime back in 2013. (Alex noted Stan had stayed in the game long enough to make his fortune off the back of the Great Recession, but I told him not to be so cynical.) After a year spent searching for some greater purpose, consulting with assorted yogis and therapists, and buying the castle in Croatia, he returned to Berkeley, where it had all started for him as an undergrad at Cal.

“I wanted to give back something to the city that wasn’t an obvious present. I’m not a philanthropist — not really,” he’d explained to me during our one meeting as I showed him how I had rearranged the boxes of ephemera. “I wanted to run the used bookshop I would have wanted to stumble upon as an undergrad. Not a dumping ground for books no one wants to buy, not a ‘Books a Million’ place with remaindered stock. I’m under no delusions — this city is full of fantastic places to buy good books. But Moe’s is so large, and Pegasus has so much else going on besides the books with the lectures and signings. Mrs. Dalloway’s, too, and they’re in Elmwood. And everyone sells new books and knick-knacks that aren’t even books. Or prints.” He plucked a reproduction of a Miró line drawing in a glassine envelope from the mess in the box and reinserted it behind a divider marked “Over $10.”

“But people want new books,” I offered. “I mean, that must be where the money is. And people like going to events at the shops, at least I’ve enjoyed the ones I’ve gone to. And when authors give talks, surely the stores must make some money from selling copies of their books at the events.”

Stan dismissed this with a little wave. “So much organization for the staff to handle, not least the wrangling of an author. And there are just so many places to buy new books. I thought, why not focus on what I would have wanted when I was a kid here in the ’80’s? Cheap books, used books, books I never would have dreamed I wanted to read but everything — or almost everything — is within my limited budget. Nothing fussy, but everything tidy and I must say, Melissa, you do a better job with that than any of your predecessors. I like these dividers, very logical.”

(I admit to puffing out my chest a little with pride for that compliment.)

“We sell the cheap, used book you never thought you needed. That was the slogan that brought me to this space. And I admit I overdid it for a while with the buying — thank you for clearing out the potboilers, by the way, Ben told me that was your doing.” (Another chest puff.) “But this shop is meant to be a welcoming space for students and the community, where they’ll walk out with a book nearly every time, even if it’s one that we’ve put outside for free.”

And what had we done in Stan’s extended absence? Made it into the shop Ben and I wanted to hang out in, of course. We’d started running down the cheapie paperbacks and the oversized mystery section, and beefed up the art books and literary fiction. Ben had two new vitrines with first editions and rarer volumes. The “take me, I’m free” Saturday selections were becoming smaller and smaller in number, as we had fewer and fewer low value books that we could put outside in good conscience. And of course we had put Katya’s prints up on the wall and had even had a little reception for her at which she gave a little talk about her process and oeuvre. In short, we’d turfed Stan out of his own shop.

As I’d helped Ben begin the shop makeover earlier this year, I tried to ignore the nagging memory of Stan’s slogan. I rationalized it to myself — we were still selling the used book you never knew you needed, and most of them were still pretty cheap. And some of the new acquisitions Ben was bringing in were mysteries, Stan’s favorites — some of them just happened to be first edition Dashiell Hammetts, that’s all. We had new customers coming in after the Berkeleyside article about Katya’s prints, so the reception was a success, no? Ben had managed to get the reporter to mention some of our new, pricier acquisitions, and he’d managed to sell a few of them sight unseen, over the phone. Great, right?

Wrong. Stan’s reappearance had nothing to do with the Berkeleyside article, but a “friend” (I highly suspect Molly, but would never say it to her face) had passed it on to him. I have to hand it to my boss — he must have really centered himself with one or more of those yogis because he never raised his voice during our impromptu all-hands staff meeting, and neither Ben nor I got the boot, even though we probably deserved it (Ben more so than me, but again, never to the face). If I’d come home from six months living like a sultan in my medieval castle to find my brand new staff thought they knew better than I did about running my hobby business in my absence, I’d probably cry and get drunk. (Let’s be honest about it — it’s me, so there’s going to be tears and liquor involved.) Stan? That’s a man who clearly keeps his chakras firmly aligned.

So over some flat whites and salted caramel cupcakes, Stan made it clear that we were going back to basics — our focus was back on paperbacks, for one — without abandoning what to him seemed to be working from “asking around.” (*cough* Molly *cough*) Bringing new customers in through receptions for exhibiting local artists? Here to stay. Expanded art book offerings? Turning a nice profit, and moving the section upstairs from the far corner where the Hobbits liked to linger in the afternoon made it a less enticing corner for people to take naps in.

“So, I take it I won’t be going to the book fair in January,” Ben acknowledged.

Stan shook his head and thrust another cupcake towards Ben, who tried to refuse it but quickly relented. (“I was only trying to be polite,” he grumbled to me later when I reminded him to add it to his Noom daily calorie tracker.) “You misunderstand me. I have no problem with you going to the book fair, but it won’t be for this store. I hired you knowing you’re a dealer, Ben, and I never wanted to kill that in you. And you’re a great manager — Molly told me you’re easier to get along with and far more motivational than Gretchen ever was.”

Gretchen predated both Ben and me, and Cool Prof was not a fan, for one. Pretentious (wore a turban and quoted Gertrude Stein whenever possible), vain (regularly reminded customers and staff alike that she had once been a successful model in New York, although this was true only if you count modelling for the Montgomery Ward catalogue in the ’80’s as a marker of success) and lazy (regularly napped in the Hobbit’s corner, thus setting the stage for customers to follow suit), Gretchen was fired only when she snapped at Sour Milk for having the temerity to once show up in a turban of her own. (Even worse, it was gold lamé and far more fabulous than Gretchen’s purple polyester extravaganza.)

“I don’t want to lose you as a manager,” Stan continued as Ben squirmed in one of the wingback chairs. “But you can’t change the direction I want my shop to go in without my say-so.”

Ben hung his head in shame and picked at the chair’s arm, tracing a finger around the small jagged hole in the tan leather already there. “If you want me to resign, Stan, I will. I’ll be honest — I was thinking about starting up a side hustle with Mel anyway when she moves to Santa Monica. You know, a little dip of a toe into the Southern California market. I’ve got some contacts there, and, well…”

I butted in — I could see an opportunity for myself I wasn’t too polite to reach for, even if it looked like Ben was. “What he means to say is that he was wondering if he could deal some on the side in the subjects he and I are interested in — first editions, you know, and the art and design books. He’d do the sleuthing and I’d do the appraisals in SoCal. Anything that’s suitable for the shop you’d get first dibs on it as long as Ben works here, plus a small commission for me. 30% of whatever you price it at.” (Where in the hell had all of that come from? Sometimes I hear Julian speaking through me at the strangest times.)

Stan and Ben looked at me dumbfounded; from her chair opposite Ben’s, Molly gave me a nod of approval and a quick thumbs up. Julian’s voice echoed from a dinner we’d hosted for one of his young interns: if there’s a silence after you make a power play, don’t fill it up because you’re nervous. Your silence shows you’re in control. Don’t give up that control willingly. Stand your ground and wait.

“20% on anything under $50, 15% above that and we have a deal,” Stan finally countered. I saw in the firm set of his jaw the dealmaker he used to be.

I shook my head — hey, what did I have to lose? Ben could still do his dealing without me and work out his own commission if he wanted. “Sorry, Stan. Just too low, considering that it will take us a while to develop our contacts down there. I mean, I’m in a great location — I can reach Malibu and Beverly Hills and Santa Barbara if I really feel like travelling — but I just don’t know anyone yet, or at least anyone who might be a source. And while Ben has some contacts, it’s going to take a while. We’re not a known entity down there, not like up here. You know what I mean.” I brushed a little non-existent bit of fluff off my sweater sleeve.

I watched Stan pace a little as he considered my argument. He knew I could walk away — hey, why does the alimony queen need the money or any type of employment? — and that I was bargaining for the hell of it. Perhaps part of me wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t the addle-headed almost-blonde Julian had accused me of being when he wanted to sting me in my tenderest spot.

Finally, he stopped in front of me and drew me up from my seat with his outstretched hand. “If you cook up a marketing email for me to send to my contacts down there, explaining what you and Ben are proposing, I’ll send it out. But it will be only for what I’m interested in buying for this store. You can certainly look at and buy anything else these contacts have for your own hustle, but visits will be only for leads that have something I might want. I don’t want these people harassed unless it’s going to help me. And the percentages stay, with some room for negotiation later on if I like what you two are doing for me.”

Well. Well, well, well, Julian. Look at what your “not much going on in the old brainbox” little woman did. I looked Stan right in the eye (I had to crane my neck — Stan’s even taller than Alex is) and shook the hand I still held.

“Deal.”

***

This is my last post of 2019 — what a remarkable year. I gained a job and a fiance, and managed to walk away from only one of those. I stood my ground with Julian again and again, and slipped only once or twice. (Okay, probably more than that.) I let Alex love me in the ways I know I deserve to be loved — not because I earned his love by being someone I was not, but because I was open to receiving it in all its grace. I gained a home in a city I love that I’m leaving with some regret, but the decision was mine, all mine.

In less than a fortnight I’ll be driving through the Central Valley in a rented SUV en route to my new home, back again in the sunny kingdom by the sea. Not the journey I’d wanted, but Alex is right — I may have learned to stand up for myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m above compromise. We’ll set out early — after one last breakfast at Rainbow Donuts with Ben and Caitlin, of course — on a route that we agreed on after Alex thought he’d been maybe too dismissive of my plan to make a mini-break of it. We’ll spend the day and an evening in Paso Robles for some wine tasting and spa indulgence (yes!), and the following morning resume the journey to Santa Monica on the exceedingly dull I-5. The one perk of this route is that we’ll pass through Burbank and my mom jumped at the chance to hop in the car to help us set up home on Sunday.

New year, new life. This will be the year that I’ll marry Alex, though I don’t know yet when that will be or what that day will look like. I’ll be a wife again, but not the lesser of two in a marriage. I’m gaining a wild and brilliant little girl as a daughter, a girl I want to grow without the anxieties of womanhood I’m still wrestling to pin down and defeat for good.

And for whatever it’s worth, I’ll become a Carr. “And I a de Mornay,” Alex tells me. “We’re yoked together, hen, side by side.” Balcraigie’s stone and mortar and brick and rot weigh upon me sometimes, as do its inhabitants, living and not-so-alive. Someday it will be my responsibility, too (though my pre-nup will hive my own reserves from paying for its upkeep, should any of our joint property be insufficient to prop it up). I’ll be another portrait on the green day room wall, or in the robin’s egg blue parlor, or hidden in the depths of the gloomiest attic in Perthshire. Another Carr madwoman. Not such a bad thing to be.

Three years ago, I was sitting on the other side of a poky living room in Suffolk from Alex, texting him furiously while my husband — still then my husband! — snorted a line of cocaine off of Sasha’s Nars mirrored compact. When Julian looked up at me, a ring of white powder framing his nostril, I thought: this can’t be what I want forever. There has to be a way out. My phone pinged that very moment with Al’s text: This can’t be what you want, sweetest. We have to find a way out. And though the way out, the way through, wasn’t the easiest one, I’m here and alive and happy, in love and if not completely at peace, I am finding more harmony with the world as I learn who I am becoming.

And who am I, as the calendar flips once more? Mel, Liss, Sweetest, Darling, Honey Girl, the Princess Melissa Layla de Mornay Cranford Carr of the sunny kingdom by the sea. Bring it, 2020. I’m just as greedy as ever.