The Secret of Happy Ever After (22 page)

‘Yeah, he could be assembling a playpen,’ said Michelle sardonically.

Anna gave her a reproachful look. Since Anna had come running back with the unexpected news that Rory the Bookworm was actually Rory the Love Rat, he’d become something of a talking point in quiet moments. As neither Michelle nor Kelsey would play Anna’s ‘what did the Famous Five grow up to be?’ game, they’d taken instead to musing about what tragic or dramatic circumstances had led to an otherwise respectable man like Rory walking out on his pregnant girlfriend.

Michelle had no sympathy. She could tell Rory was the sort of man who’d read a book on breastfeeding then tell his wife she was doing it wrong. Kelsey had limited sympathy (‘I saw this thing on telly about men who aren’t ready to parent because they’re still basically children themselves . . .’). Only Anna came up with more compassionate reasons why someone kind enough to visit an old man in a residential home might leave a pregnant woman, and even then, Michelle could tell she was only saying it because Anna was fundamentally incapable of being mean.

‘It’s the back room, it’s definitely not upstairs,’ Kelsey insisted. ‘I’ve heard things, and I’ve gone in, and there’s nothing there.’

‘When was this?’ asked Michelle, preparing to get forensic on her.

‘The other afternoon, after you went to get Lily. I heard something move in there, but when I went in, there was no one there. Just a copy of
Tom’s Midnight Garden
on the floor. Right in the middle of the floor.’ Kelsey’s eyes were round.

‘No,’ breathed Anna. ‘
Tom’s Midnight Garden
?’

Michelle turned to Anna for clarification. ‘Is the book significant?’

‘You mean you haven’t . . . ? No, of course you haven’t read it. It’s about a ghost,’ said Anna. ‘And a little boy who goes through a haunted garden and meets a little girl who . . . I don’t want to spoil it,’ she concluded. ‘You should read it.’

‘I’ll put it on my list. Look, Kelsey,’ said Michelle, ‘if there is a ghost, it’d be Agnes Quentin, and she’d be leaving out books on How to Run a Bookshop.’

‘I don’t want to be in there on my own.’ Kelsey’s expression turned stubborn. ‘Although I’ll do it if Owen will sit in with me . . .’

‘No,’ said Michelle and Anna at the same time.

‘I prefer Owen where I can see him,’ added Michelle.

Kelsey folded her arms. ‘Well, then, you’ll have to ask Gillian, and she’s been talking about getting her local priest in to spray it with water or whatever you’re meant to do.’

Michelle sighed. ‘Great.’ What had she told Gillian? If Kelsey wasn’t such a perfect dowsing rod for the 15–24 customer base, she’d think very hard about diva behaviour like this. Especially when Becca was turning out to be a very astute retail student.

‘I’ve got to go, Michelle,’ said Anna, checking her watch with a frown. ‘I’m supposed to be taking Lily straight to a doctor’s appointment and you know what they’re like if you’re late.’

‘Go,’ said Michelle. ‘Don’t worry about coming back. I’ll close up here tonight. And you,’ she said, pointing to Kelsey. ‘You get back next door and sell some stuff.’

Kelsey grinned and tottered out on her jelly heels.

‘See you later!’ Anna grabbed her bag and dashed out.

‘I’m expecting a headless horseman, at the very least!’ Michelle called after them.

When they’d both gone, Michelle wandered around the bookshop, tweaking some of the displays and tidying the shelves here and there.

She didn’t actually mind spending an hour or two in the bookshop. It was a nice space to be in now, of course, but the quiet time gave her a chance to spin her secret plans for its next incarnation – without any danger of being lectured about the sanctity of reading by Anna.

She’d been thinking about the bookshop all week. Michelle spent most Friday nights combing through her accounts, checking for fluctuations, fast sellers and dead wood, with the same fascination that she used to apply to the Top 40 at school, and although the bookshop figures were a lot better than she’d expected them to be, they were still only just nudging into the black. Not enough to justify keeping it going as a bookshop after the year was up, and maybe not even until then.

Anna’s infectious enthusiasm was keeping the shop ticking over – her handmade posters, her impromptu book discussions, her recommendations – and some of it was down to basic local curiosity. But Michelle’s instinct told her that she’d have to find some way of supporting the books if she wanted to keep hold of the shop. If it closed before then, Rory might decide to take the moral high ground and re-let it to someone else.

Michelle fluffed up the pile of mohair throws – ‘reading blankets’– by the door, and chewed her lip. The blankets were providing a very useful bump in the shop’s profits. She’d been at a trade fair in York the previous weekend, and had nearly bought the entire stock of a rugmaker who created beautiful bedside rugs from recycled remnants. Something like that would be easy enough to slip past Anna’s eagle eye. She could put some down on the sanded boards, maybe a basket of them by the counter.

The display table of poetry would have to go. Michelle tried to think about how she could justify that to Anna, then made the executive decision to do it herself. Then and there. Anna might not even notice.

She scooped off the books and was preparing to move the table, when she heard a noise in the back room and stopped. It sounded like a book falling off a shelf.

Michelle put the table down and looked round for signs of an embarrassed customer. Only one customer had entered since she’d been in, and they’d left obviously disappointed that she wasn’t Anna with a series of recommendations, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone lingering in the back. That was the thing about having those comfy chairs in the back room – they encouraged people to sink in and stay there for ages, reading.

Michelle wasn’t normally a nervy person, and often stayed in Home Sweet Home after closing for hours on end, rearranging displays, but the idea of someone lurking in
this
shop with her was unsettling. Something about the books, maybe. Next door was so clean and calming, like her own house, but the bookshop had a different atmosphere. More thoughtful, more . . . layered, somehow. Less hers. More likely to have shelves with lives of their own, tipping books out at her to catch her attention.

Michelle told herself not to be so ridiculous and walked slowly towards the children’s section, letting her heels click on the wooden floorboards to give whoever it was a chance to hear her. The last thing she wanted was to give some poor old dear a shock. Dusk had fallen quickly in the last few minutes and suddenly the shop was quite dark.

But when she peered into the back room there was no one there. The two battered leather armchairs were empty, the Union Jack cushions flat and a few big picture books scattered on the table between them.

Must have been the pipes, she decided, tidying the books back into the fruit crates and plumping up the cushions with quick, fierce thumps. Something falling down the chimney: a bird’s nest, maybe. Michelle made a mental note to talk to Rory about the last survey. That was the trouble about taking over a place like this, you were never as confident about the building as you were when you’d bought it and renovated it yourself.

In fact, she argued, it was probably just
him
, making a noise upstairs. Maybe he’d got the abandoned wife hidden in a cupboard up there. Like Bluebeard.

Pleased with this selection of rational responses, Michelle went back to the desk and got her notebook out of her bag to review the day’s to-do list, and jot down her thoughts about lambswool blankets.

The noise came again. Something falling, clattering onto the floor, and then scratching.

Michelle’s heart gave an undeniable thump in her chest, and her skin crawled. That was definitely coming from the back room. That wasn’t upstairs.

And there was nothing in the back room. Just as Kelsey had said.

‘Oh, come on,’ she said aloud. Who was she going to call? Ghostbusters? Rentokil?

Michelle got up again and clomped across the floor, hoping to send whatever it was scuttling back into the woodwork. As she went, she hit the switch and flooded the back room with light, but that only emphasised the very unsettling fact that it was totally empty.

Lying on the floor, though, face up, was a book.
Tom’s Midnight Garden.

Michelle felt a chill run through her and adrenalin flooded her bloodstream.

Behind her, the doorbell jangled and she nearly cricked her neck spinning round to see who it was. When she saw a figure standing in the doorway, her throat closed up in panic, but then the shape coughed and an irrational relief swept over her. Ghosts didn’t cough.

But before the relief died down, a second, more visceral panic clutched her stomach. Was it Harvey? Had he been watching outside the shop, waiting until it was empty? Waiting until she was on her own?

‘I’m sorry, I’m going to be closing in a few moments,’ she said, her voice rather higher than normal as she strode towards the door, ready to slam it in his face if she had to. He wasn’t coming into her house, and he wasn’t coming into her shop either.

‘Closing? I thought you were of the “Stay Open Till They’ve Bought Something” persuasion,’ said a Scottish voice. ‘Mind if I come in?’

As he stepped into the light, she saw that it was Rory, his scarf wound round his neck in a college-y fashion and his battered briefcase in one hand. He was smiling at her hopefully. Probably after a free coffee, she thought. Probably run out of milk.

‘I’m still about to shut,’ she said. Her voice wobbled. ‘Did you want something in particular?’

He browsed the nearest table, as if he had all the time in the world. ‘I’m looking for something to read to the old folk up at the residential home, something humorous and relatively short. What’d you recommend?’

‘The
Radio Times
?’

‘Maybe I’m asking the wrong person . . . I thought I might get a discount, in return for some reviews?’ He raised an eyebrow, in a junior professor-ish manner. ‘Cash for criticism?’

‘It’s only cash for compliments round here.’ Michelle’s heart was still thumping with unwanted adrenalin, and although she was itching to shut up shop, Rory’s pragmatic presence was quite reassuring. How could there be ghosts in the back room when Rory was standing there in his tweed jacket, making terrible jokes? ‘Are you going to be long?’

‘That depends on how good you are at selling me something. Any coffee on the go? Anna usually makes me a cup. Helps the selection process no end.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Michelle. ‘Only here for the free coffee.’ She poured two cups from the filter jug, her hand wobbling slightly, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the table she’d just wiped clean.

‘You’ve sussed me. Biscuit?’ He looked up from a vintage Agatha Christie, his hair falling into his eyes.

The cheek of the man, thought Michelle.

‘The café is next door,’ she said.

‘I meant, would you like a biscuit?’ Rory opened his briefcase and produced a packet of ginger cookies from its depths. ‘I’ve had so many free coffees in here, I thought it was only fair to reciprocate with some decent biccies. Since you’re the owner, I thought I should give them to you.’

‘Um, thanks.’ Michelle felt churlish; they were expensive ‘home-baked’ ones from Waitrose, not the digestives they handed out. Although she didn’t normally eat biscuits, she took one and nibbled it.

The biscuits would go on Anna’s ‘Rory’s not a bastard’ list, she thought, watching him as he read the back of a Dorothy L. Sayers novel, his brows beetled in concentration. How can a man who spends a fiver on gourmet biscuits to cancel out his coffee debt abandon a pregnant woman?

A companionable calm descended; she tidied while Rory browsed, but then the CD of quiet choral music came to an end. Michelle was walking over to restart it when she heard the noise from the back room.

‘Didn’t you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ Rory looked up from the crime table.

‘That noise.’ As she spoke there was another rustling noise, like someone brushing against the woodwork.

‘Don’t look so scared,’ said Rory. ‘It’s an old building, they creak all the time. I expect you live in some fabulous modern home with brand new double glazing, don’t you?’

‘I live down by the canal, thank you very much,’ hissed Michelle. ‘And I’m not scared.’

‘You look a bit scared.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Want me to go and take a look?’ He made a ‘brave soldier’ face.

‘If you want.’

‘I
do
want. I’ve often hoped this place might be haunted.’ Rory rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Maybe it’s Agnes, come back to keep an eye on you? A ghost would be such a feature. You could do haunted Hallowe’en nights in October, or
Christmas Carol
readings in—’

‘Just go and have a look and tell me it’s a bird stuck in the chimney,’ said Michelle impatiently.

‘Come with me,’ said Rory. He beckoned with a long finger, then held out his hand. ‘I’ll need a corroborating witness if we’re going to be on
Central Tonight
with the Midlands’ first haunted bookshop.’