How to Find Love in a Book Shop (8 page)

His mum was as delighted to see him as Wolfie was. Her face lit up, her eyes shone. He still couldn’t get over how frail she looked. He didn’t want to admit to himself that his mum wasn’t getting any younger. He was going to cook her a decent dinner. He was no chef, but he’d bought some chicken pieces and some vegetables with the cash he’d been given.

She’d always taken pride in cooking them proper meals when they were young but somewhere, between husbands three and four, she’d lost interest in food.

He didn’t want to look at his once beautiful mother, sitting in her chair, bird-like and frail. He didn’t want to look at the hair that had once been dark and lustrous, tumbling over her shoulders. Now, the black dye she used to recreate her former glory had grown out, showing three inches of grey.

It was depression at the root of it. Obviously. Which wasn’t surprising when your looks and your husband left you at the same time. Was it easier, Jackson wondered, not to have been beautiful in the first place? He knew he’d got by on his looks more than once. His looks and an easy charm.

‘Shall we go out somewhere?’ he asked, knowing what the answer would be. He wanted her to surprise him and say yes, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t want to see her out in the real world, because it made her situation even more depressing.

‘No, love,’ she replied, just as he’d thought. ‘It’s enough for me to have you here.’

He sighed and made the best he could of the food he had bought with the facilities available. He dished it up, coating it all in a glistening layer of packet gravy.

They ate it together at the tiny table. Jackson had no appetite, but he wanted to set an example. He forced more carrots on her. Gave her the rest of the Bisto. At least now he knew she’d had some vitamins, some calories.

He’d bought a ready-made apple pie and a carton of custard, but she declared herself full.

‘I’ll heat it up for you later.’

‘You’re a good boy.’

She’d always said that to him. He could remember her, lithe and vibrant, dancing in the kitchen, holding him in her arms. ‘You’re a good boy. The best boy.’ He would touch her earrings with his tiny fingers, entranced by the glitter. He would breathe in the smell of her, like ripe peaches.

Where had she gone, his mother? Who had stolen her?

He did the washing up in the sink, which was too small to put a dinner plate in flat. He tried to suppress his despair for the millionth time. He washed all the cups and glasses that were lying around, and wiped down the surfaces.

He could imagine Mia’s voice: ‘You never did that for me.’

He had. Once upon a time. But nothing was ever right for Mia; she was a control freak. He couldn’t even breathe right.

‘I’m off to see Finn, Mum.’ He bent down to kiss her, not leaning in too close. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’

‘Ta ta. I’m going to have a snooze now.’ She settled back in her chair with a smile. He whistled for Wolfie and the dog jumped to his feet. He was like a cartoon, his eyes coal black and inquisitive, his legs and tail too long; his shaggy grey coat like a backcombed teddy bear. He loped beside Jackson, amiable and eager.

Jackson lugged the bin bag back down the path and hurled it over the side of the skip. The stygian gloom of the caravan stayed with him.

‘Oi!’ shouted Garvie from his lair, but Jackson knew he was safe. Garvie wouldn’t bother to chase after him, or to fish the bag out.

He left the park and broke into a run, gulping in gusts of fresh air, trying to expel the stifling staleness of the past two hours. Wolfie ran beside him, joyful, his ears streaming behind him.

There’s got to be something better out there for us, he thought.

He walked back into Peasebrook with Wolfie, then along the main road that led to Oxford. Eventually he reached the small cul de sac of houses where Mia and Finn lived. And where he had once lived. It had been one of Ian’s most lucrative projects, a mix of executive four-beds and the low-cost housing he was obliged to build as part of the deal. The homes that only locals were allowed to buy. It was one of the reasons Jackson remained loyal to Ian, because he’d let him have one of them cheap. Ian had flashes of generosity, though there was usually something in it for him. This had been an act of pure selflessness, as far as Jackson could make out, though he was always waiting for Ian to call the favour in. He was convinced one day he’d have to get rid of a dead body.

Of course, Jackson’s plan
had
been to get his hands on something that needed doing up. A project for him and Mia. They could make some money on it, sell it on and buy something bigger. Keep doing that until they had a total palace. But then Mia had got pregnant and they’d needed a place of their own quickly, somewhere suitable for a baby. You couldn’t bring a baby up in a building site.

So it had been a compromise. Nevertheless, Jackson had been proud to get on the property ladder. He remembered Mia’s face when he led her over the threshold. They were pretty little faux mews houses, built in imitation of the weaver’s cottages traditional in the town. He’d chosen everything off-plan: the pale blue Shaker kitchen, the silver feature wallpaper in the lounge, the pale green glass sink in the downstairs toilet. Mia had been speechless.

‘Is it ours?’ she had whispered. ‘Is it really ours?’

Now there was no ‘ours’ about it.

He knocked on the pale cream front door. He remembered choosing the colour and being so proud. Mia answered. Her dark curly hair was tied back; she was wearing a baby pink sweatshirt and grey yoga pants and eating a low-fat yoghurt.

‘Can Finn come out for a bit?’

She sighed. ‘Don’t you ever listen? He does tae kwon do on Tuesdays. At the leisure centre.’

Jackson nodded. ‘I’ll walk over there and pick him up.’

‘It’s OK. I’ve got it covered. The coach is bringing him back.’

‘I can tell him not to worry—’

‘No. He’s bringing me some protein powder for my training.’

‘Training?’

‘For the triathlon. I was supposed to be going for a swim, but …’

Mia had become a fitness freak since he’d left. She was obsessed. Jackson thought she’d lost way too much weight. Her curves had gone; she looked angular and her face had lost its softness.

He looked at her. On closer inspection, she seemed positively drawn.

‘Are you OK?’

She looked startled. They never expressed concern for each other in their current relationship. They avoided the personal.

‘Course,’ she said. ‘Just – you know – wrong time of the month.’

She’d always suffered. He used to make her tea and hot water bottles and rub her back. Before he’d become a total twat. He opened his mouth to commiserate or console her but wasn’t sure what to say. Anything seemed too personal now, to this woman who had become a stranger to him.

She spooned in some more yoghurt, still on the doorstep, no intention of asking him in.

‘You didn’t come to Parents’ Evening.’

Her voice had that horrible accusatory edge. He was glad he hadn’t sympathised.

‘What?’ He frowned. ‘When was it? You didn’t tell me.’

‘It was last Thursday. I shouldn’t have to tell you.’

‘How am I supposed to know?’

‘By taking an interest?’ She glared at him. ‘You never have a clue what he’s doing.’

‘I have.’

‘Really? What’s his topic this term, then?’

Jackson couldn’t answer.

‘Vikings, Jackson. It’s Vikings.’

He sighed. ‘I’m a loser, Mia. We know that. You don’t have to prove it.’

‘It’s a shame for Finn, that’s all.’

‘We have a laugh. Finn and me. We have a great time when he’s with me.’

‘It’s not all about the laughs.’

He looked at her. When had she become so bitter? And why?

‘Are you happy?’ he asked suddenly.

She looked startled, as if he’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t.

‘Of course.’

‘Really? Only happy people don’t try and make other people feel bad.’

She looked away for a moment. Jackson couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He never could. Since Finn had been born, he felt as if the real Mia was somewhere else.

When she spoke, he could hardly hear her.

‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

That was what she used to say when he was with her. She was tired all the time.

‘It must be the training. It’s no wonder. Give yourself a break, Mi.’

He stepped towards her. He wanted to give her a hug. Tell her it was going to be all right. But she sidestepped him.

‘I’m fine.’ She gave him a half-smile. ‘The training’s what keeps me going.’

‘I don’t understand, Mi. You’ve got this house. You’ve got our lovely boy. You’ve got rid of me. What more could you want?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You can have him tomorrow after school. Don’t be late.’

She put another spoonful of yoghurt in her mouth and shut the door with her foot. Jackson stood on the step for a moment, unable to believe that she had the power to make him feel worse every time he saw her. It was obvious she thought little of him. Obvious she thought he was a shit dad. Well, he wasn’t a shit dad. They
did
always have a laugh, him and Finn. He took him fishing. Took him to the skate park and taught him tricks. Bought him decent food; not that rubbish she kept feeding him: lentils and quinoa. And Finn loved Wolfie with a passion.

What did he have to do to prove himself?

He turned and walked back along the drive to the main road, Wolfie trotting along by his side, looking up at him every now and again. Dusk was falling, and he mulled over the events of the day. And gradually, as he walked, an idea emerged. He could do Ian’s bidding
and
prove he was a good father. And if all went according to plan, maybe he could get himself out of this mess.

Six

‘It’s a can of worms, Em,’ Andrea told her. ‘You’d better come to my office. But don’t panic. We can sort it. That’s what I’m here for.’

Emilia felt her heart sink. She felt grateful she had Andrea. She couldn’t have asked for a better friend, even though they were so different. Andrea called her every day to see how she was. And she brought her thoughtful presents: last week she’d given her a Moroccan rose-scented candle, expensive and potent.

‘Just lie on the bed and breathe it in,’ Andrea instructed. ‘It will make you feel better at once.’

Strangely, it had. The scent was so soothing; it had wrapped itself around her and made her feel comforted.

Emilia walked from the shop to Andrea’s office in a slick modern block built from glass and reclaimed brick, and was ushered in to a room with sleek Scandinavian furniture, a Mac and a space-age coffee machine. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in sight.

Andrea swept in, with her figure-hugging navy blue dress and designer spectacles that ensured she missed nothing. Emilia immediately felt as if she should have dressed more formally. She was in jeans and Converse and her favourite old grey polo neck jumper – not very businesslike.

Then Andrea hugged her, and Emilia felt her strength. They got straight down to business, though: Andrea brooked no nonsense, took no prisoners and pulled no punches. She sat behind her desk and brought up Nightingale Books on a computer screen that was the size of a kitchen table.

‘It’s taken me quite a while to trawl through everything and make sense of it,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to pretend. It looks as if the shop’s been in financial trouble for quite a while. I’m so sorry. I know that’s not the sort of news you need at the moment, but I really felt you should be put in the picture as soon as possible. So you can decide what you want to do.’

She handed Emilia a neatly bound sheaf of papers.

‘Here are the balance sheets for the past two years. Balance not being the operative word. There’s been far more going out then coming in.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘Unless your dad was operating in cash and we don’t know about it.’

‘Dad might have been useless with money but he was honest.’

‘I know. I was joking. But look – he hadn’t even been drawing much of a salary for himself for the past few years – he was only ever worried about paying his staff. If he’d been paying himself properly there’d be an even greater loss.’

Emilia didn’t need a huge understanding of numbers to see that none of this was good news.

‘If he hadn’t owned the building outright he’d have been in even bigger trouble. He would never have been able to afford the rent or the mortgage repayments.’

‘Why didn’t he say anything?’

Andrea sighed. ‘Maybe he wasn’t bothered. It’s not all about profit for some people. I think the book shop was a way of life for him, and as long as it was ticking over he was happy. It’s a shame, because with a bit of professional help, he could have made it much more efficient without changing the way he did things too much.’ She clicked through a few more pages of depressing numbers. ‘He made a lot of classic mistakes, and missed a lot of tricks.’

Emilia sighed. ‘You know what he was like. Dad always did things his own way.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘He was always sending me money. I didn’t realise he couldn’t afford it. I would never have taken it off him …’

She couldn’t cry in Andrea’s office. But the tears leaked out.

‘Sorry.’ She looked up and to her surprise Andrea was crying too. Well, just a bit misty-eyed.

‘Oh, I’m sorry too,’ Andrea said. ‘How unprofessional of me. But I was really fond of your dad. I used to pretend he was mine when we were kids, you know. He was just so …
there
. Unlike mine.’ Andrea’s father was a flaky figure who appeared once in a blue moon, usually when he had run out of money and had come to beg off her mother.

She pulled open a drawer and brought out a box of tissues. ‘These are for bankruptcy proceedings. Even grown men cry at those.’

‘So,’ said Emilia, when she’d mopped up her tears and felt a bit stronger. ‘Are you saying the shop needs to close?’

Andrea had composed herself now.

‘No. Not at all. It really depends on you, and what you want to do. But it will take a great deal of hard work to turn it round and make it profitable.’

Emilia nodded.

‘You’re sitting on a valuable piece of real estate. The building was bought in your name, which is one good thing, so there would be no capital gains. And he made you a director of the company as soon as you were eighteen, so that makes things easier too, once we get probate. You’re free to do whatever you want.’ Andrea paused. ‘You
could
sell that building straight away and be very well off. And save yourself a lot of trouble.’

‘I’ve already had an offer. From Ian Mendip.’ Emilia hadn’t mentioned his visit to Andrea, because she’d had a sneaking feeling Andrea might think it was a good idea.

Andrea looked awkward. ‘Ah.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve got to admit to a slight conflict of interest here. I do Ian’s accounts. I should tell you that before we go any further.’

Emilia had forgotten how everything in Peasebrook connected up in the end. Suddenly she felt unsettled and slightly paranoid.

‘Did he tell you he’d made me an offer?’

‘No. But I’m not at all surprised. I know he’s got the glove factory and I was going to suggest you asked him what he would offer you. But he’s ahead of me.’ She breathed a sigh. ‘I’d have thought he’d have waited a bit. It’s a bit predatory even for Ian.’

Emilia shrugged. ‘I think he wanted me to know the offer was there. For all he knows I might want to sell up. He’d talked to Dad about it a few times but Dad wasn’t interested.’

‘It was one of the lovely things about your dad, that he wasn’t interested in money. Not like Ian, who’s obsessed with it.’ Andrea laughed, then looked a bit shamefaced. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about my other clients like that. It’s very indiscreet. And don’t worry. I’m not going to influence you either way. I just want to help you stand back and look at the options. Without being sentimental or emotional.’

Emilia leafed through the balance sheets Andrea had given her. She felt her heart sink. She didn’t feel equipped to make an informed decision. She understood enough to know the figures weren’t good, but not how to come up with a solution.

‘So – do you think I can make the shop work?’

‘Well. It would have to be a very different shop. You would have to invest quite considerably. And the problem is there’s not a lot of ready cash in the coffers. Of course, you could take out a loan. You’ve got plenty of equity.’

Emilia chewed the side of her thumbnail while she thought.

‘I don’t understand why it’s in such trouble. I mean, he’s got masses of customers. The shop’s always full of people.’

‘Yes. Because it’s a lovely place to come in for a chat and a browse and wander around. But those customers don’t always buy. And when they do it’s not much. And I know for a fact he was always giving people discount, because he used to offer it to me. I told him off about it more than once.’ Andrea sat back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Nightingale Books was a wonderful, warm place to be. He made people feel welcome and want to stay in there for hours. But it was a terrible business model. He’d make them cups of coffee and talk to them for hours and they’d wander out without buying anything. Then they’d go up the road and spend twenty quid on lamb chops or cheese. He was very easy to take advantage of.’

‘I know,’ sighed Emilia. Her lovely father, who was as kind and easy going as a man could be.

Andrea drummed her French-polished fingernails on the glass tabletop.

‘But there’s nothing I hate more than seeing a potentially good business go down the pan. I’m very happy to give you my advice. But it’s no good just listening. You have to be proactive.’

‘Well, I’m very happy to take your advice,’ said Emilia. ‘And I want you to be honest with me. Do you think it’s salvageable?’

Andrea sat back in her chair. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Here’s the thing. I know Peasebrook and how it works. My guess is at the moment, it’s really only locals and old customers who go in the shop. People who’d built up a relationship with Julius. And they are still valuable. Of course they are. What you need to do is widen your net. Make it an attractive destination for tourists, weekenders and people who live further out. Diversify. Find different revenue streams. Monetise!’

Emilia could already feel rising panic. She forced herself to carry on listening. Andrea was smart.

‘You should open on a Sunday for a start. There are lots of people who come to Peasebrook for a weekend break from London. Or who drive here for Sunday lunch. There’s nothing much else for them to do but spend money. So you need to find a way to pull them in. The shop is slightly out of the way, being at the end of the high street, so if you’re from out of town and you don’t know it’s there you might miss it. You need to make it a little more eye-catching. And do some marketing and advertising. Get a decent website and start a database – send your customers a newsletter. Put on events and launches and—’

Emilia put her hands over her ears. She couldn’t take it all in.

‘But all this costs money,’ she wailed. ‘Money I don’t have!’

‘I’ve got an idea there. The obvious thing to do would be to rent the flat out. That would bring in a regular income – at least a thousand a month if you’re clever. There’s a huge demand for holiday accommodation in Peasebrook. I’ve got an agency on my books. I can introduce you – get them to give you an estimate. You’d need to spend some money on it, though. People expect luxury.’

‘I’d have to find somewhere to live myself.’

‘Well, yes.’

Emilia’s head was spinning with all the possibilities.

‘I can’t think straight.’

‘I’ll help you as much as I can,’ said Andrea. ‘There’s nothing I would love more than to see Nightingale Books turn a healthy profit. But we’ve got to be realistic. You need to do a watertight business plan.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start! I’ve never done a spreadsheet in my life.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m here for. I love spreadsheets.’ Andrea grinned at her. ‘But it won’t be easy. It’s a question of whether you want to live, breathe, sleep, and eat books for the foreseeable future.’

‘It’s how I was brought up.’

‘Yes, but you won’t be able to float around plucking novels from the shelf and curling up in a corner.’ Andrea laughed. ‘Every time I went in your father had his nose in a book, away with the fairies. That’s not going to work. You’re running a business. And that means being businesslike.’

Emilia nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But I need to get the memorial service out of the way first. I feel as if I can’t move on until that’s happened.’

‘Of course,’ said Andrea. ‘There’s no rush. The shop will tick over for a few months yet. And in the meantime, if you’ve got any questions, just pick up the phone. I want to help you make the right decision. But the right decision for you, not one made out of sentiment or a sense of duty.’

The two women hugged. Emilia left Andrea’s office, not for the first time gratified by how kind people were, and reassured at how perceptive and caring Andrea was. She felt that whatever decision she made, she’d be in safe hands.

Later, Emilia sat in the familiarity of the kitchen.

On a shelf were rows of glass jars, with stickers on, their contents carefully stated in Julius’s copperplate handwriting: basmati rice, red lentils, brown sugar, penne. Below them were smaller jars containing his spices: bright yellows and brick reds and burnt oranges. Julius had loved cooking, rustling up a huge curry or soup or stew and then freezing it in small portions so he could pull whatever he fancied out in the evening and heat it through. Next to the food was his collection of cookery books: Elizabeth David, Rose Elliot, Madhur Jaffrey, all battered and stained with splashes. Wooden chopping blocks, woks, knives, ladles.

She could imagine him in his blue and white apron, standing at the cooker, a glass of red wine to one hand, chucking in ingredients and chatting.

Never had a room felt so empty.

She had an A4 pad in front of her on the table. She picked up a pen and began to make a list of ideas.

Staff rota
Open Sunday (extra staff?)
Website – Dave
(She was pretty sure Dave would be able to help).
Redecorate
Relaunch. Party? Publicity?

It all looked a bit vague and nebulous. The problem was Nightingale Books had been the way it was for so long she couldn’t imagine it any other way. She completely understood Andrea’s concerns, and that it couldn’t carry on the way it was. But did she have the wherewithal to turn it around?

She had no idea what to do for the best. She tried to empty her mind and focus, so she could identify what she wanted, but it was impossible, because what she wanted was for everything to still be the same, for her father to be here, and for her to be able to drop in whenever she liked; have coffee with him, a meal with him, just a chat with him.

She sighed. It was only half past two, and she felt as if she could go to bed now and not wake up until tomorrow.

She couldn’t though. Julius’s friend Marlowe was coming over to give her a lesson on Julius’s cello. She desperately wanted to play ‘The Swan’ by Saint-Saëns at his memorial, but she hadn’t played for so long, and she’d sold her own cello when she went abroad.

Julius had been a founder member of the Peasebrook Quartet along with the formidable Felicity Manners, who had retired from the quartet a couple of years ago when her arthritis became too bad for her to play the more intricate pieces. Marlowe, who had been second violinist, had taken over as first and now did a wonderful job of choosing and arranging pieces that pleased both the hoi polloi and the music snobs (of which there were quite a few in Peasebrook).

The quartet was affiliated to Peasebrook Manor and played a variety of concerts in the gardens every summer, and at half a dozen carefully chosen weddings, as well as a popular Christmas carol service in the chapel. That way the quartet didn’t take over their diaries, and left them room to get on with other things. They were respected and enjoyed, and although they were never going to make millions, they were all passionate about the music they made.