How to Find Love in a Book Shop (21 page)

‘Well, thank you.’ Emilia was very grateful. Marlowe had certainly helped make the evening a memorable one. ‘People are going to be talking about it for weeks.’ She laughed. ‘I thought things were going to get out of hand. He’s a handful even at his age.’

‘He’s a legend all right,’ said Marlowe in a mock-Kerry accent, buttoning up his coat.

Bea went home after the event feeling slightly high on the buzz. Everyone had raved about her windows; she’d had her photo taken in front of them with her arm linked in Mick Gillespie’s, and she felt like her old self. She hadn’t felt like Bea since the day she’d left
Hearth
. Mummy Bea was a slightly alien creature she still didn’t feel comfortable with.

So she was full of it when she got back home, babbling on to Bill who had got home from work early for once in order to babysit. But he just seemed grumpy and disinterested.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Bill. ‘Stop wittering on about that bloody shop, will you?’

Bea’s mouth dropped open.

‘Wittering?’ she said. ‘I try very hard not to witter, thank you very much.’

‘I’m sorry. But it’s not as if you’re even being paid. And I don’t think I can listen to another word.’

‘Well, in that case, you can listen to me witter about what Maud ate for lunch. And what shape or consistency her poo is. Because that’s what most new mothers talk about. I’m not as lucky as you. I don’t have reams of people to talk to about interesting things. So I’m sorry if I seem a bit obsessed, but Nightingale Books is the most exciting thing in my life right now—’

She hadn’t realised her voice was getting higher and higher with indignation. Bill put up a hand to stop the flow.

‘I’m off to bed. It’s nearly midnight. And I have to be up at six. Sorry.’

And he walked out of the room.

Bea was astonished. She crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to let Bill get away with this behaviour. She wouldn’t tackle him now, but she was going to call Thomasina in the morning. Book them dinner at A Deux, and have it out once and for all, on neutral territory, in private. She was not going to stand here and watch her marriage go down the pan.

Mia and Jackson walked back from Nightingale Books in the lamplight.

Mia had drunk two cocktails and was quite garrulous. Jackson supposed that as she barely ate anything these days they must have gone straight to her head. She was a little unsteady on her feet, and as they reached the edge of the town he took her arm. She didn’t seem to mind. She leant on him as they walked up to the house. He thought it felt a bit like the old days, when they’d first got together and had gone out on the town with their mates.

But the minute they got inside the door of the house, Mia went quiet and cold.

‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she said, but it sounded automatic rather than genuine. ‘I’m off to bed. Thank you for sitting, Cilla.’

And she was gone.

Jackson was flummoxed. He looked to his mother for an explanation.

‘Ten minutes ago she was babbling about what an amazing evening she’d had. Suddenly she’s like an ice queen.’

Cilla looked knowing.

‘She’s scared.’

‘Of what? Not me, surely.’

‘She feels a fool,’ said Cilla. ‘She knows she was wrong to kick you out, but she doesn’t know what to do about it.’

‘Why can’t she just say she was wrong?’ Jackson was puzzled.

Cilla sighed. ‘You don’t understand women, do you?’

‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘But if that’s what she feels, what am I supposed to do?’

‘Woo her back.’

‘That’s what I thought I was doing.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think I didn’t get the instruction manual.’

‘You’ll be all right.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

Jackson hugged his mum. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go up and give Finn a goodnight kiss, then let’s get home.’

Ten minutes later he bundled his mum into his jeep, popped Wolfie in the boot and walked round to the driver’s door. At the last moment, he looked out and saw Mia peering out of her bedroom window. As soon as she saw him looking, she dropped the curtain and was gone.

In the quiet of the empty shop, Emilia gathered up the last of the cocktail glasses that were scattered around and took them upstairs to wash them and put them back in the box to be taken to the wine merchant.

It had been a wonderful evening. It had lifted her heart. So many people had turned up to see Mick Gillespie, old customers and new. There had been a real buzz in the air.

Of course, Emilia knew that she wouldn’t get a star like him to come along to the shop every week. And the novelty would probably wear off. But it had given her a glimpse of what could be done and they had rung more through the till that evening than they did in a week because people had bought other books as well as Mick’s. Dave and Mel had worked hard to make the display tables as enticing as possible so people would make impulse purchases, and they had.

Of course, there had been one thing missing. Her father would have loved it. But she was determined not to think like that any more. Julius was gone, and she was clomping about in his shoes, trying them on for size. Sometimes they felt either too small or too big as she stumbled around.

Nights like this, though, made her feel as if his shoes fitted perfectly.

Just before midnight, June heard the wind get up and the rain begin. It was wild; she shut the curtains tight, grateful that she’d had her little cottage double-glazed when she moved in full-time. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of camomile tea, then heard a mighty rapping on the stable door. She froze, wondering who on earth it was at this time. It wasn’t as if she was on the way to anywhere. She decided she would ignore it.

Then she heard shouting. An indignant roar that carried through the gale. A roar she would have recognised anywhere.

‘For the love of God, would you open the door?’

She marched across, slid back the bolts and turned the lock. She just opened the top half, in case. And there, framed in the doorway, was Mick Gillespie, soaked to the skin.

‘Thank Christ for that. Will you let me in?’

‘Give me one good reason why I should?’ She put her hands on her hips.

‘Because it’s pissing with rain and I’m soaked through and I’ll get pneumonia. I’m an old man.’

She couldn’t help smiling. What a bloody fuss. She stood back and he bowled in through the door. She smelled wet wool and him. She took his coat – cashmere and no protection from the rain – and hung it on the Aga.

‘They told me at the hotel it was only ten minutes’ walk,’ he grumbled.

‘How did you find me?’

‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes. And the people in this town aren’t very discreet, you know.’

‘You recognised me, then?’

‘Of course I did,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. You didn’t say anything so I thought it was best left, maybe. But then I thought: you wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t wanted to see me.’

‘You’re a better actor than I thought. I didn’t think you had a clue.’

‘I’m trained, remember.’ His smile was teasing. Those bloody crinkly eyes …

June smiled and handed him a towel to dry his hair, then poured two glasses of red wine. They sat down at the kitchen table, looking at each other.

He looked around in approval. June knew the cottage looked good. She’d spent a lot of money making it comfortable and stylish, and she had a great eye for art and antiques. She’d perfected the designer farmhouse look: the gleaming pink Aga, the flagstones warmed by underfloor heating, the French kitchen table, the chunky wine glasses stamped with a bee.

‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

‘I have,’ she said, not ashamed to be proud of her achievements.

‘I was a shite,’ he told her. ‘But it was the best thing for you. I’d have led you merry hell and you’d have ended up hating me. Or killing me. I really wasn’t a very nice person in those days.’

‘And are you now?’

He tipped his head to one side to consider her question.

‘I don’t think I’m all bad.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘You’re a nice person, that’s for sure. You always were. People like you don’t change. Unless they get damaged by people like me. I hope you weren’t.’

‘Nobody as awful as you, no.’

They grinned at each other.

Mick raised his glass.

‘Well, here’s to old times’ sake. It’s very nice to see you.’

‘I suppose you were just bored in your hotel room?’

He looked a bit taken aback.

‘No. I wanted to see you. I’ve very fond memories of our time.’

‘I wrote a searing exposé,’ June told him. ‘About how cruelly you treated me.’

‘Really?’ He made a face. ‘It would be the perfect time to publish it. Everyone seems to be obsessed with my past at the moment.’

‘Ah, no – it’s staying firmly locked away. It was just a therapeutic exercise.’

‘Writing’s therapy, for sure. I was amazed what I dredged up when I did the book.’

‘So you’re trying to right wrongs now?’

‘Jesus, I haven’t enough time left on this earth to do that.’

He roared with laughter. Then stopped and looked at her.

‘Just one wrong will do me for now.’

She held his gaze. She wanted to laugh. He was incorrigible, even at this age. He couldn’t help himself. She realised that the spell she had been under for so many years was broken. He no longer had a hold over her. How many times had she dreamt of this moment over the years? She couldn’t begin to count.

Yet to turn him away would be boring. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been propositioned. She deserved some fun as much as the next person. And he hadn’t been a selfish bugger in the bedroom, that much she could remember. She felt her cheeks pinken slightly at the memory as she picked up her glass. She was going to make him work for it.

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Gillespie?’

Eighteen

Two weeks later, Thomasina and Lauren were tucked away in the kitchen at A Deux. Lauren was putting the finishing touches to a chicken and pear tagine, chopping almonds and coriander to scatter on the couscous.

‘You mark my words – this is a crisis dinner,’ Lauren whispered. ‘This is the last resort. It’s written all over them.’

Thomasina, who was cutting out lavender biscuits to go with the panna cotta, nudged her to be quiet. Discretion was the watchword at A Deux – it was the whole point.

A Deux was booked several nights a week now, and Thomasina had grown in confidence. She and Lauren had become quite a team, catering outside events. She’d had masses of enquiries since doing the canapés at Nightingale Books and it was almost getting to the point when she might have to give up the day job, though she probably never would.

Seeing Lauren blossom and flourish under her tuition had been incredibly rewarding too. That was the joy of teaching: capturing someone, inspiring them, giving them a purpose. Lauren was a different girl. She was focused, conscientious, full of initiative. If Thomasina hadn’t seen her potential and tapped into it, she would be excluded from school by now, on a one-way ticket to nowhere.

In the dining room, clusters of candles gave a rosy glow to the two guests at the table. Thomasina’s cottage was small – just one main room, which you walked straight into from the front door, and where the table was laid. She had bought the best cutlery and china she could afford: knives and forks with mother-of-pearl handles, and pale cream china with an ornate French pattern. The snowy white linen tablecloth and napkins gave an air of formality, but other than that the room had a warmth that wrapped you up, with its dark red walls and the rich Egyptian-style carpet.

Bill sighed, and looked down into his Jerusalem artichoke soup, as if the answer might lie in the swirl of cream on the top.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just …’

‘It’s just what?’

‘I think I’m going mad.’

He looked up, and Bea saw a bleakness in his eyes that scared her.

‘What do you mean?’ Bea crumbled up some of Thomasina’s walnut bread in her fingers.

‘I understand it’s been hard for you. Giving up your old life and starting anew. But I’d give anything to be in your position.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t think I can carry on.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bea panicked. ‘With what? Do you mean us?’

Oh God. He was asking for a divorce. She’d bored him into wanting a divorce, with her ‘wittering’.

‘No! Of course not. I mean this way of life.’

Bea took a gulp of wine. Then another. They were walking, so they didn’t need to have the driving conversation.

‘I hate it. I hate leaving you and Maud. It’s bloody exhausting, getting up at stupid o’clock and going to catch the train. By the time I’m back home, I’m too knackered to have a conversation or enjoy my food and the weekends go in a flash. By the time I’ve had a lie-in to get over the fact I’ve had hardly any sleep, it’s Sunday. And from midday on Sunday my stomach is in a knot, dreading Monday morning.’

‘I had no idea you felt like this.’

‘I thought it was going to get easier. But I just want a normal life, Bea. I love it here in Peasebrook. I want to be a normal bloke. Join the darts team in the pub. Muck about in the garden. Enjoy my family. Maud looks at me sometimes as if she’s someone she thinks she should recognise but isn’t quite sure …’

He rubbed his face and Bea suddenly saw how terrible he looked. Haggard and red-eyed. She’d put it down to too much red wine.

He looked over at her.

‘I don’t want to be a high-flyer any more. I don’t want to be part of the commuter club, an absentee husband and father.’

Bea fiddled with the knife and fork on either side of her bowl. She had lost her appetite all of a sudden and couldn’t finish her soup.

‘What do we do about it?’ she asked, her voice very small. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea …’

‘I don’t know, Bea. But I can’t carry on. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get sacked. I’m tired and I’m stressed and I’m resentful and I’m making mistakes and being a pain in the arse to work with.’

Bea reached out a hand and put it on top of Bill’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been stuck in my own little world, trying to play the perfect wife and mother. And to be honest, I haven’t been that happy either. It’s as if we’ve both been forced into a way of life we don’t want, in order to sustain this fantasy lifestyle.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bill. ‘I know you’re bored. I know you adore Maud, but I can see you trying to find ways to get through the day.’

‘Handwashing cashmere cardigans just isn’t doing it for me.’ Bea managed a laugh. ‘Not even when I get to hang them on the line with fancy artisanal wooden clothes pegs.’

She had a mental image of herself, a veritable layout from
Hearth
magazine. But she wasn’t going to be defeated by this. Bea was a strategist. She always had a plan.

‘What about if we do a swap?’ she said.

Bill raised his eyebrows.

‘Swap?’

‘I could go back to work. I get people calling me all the time offering me jobs I really, really don’t want to turn down. I would love to go back and be a proper grown-up in London. And you could hang out here with Maud.’

‘Be a house husband?’ Bill frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

Bea wrinkled her nose. ‘No! You can do some freelance work from home while Maud’s at nursery. Though you would have to do a
bit
of house stuff – get food in, bung the washing on every now and again. But it’s not hard, Bill. Why do you think I’m so bored? I think you’re way better suited to this country life than me. I just don’t see myself as a jam-making, WI sort of person. But I think you’d really like the gardening and the log-cutting and the endless trips to the pub.’

‘Do you really think it could work?’ asked Bill. ‘I’ve got loads of people who want me to do consultancy for them.’

‘Yes!’

‘You’d have to be the breadwinner. You won’t mind the commute?’

‘No! I am soooo jealous whenever you head off for that train.’

‘Really? You’re welcome to it.’

‘It will take a bit of time for me to find the right job. But I think it’s a great solution. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to move back to London. I think here is perfect, and right for Maud.’

Bill looked as if the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

‘I’d love that, Bea. I feel as if life’s whizzing past, and I don’t have time to enjoy the things I want to enjoy, and any minute now Maud will be sixteen. I want to slow down. I know I’m only just forty, but I don’t want to spend the next ten years slogging my guts out. And if it means cutting back on crap that doesn’t matter—’

‘Like hundred quid candles?’

He caught it. ‘Yes!’

‘You’ve got yourself a deal, mister.’

Bea shook hands with her husband over the table.

As Lauren brought out the tagine, Bea sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She had been terrified Bill was going to give her some ultimatum. Or tell her he’d found someone else. The thing was, Bea quite liked playing at country mouse but really, she was a town mouse through and through. It would all be here at the weekends, the trugs and the Peter Rabbit carrots and the eggs still covered in chicken shit.

And this time, when they got back home, after the two bottles of ruinously expensive wine they’d drunk to celebrate their decision, Bill was still awake when she came out of the bathroom in her Coco de Mer. Wide awake.