How to Find Love in a Book Shop (11 page)

Luckily for Sarah, there wasn’t a dry eye in the church when Emilia played her piece on Julius’s cello.

She stood at the front of the church and spoke before she began.

‘My father gave me a love of books first and foremost, but he also gave me a deep passion for music. I was five when he first let me play his cello. He taught me to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” one Sunday afternoon, and I was hooked. I went on to do my grades, though I was never as good as he was. We played together often, and this was one of his favourite pieces. It’s “The Swan”, by Saint-Saëns.’

She gave a little nod, sat in her seat, picked up her bow and began to play. The notes were achingly sad, their melancholy sound echoing round the church, sweet and lingering. Sarah could feel them make their way into her heart and break it. She fell on her knees onto the prayer stool in front of her and buried her head in her arms, trying not to sob. She breathed as deeply as she could to calm herself until the last note died away. There was a silence, punctuated only by other members of the congregation sniffing and clearing their throats and wiping away their tears, and then someone began to clap, until the entire church was united in their applause. Sarah gathered herself, sat up, and joined in. She knew how very proud Julius would have been, how much he had loved his daughter, and she wished she could tell Emilia of the way his eyes had shone when he spoke of her.

Emilia felt elated when she finished playing. She had spent the last two weeks rehearsing every night until she was note perfect, but she was still afraid that she would freeze midway through, or her fingers would betray her. But they hadn’t. And then she sat and listened to the quartet play Elgar’s ‘Chanson de Nuit’
.
Somehow under Marlowe’s direction they made the music not sad but uplifting. Emilia didn’t think her battered little heart could take it, but as the last notes faded away she was still breathing. She was still alive.

Thomasina was making her way out of the churchyard, through the toppled gravestones. She needed to be back at school to teach the last lesson of the day. She felt a hand on her arm. She turned, and saw Jem smiling at her.

‘That was a really great reading,’ he told her. ‘I wish I’d had the nerve. But there aren’t many readings about cheese, and that’s all we had in common.’ He made a lugubrious face, but it was obvious he was joking.

Thomasina laughed.

‘Thank you. I was really nervous.’

‘You didn’t look it.’

‘Really?’ Thomasina was surprised. She’d thought her fear would have been apparent.

‘Not at all. My mum loved those books by the way. Thank you …’

‘I’m really pleased.’

They stood for a moment, the autumn leaves scuttling around their feet.

‘I’ve got to go,’ said Thomasina. ‘I’ve got a class.’

‘Yeah, and I’ve got to get back to the shop.’ He held up a hand. ‘See you.’

He strode off down the path towards the town and Thomasina watched him go, feeling as if she should have said more – but what more could she have said?

After the service, Emilia was putting away her cello in the vestry. She was glad to have something to occupy her. It had all been so perfect, and all she could think of was how much her father would have enjoyed everyone’s contributions. She reminded herself she would have to send everyone a thank you letter.

‘You played beautifully.’

She jumped, and turned.

There was Marlowe, smiling. ‘You see? I told you. Practice makes perfect.’

‘I don’t know about perfect.’

‘It was at
least
a merit.’

She pretended to pout. ‘I got a distinction when I did it. For Grade 6, I think.’

‘Good. Because there’s something I want to ask you.’

He looked a bit awkward. Emilia felt her cheeks go slightly pink. Was he going to ask her out? Surely not, just after her father’s memorial service? But a little bit of her hoped he might. She could do with a drink, she liked Marlowe, and her father had thought a lot of him. He was interesting and fun and—

‘I wondered if you’d take your father’s place in the quartet.’

‘
What
?
’ This wasn’t what Emilia had been expecting.

‘Poor old Felicity is so limited with what she can do now and I don’t want to put her under pressure. If you join, Delphine can go back to second violin, which will make her happy.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Which makes my life easier, I can tell you.’

Delphine. Of course. She had been at the service today, demure in a black shift dress. How on earth had she thought Marlowe might be interested in her?

Emilia shook her head. ‘No way am I good enough. Look how long it took me just to get one piece right.’

‘No way would I be asking you if I thought you weren’t up to it. It’s my reputation at stake. I wouldn’t risk it.’

‘I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how long I’ll be around. I don’t know what I’m doing with the shop.’ She was gabbling excuses.

‘Just join till the end of the year. It’s quiet for us, except for a few carol concerts. And Alice Basildon’s wedding.’ He was looking at her, his brown eyes beseeching behind his glasses. ‘I can give you some lessons. Get you up to speed.’

Emilia could feel herself weakening. Of course she wanted to join the quartet. But it was daunting.

‘I don’t want to let you down.’

‘We’ll just be doing carols, and the usual wedding repertoire. No Prokofiev or anything too fiddly.’

She looked at him. How would she resist that disarming smile? Being in the quartet would be the perfect distraction from the stress of the shop and all the decisions she had to make. And even if she were to close Nightingale Books tomorrow, she would be tying up the loose ends for a few months yet. Most importantly, Julius would be so proud and pleased to think she had taken his place. She remembered his patience as he had taught her to pick out her first notes; shown her how to hold the bow correctly. They had played duets together, and Emilia remembered being transported by the music, the joy of being in sync with someone else. She missed that feeling. The quartet would give that to her.

‘Promise me that if I’m not up to it, you’ll say.’

‘I promise,’ said Marlowe. ‘But you’ll be fine. Is that a yes?’

Emilia thought for a moment, and then nodded.

‘It’s a yes.’

Marlowe looked delighted. ‘Your dad would be so proud. You know that, don’t you?’

He hugged Emilia, and she felt a warm glow.

She told herself it was the pleasure of doing something she knew her father would have wanted.

Sarah drove back to Peasebrook Manor feeling dry-eyed and hollowed out, numb with the effort of trying not to feel. She had suppressed her emotions so ferociously she thought she might never feel anything ever again. A wave of gloom hit her as she turned into the drive. Oh God, Friday night fish pie and false smiles. That was what the evening held. Could she really live the rest of her life like this?

Eight

That evening, Dillon stopped off at the White Horse. He always dropped in on a Friday. He and a few mates met for a pint of Honeycote Ale, a bag of cheese and onion crisps and a chat about how their week had gone, before they all drifted off home for a shower and their dinner. Some of them had wives and girlfriends to go home to; some of them came back later, for a few more beers and maybe a game of darts or pool.

The White Horse was the perfect country pub. Perched on the river just outside Peasebrook, on the road to Maybury, it was rough and ready but charming. There was a small restaurant with wobbly wooden tables and benches, serving hearty rustic cuisine: game terrine with baby pickled onions and home-made Scotch eggs and thick chewy bread and pots of pale butter studded with sea salt. The bar had a stone floor, a huge inglenook fireplace, and a collection of bold paintings by a young local artist depicting stags and hares and pheasants. It was frequented by locals and weekenders alike and you could turn up in jeans or jewels: it didn’t much matter.

Dillon had been coming here ever since he could remember. His dad used to bring him and his brothers in on a Sunday while his mum cooked lunch, and it had become part of his life now. There was always someone he knew at the bar. If you didn’t know anyone, it wouldn’t be long before you did, because the atmosphere was convivial and everyone mucked in. It was easy to strike up a conversation.

That evening Alice was in there with Hugh and a horde of their friends. Dillon immediately felt tense.

Dillon loathed Hugh Pettifer with a vengeance. He could tell how difficult Hugh found it to treat him with politeness. He knew that if Hugh had his way, Dillon would never be allowed to speak to any of the Basildons and would bow and scrape and tug his forelock all day long. But that wasn’t how the Basildons worked, and whenever Alice saw Dillon she threw her arms round him and chattered away, teasing him in a manner some might consider flirtatious but that Dillon knew was just Alice.

Hugh would look at him with distaste, just about managing to acknowledge him with a nod and a smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes, and would draw Alice away at the first opportunity. It was all Dillon could do not to put two fingers up to Hugh’s retreating back.

Once, Sarah had asked him what he thought of Hugh. He wanted to say what he thought, but he would never say the c-word to Sarah.

Of course Hugh wanted to marry Alice. She had social standing, which Hugh didn’t, and was due to inherit quite the prettiest manor house in the county. She would be a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. Dillon could imagine a clutch of sturdy blonde-haired moppets stomping around Peasebrook in their wellies, with puppies and ponies galore.

Dillon couldn’t help wondering what was in it for Alice. Good genes? Hugh was pretty good-looking, if you liked that minor-royalty-polo-player sort of look: thick hair and year-round tan. Was it money? He was wealthy, certainly, but Dillon didn’t think Alice was that superficial. Maybe Hugh was a demon in bed? Maybe it was a combination of all three?

He made Dillon’s teeth go on edge. He told himself he was jealous. He would never have that kind of pull. A mere underling, on a fairly paltry salary, with no power or influence.

He and Alice got on like a house on fire when they were alone at Peasebrook Manor, but he felt awkward when she was out with her gang. They were spoilt and loud and drank and drove too fast.

‘They’re all really lovely,’ Alice would protest.

‘I’m sure they are,’ said Dillon. ‘But when they’re in a big crowd they come across as tossers.’

Alice looked wounded. Dillon knew he had to be careful. There was a limit to how horrible you could be about someone’s friends without it being a reflection on them.

So he tried to slink up to the bar and get a pint without her seeing him, but she did. She leapt out of her chair and came to give him a big hug. ‘Hello, Dillon! We’re all a bit sloshed. We’ve been to the races.’ She beamed and pointed over to a crowd of her friends around a big table in the window. ‘Come and join us.’

Dillon declined, as politely as he could. ‘Got to see a man about a ferret.’

This wasn’t a lie. He had a pair of ferrets at home, and the jill had just had a litter of kittens. He wanted to get shot of them before too long. A mate of his was interested.

Alice wouldn’t give up. ‘Come on. Come and meet everyone. I bet they’d all love a ferret. How many are there?’

Dillon sighed. Alice just didn’t understand, God bless her. Her friends were no more interested in him than he was in them. They had absolutely nothing in common except Alice. And they certainly wouldn’t want a ferret.

Alice was a little sunbeam who loved everybody, saw the bad in no one and treated everyone the same. To her, life was one long party. She fizzed with fun and bonhomie and that was why she was so good at her job. She understood what her clients wanted and did her utmost to get it for them. But she was shrewd underneath it. She knew how to get the best price for everything, and how to get the effect her clients wanted without paying over the odds.

That was how Dillon had really got to know her. She had become tired of paying astronomical sums for flower arrangements. After every wedding she looked at the florists’ handiwork and sighed. And she came to Dillon, and asked him to plant her a cutting garden.

‘I’m going to do the flowers myself from now on,’ she declared. ‘Everything has to be grown at Peasebrook. That’s our selling point. If they don’t like it, they can go somewhere else.’

So she and Dillon had spent hours poring over florists’ websites and leafing through seed catalogues. He told her what they could grow: tulips, narcissi, peonies, dahlias, roses of course, sweet Williams, sweet peas, alchemilla … She sent a couple of the girls who worked for her on a floristry course, and by the next wedding season they were doing the bouquets, buttonholes, table arrangements – everything.

‘I want that freshly-plucked-from-the-garden look,’ said Alice. ‘Not those awful stiff formal arrangements. I want it all frondy and feathery and Thomas Hardy-ish.’

In the end, Dillon had suggested a polytunnel, to get the biggest seasonal range, and Alice had declared him an utter genius.

So they had got quite close, and sometimes they ended up in the White Horse having a drink, and Alice bobbed about the pub like the butterfly she was, chatting to everyone. And then she’d met Hugh, at a friend’s party in London, and Dillon backed off. He could tell it was time for him to cut the ties, because there was absolutely no way a man like Hugh wanted the likes of Dillon cosying up to his girlfriend. And he tried to make it so that Alice didn’t realise he was deliberately avoiding her, because he knew the minute she twigged she would be insistent about including him, and Dillon simply couldn’t face the humiliation or the power struggle.

This was the first time he had been cornered in public, and he didn’t have a watertight excuse. He felt the prickly panic of a socially awkward situation.

‘You’ve got to meet everyone,’ Alice urged him. ‘They’ll all be at the wedding. Come on.’

She was tugging at his arm. Across the pub, Dillon saw Brian Melksham come into the bar for his Friday pint. Relief flooded him, just as Hugh walked over and put a proprietorial arm around Alice. There was no mistaking the underlying message.

‘I can’t,’ said Dillon. ‘There’s Brian. He’s having my ferrets off me.’

Alice’s face fell.

Hugh smirked and gave an unpleasant laugh.

‘It’s like the bloody
Archers
in here.’

Dillon grabbed Brian’s arm and walked him over to the bar. ‘Don’t look over. Just pretend we’re deep in conversation.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Alice wants me to go and sit with all her mates.’

‘Is she here with that knob?’

‘Yep.’

No one in the White Horse thought much of Hugh. They all thought Alice deserved better.

‘I seen his white tart trap in the car park,’ said Brian. ‘Nothing that a squirt of slurry wouldn’t put right.’

He pulled a fiver out of his pocket for his pint. That was what Dillon loved about people in the White Horse. They didn’t suffer fools.

At the end of the evening, the landlord called time. Dillon had stayed on for a game of pool in the back room but he decided he’d leave now, before the traditional Friday night lock-in. You had to be in the mood and he wanted a clear head for the weekend.

He walked back through into the main bar and saw Alice and her friends getting ready to leave. Most of them were unsteady on their feet, draped all over each other, braying and swaying. He looked at Hugh, who was holding his car keys. His face was flushed red, his eyes slightly glazed. He couldn’t possibly be fit to drive. Dillon looked at the empty champagne bottles littering the table. They’d had shots too. Someone had set up a Jäger train – shot glasses of Jägermeister balanced on glasses of Red Bull. There had been much hilarity as the domino effect pushed each shot glass into the next one.

But Dillon knew Hugh’s type. He wouldn’t let a small thing like being over the limit stop him. Dillon had only had two pints over the course of the evening. He wasn’t going to risk his licence. Besides, drink driving was illegal for a good reason.

He walked over to Alice, who was just coming out of the loo. He could see she had drunk too much to have any common sense left.

‘You shouldn’t get in the car with Hugh. You shouldn’t let him drive.’

Alice waved a hand. ‘It’ll be fine. It’s only the lanes.’

‘Please. I’ll give you a lift.’

Hugh came looming up behind Alice. He was waving his keys. ‘What’s up, ferret boy?’

Dillon didn’t falter. ‘You shouldn’t be driving.’

Hugh’s stare was flat and hard.

‘Mind your own bloody business.’

‘Come on, man,’ said Dillon, distressed. ‘I can give you guys a lift.’

Hugh prodded him in the chest. ‘Butt out. I’m fine to drive.’

Dillon bunched his fists and stepped forward. One of Alice’s mates spotted what was going on and started shouting ‘Fight! Fight!’

Alice looked worried. ‘Honestly, Dills – he’s fine.’

Dillon scowled. It went against all his instincts, to let Alice get in the car with Hugh.

‘Piss off, Mellors,’ said Hugh. ‘Come on, Alice.’

Dillon could see her falter for a moment. As Hugh led her away she turned, then shrugged, as if to say ‘What can I do?’

Dillon stared after them. His jaw was set. His heart hammered in his chest. He should grab Hugh and stop him; take away his keys. But he could see the look in Hugh’s eyes. He’d try and punch his lights out. And if he got physical with Dillon, Dillon would fight back and there was no doubt who would come off the worse. Dillon worked outside all day; Hugh sat behind a desk and went out for boozy lunches. He couldn’t beat up Alice’s fiancé. Sarah would be horrified.

He pulled his own keys out of his pocket. He would follow them home. Make sure Alice didn’t come to any harm. It was his duty. If anything happened to her, how could he ever look Sarah in the eye again? He headed out into the car park. The night air was crisp and cold; frost starting to settle on the branches.

Hugh’s car was waiting in the car-park exit, the engine idling.

Dillon got into his old Fiesta. He drove up behind the Audi, waiting patiently. He wasn’t going to pip his horn. He knew that was what Hugh wanted him to do. He was goading him. The seconds seemed like minutes. Dillon tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, trying not to get wound up. He wondered what Alice was thinking, if she knew what game Hugh was playing. She probably wouldn’t have a clue. Dillon was pretty sure she had no idea of her fiancé’s true colours.

Finally the Audi shot out of the car park and into the road, accelerating at a terrifying rate. He could imagine Hugh at the wheel, laughing his head off. There was no way his little car could keep up with his high-powered vehicle. Dillon’s lips tightened as he joined the road and followed in Hugh’s wake.

The lanes back to Peasebrook Manor were inky black at this time of night with trees looming on either side. Dillon dropped down a gear and put his foot down, taking the bends carefully. And then he turned the blind bend half a mile before the entrance to Peasebrook Manor and saw his worst fear in front of him. The massive oak tree that loomed over the corner was pierced by Hugh’s car.

The driver’s door was open. Dillon could see Hugh in the road, hands at his head. The passenger side had taken the full impact.

There was a horrible silence.

Dillon pulled out his phone. Thank God there was a signal here. He pulled into a gateway, flicked on his hazard warning lights, dialled the police and opened his door in one fluid movement, jumping out into the road.

Hugh came running up to him. There was panic on his face.

‘Have you got your phone? I can’t find my phone.’

Dillon pushed him out of the way and spoke into the phone. ‘Ambulance, please. And police.’

He strode past Hugh who pulled at his arm. ‘Not the police—’

Dillon pushed him away. ‘There’s been an accident at the Withyoak turn. Car’s gone right into the tree. I don’t know how many casualties yet but definitely one!’

Dillon hung up and ran towards the car, jumping into the driver’s side.

Alice was slumped over the airbag, unconscious. Her side of the car was crushed. There was broken glass, and blood on her face and her hands and in her hair. He could see that her legs were trapped. Dillon couldn’t begin to try and get her out. He might do more harm than good. He realised he was crying. He should have stopped her. Hugh poked his head through the door.

‘Shit. Is she all right?’

‘No she fucking isn’t! There’s blood everywhere.’

‘Oh Jesus. Jesus Jesus Jesus.’

‘Alice! Can you hear me?’ Dillon put a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re going to be OK. The ambulance is on its way. Alice?’ Dillon felt sick as he realised there was no response. He took her wrist and felt for a pulse. It was still there, and now he knew she was still alive he could see her breathing.

What should he do? Dillon was racking his brain for first aid rules, but he couldn’t think of anything. Her legs were trapped. He couldn’t pull her out. He didn’t want to move her in case he did more damage. All he could do was reassure her. He was shaking. With shock and fear and anger.