How to Find Love in a Book Shop (7 page)

She looked down at the paper. There was a picture of him on the left-hand page. His dear face; his kind smile; that trademark sweep of salt-and-pepper hair.

Memorial service to celebrate the life of Julius Nightingale
…

She sat down, reread all the details. Her head swam. She knew about the funeral – it was a small town, after all. It had been tiny, but this memorial was open to anyone who wanted to come. Anyone who wanted to do a reading or a eulogy was to go and see Emilia at the shop.

A eulogy? She would never be able to begin. Or stop. How could she put into words how wonderful he had been? She could feel it coming, a great wave of grief, unstoppable, merciless. She looked up at the ceiling, took deep breaths, anything to stop it engulfing her. She was so tired of being strong; so tired of having to fight it. But she couldn’t afford to break down. Anyone might come in, at any moment.

She gathered herself and looked down at the page again. Should she go? Could she go? It wouldn’t be odd. Everyone in Peasebrook knew Julius. Their social circles overlapped in the typical Venn diagram of a small country town. And in her role as ‘lady of the manor’ Sarah attended lots of funerals and memorials of people she didn’t know terribly well, as a gesture. No one would think it odd if she turned up.

But they would if she broke down and howled, which is what she wanted to do.

She wished he was here, so she could ask his advice. He always knew the right thing to do. She imagined them, curled up on the sofa in the folly. She imagined poking him playfully, being kittenish. He made her feel kittenish: soft and teasingly affectionate.

‘Should I go to your memorial service?’

And in her imagination, he turned to her with one of his mischievous smiles. ‘Bloody hell, I should think so,’ he said. ‘If anyone should be there, it’s you.’

Five

Jackson had been dreading his meeting with Ian Mendip. Well, meeting made it sound a bit formal. It was a ‘friendly chat’. In his kitchen. Very informal. Ian had a proposition.

Jackson suspected it would mean doing something he didn’t want to do yet again. Breaking all the promises he had made to himself about getting out of Ian’s clutches and getting some backbone. He had no alternative though. He had no qualifications, no references, no rich dad to bail him out like so many of the kids he’d been at school with.

That was the trouble with this area, thought Jackson, as he took his seat at Ian’s breakfast bar: you were either stinking rich or piss poor. And whilst he had once been filled with ambition, and optimism, now he was resigned to a life of making do and being at Ian Mendip’s beck and call. Somewhere amongst it all he’d lost his ambition and his drive. The galling thing was he knew it was his own fault. He’d had the same opportunities as Mendip: none. He just hadn’t played it as smart.

He looked around the kitchen: white high shine gloss units, a glass-fronted wine fridge racked up with bottles of vintage champagne, music coming as if from nowhere. There was a massive three-wick scented candle oozing an expensive smell, and expensive it seriously was – Mia had wanted one, and Jackson really couldn’t get his head round anyone thinking spending hundreds of pounds on a candle was a good idea.

Ian hadn’t got all this and the Aston Martin parked outside by being nice. Next to it was Jackson’s ancient Suzuki Jeep, the only set of wheels he could afford now, what with the mortgage payments and the maintenance for Mia, which took up nearly all his salary. His mates told him he’d been soft, that he’d let Mia walk all over him. It wasn’t as if they were even married. He didn’t have to give her a penny, they told him. But it was about Finn. Jackson had responsibilities and a duty to his son, which meant he had to look after his mother. And to be fair, Mia hadn’t actually asked for anything. He’d known it was his duty.

Which was why he was still running around after Ian instead of setting up on his own, which had been his original intention. But you needed cash to start up, even as a jobbing builder who just did flat roof extensions and conservatories. That’s how Ian had begun. Now he did luxury apartments and housing developments. He was minted. He had proven that you could claw your way up from the bottom to the top.

Jackson was Ian’s right-hand man. He kept an eye on all his projects and reported back. He scoped potential developments: it was Jackson who had given Ian the heads-up on the glove factory, which meant Ian had been able to swoop in and get it at a knock-down price before it went on the market.

Which was why Jackson knew he was capable of achieving what Ian had. He could spot the potential in a building. He had the knowledge, the experience, the energy; he knew the tradesmen who could crew it. He just didn’t have the killer instinct. Or, right now, the money he needed to invest in setting up on his own. He’d missed the boat. He should have done it years ago, when he was young and had no responsibilities. Now he was trapped. Not even thirty and he’d painted himself into a dingy little corner.

He hunched down in the chrome and leather barstool opposite Ian. Ian was spinning from side to side in his, smug and self-satisfied, tapping a pencil on the shiny black granite. In front of them were his development plans for the old glove factory: line drawings of the building and its surroundings.

‘So,’ said Ian, in the broad burr he hadn’t lost despite his millions. ‘I want that book shop. That is a prestige building and I want it as my head office. It’s classy. If I do that up right, it’ll do more for my reputation than any advert.’

Ian was obsessed with how people perceived him. He longed for people to think he was a class act. And he was right – the book shop was one of the nicest buildings in Peasebrook, right on the bridge. Jackson could already see the sign hanging outside in his mind’s eye: Peasebrook Developments, with its oak leaf logo.

‘And I’ve gone over the drawings for the glove factory again and done a bit of jiggling. If I get the book shop car park, I can have parking for four more flats. Without it, I’m down to eight units, which doesn’t make it worth my while. Twelve will see me a nice fat profit. But you know what the council are like. They want their allocated parking. And that’s like gold dust in Peasebrook.’

He tapped the drawing of the car park with his pencil.

‘Julius Nightingale wasn’t having any of it,’ Ian went on. ‘One of those irritating buggers who don’t think money’s important. I offered him a hefty whack, but he wasn’t interested. But now he’s gone and it’s just his daughter. She insists she’s not interested either. But now the dad’s gone, she’s going to struggle to keep that place afloat. I reckon she could be persuaded to see sense. Only she’s not going to want to hear it from me. So … that’s where you come in, pretty boy.’

Ian grinned. Jackson was, indeed, a pretty boy, slight but muscular, with brown eyes as bright as a robin’s. There was a little bit of the rakish gypsy about him. His eyes and mouth were wreathed in laughter lines, even though he hadn’t had that much to laugh about over the past few years. With his slightly too long hair and his aviator sunglasses, he looked like trouble and radiated mischief but he had warmth and charm and a ready wit. He was quicksilver – though he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He just couldn’t say no – to trouble or a pretty girl. Although not the pretty girls any more. His heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t even sure he had a heart these days.

Jackson listened to what Ian was saying and frowned. ‘But how am I going to get to know her? I’ve never read a book in my life.’

‘Not even
The Da Vinci Code
? I thought everyone had read that.’ Ian wasn’t a great reader himself, but he managed the odd thumping hardback on holiday.

Jackson shook his head. He
could
read, but he never did. Books held no thrall for him. They smelled bad and reminded him of school. He’d hated school – and school had hated him. He’d felt caged and ridiculed and they had been as glad to see the back of him as he had been to leave.

Ian shrugged.

‘It’s up to you to work out how to do it. But you’re a good-looking boy. The way to a girl’s heart is through her knickers, surely?’

Even Jackson looked mildly disgusted by this. Ian leant forward with a smile.

‘You get me that shop and you can manage the glove factory development.’

Jackson raised his eyebrows. This was a step up, letting him manage an entire project. But Ian’s offer was a double-edged sword. He was flattered that Ian thought him capable of the job. Which of course he was.

But Jackson wanted to be able to do what Ian was doing for himself. He needed money if he was going to do that. Proper money. Right now, Jackson couldn’t even put down a deposit on a pigsty.

Ian was smart. He knew he’d got Jackson by the short and curlies. He was taking advantage of him. Or was he? He paid him well. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that Jackson had screwed up his relationship. Or that keeping Mia was bleeding him dry. He only had himself to blame for that. If he hadn’t been such an idiot …

Ian opened a drawer and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out five hundred.

‘That’s for expenses.’

Jackson pocketed the cash, thinking about what else it could buy him.

He’d love to be able to take Finn on holiday. He imagined a magical hotel on a beach, with four different swimming pools and palm trees and endless free cocktails. He longed for warmth on his skin, and the chance to laugh with his son.

Or he could put it towards a decent van. He’d just need one job to get him started. If he did it well, there would be word of mouth. He could move onto the next job, start saving, keep his eye open for a house that needed doing up … He could do it. He was certain.

In the meantime, he had to keep in with Ian. Ian was his bread and butter, and he wouldn’t want to let Jackson go. He had to play it smart.

Emilia Nightingale shouldn’t take him long. Once Jackson had a girl in his sights, she was a sitting target. He had to muster up some of his old charm. He used to have them queuing up. Pull yourself together, he told himself.

Jackson held out his hand and shook Ian’s with a cocky wink that would have done credit to the Artful Dodger.

‘Leave it with me, mate. Nightingale Books will be yours by the end of the month.’

After his meeting with Ian, Jackson drove to Paradise Pines, where he was living with his mum, Cilla. He wasn’t going to tell her about the deal, because she wouldn’t approve.

He hated the park. It was a lie. It was advertised as some sort of heavenly haven for the over fifty-fives. ‘Your own little slice of paradise: peace and tranquillity in the Cotswold countryside.’

It was a dump.

Never mind the rusting skip in the car park, surrounded by untaxed cars and wheelie bins and the mangy Staffie tied up in the corner that represented the ‘security’ promised in the brochure (‘peace of mind twenty-four hours a day, so you can sleep at night’).

He slunk past the Portakabin where Garvie, the site manager, sat slurping Pot Noodles and watching porn on his laptop all day. Garvie was supposed to vet visitors, but Ted Bundy could have floated past arm in arm with the Yorkshire Ripper and Garvie wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He was also supposed to take deliveries for the residents, deal with their maintenance enquiries and be a general all round ray of sunshine for them all to depend upon. Instead he was a malevolent presence who reminded each resident that he was all they deserved.

Garvie was obese, with stertorous breathing, and smelt like the boy at school no one wanted to sit near. He turned Jackson’s stomach. Cilla said she was fond of him, but Cilla liked everyone. She had no judgement where people were concerned.

Jackson wondered how he could have turned out so differently from his mother. He didn’t like anyone. Not at the moment, anyway.

Except Finn, of course. And Wolfie.

He ploughed on along the ‘nature trail’ that led to his mother’s home. It was an overgrown path with a very thin layer of bark to guide you. There was no nature apparent, though more than once Jackson had seen a rat scuttle into the nearby undergrowth. He should let Wolfie loose up here one day, even though you were supposed to keep dogs on a lead on the site. He would have a field day, routing out the vermin. But there was no point. The residents left their garbage rotting. The rats would be back in nanoseconds.

The fencing that surrounded the little patch of grass belonging to each home was rotting and the grass itself was bald and patchy. There were lamp-posts lighting the paths, but hardly any of them worked, and the hanging baskets hanging from them trailed nothing but weeds.

Maybe it had been all it had proclaimed in its brochure once upon a time. Maybe the grass
had
been lush and manicured; the grounds tended immaculately. Maybe the owners had taken pride in their own homes.

Jackson had felt utter despair the day his mother told him what she had done. She had been conned. Taken into a show home and given a glass of cheap fizzy wine and bamboozled by a spotty youth in a cheap suit and white socks, who had convinced her this was the best place for her to invest her savings. She’d had a fair old nest egg, Cilla, because she’d always been a saver. And Jackson was shocked by her naiveté. Couldn’t she see the park homes would lose value the minute the ink was dry on the contract? Couldn’t she see the management fee was laughably high? Couldn’t she see that the park owners had absolutely no incentive to keep their promises once all the homes were leased? As a scam it was genius. But it made him sick to his stomach that his mother was now going to be forced to live out her days here. No one wanted to buy on Paradise Pines. Word was that you went there to die. It was one step away from the graveyard.

And now here he was, living with her in the place he had come to hate. It had only been supposed to be temporary. When Mia had first thrown him out, two years ago, when Finn was three, he had thought it wouldn’t be long before she allowed him back. He knew now he’d been useless, but he just hadn’t been ready to be a dad. It had been a shock, the realisation that a baby was there round the clock. It had been too easy for him to slide out of his share of the childcare, coming home late from work, stopping off at the pub on the way, having a few too many beers.

And to be fair to him, Mia had changed. Motherhood had made her overanxious, sharp. She fussed over Finn too much, and Jackson told her repeatedly to stop worrying. It had caused a lot of friction between them. He spent more and more time out of the house, not wanting to come back to arguments and disapproval and crying (usually Finn’s, sometimes Mia’s). He tried to do his best but somehow he always managed to end up displeasing her. So it seemed easier to stay out of her way.

Then she’d booted him out, the night he’d come back half cut at one in the morning, when she’d been dealing with a puking Finn for four hours and had to change the sheets twice when she’d taken him into bed with her, desperate for a moment’s respite. Jackson had protested – how was he to know the baby had a tummy bug? But he knew he was in the wrong and had got everything he deserved.

He thought it was only going to be temporary, that Mia was just giving him a short sharp shock. But she didn’t want him back.

‘It’s easier without you,’ she said. ‘It’s easier to do everything all on my own, without being disappointed or let down. I’m sorry, Jackson.’

He didn’t bother knocking on the flimsy white door, just pushed it open. There was his mum, in the gloom of the caravan. Wolfie lay at her feet but jumped up as soon as Jackson came in. At least someone was glad to see him. He’d got Wolfie once it was clear Mia wasn’t going to have him back. He’d gone to the dog rescue place and looked at everything they had: Jack Russells and collies and mastiffs. At the far end was a Bedlington lurcher, far too big to be practical and ridiculously scruffy. But he’d reminded Jackson of himself. He was a good dog, deep down, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself … How could he resist?