How to Find Love in a Book Shop (26 page)

Twenty-Three

A week later, Thomasina made preparations for that evening’s dinner: a young couple that had not long had a baby wanted to celebrate a birthday.

She was in Peasebrook for half past eight, collecting her meat from the butcher, selecting the best vegetables from the farmers’ market, and finishing off at the cheesemonger, where she bought a trio of French cheese: one soft, one hard and one blue. She was disappointed not to be served by Jem but by one of the other assistants, though he gave her a cheery wave and a thumbs up from the far end of the counter. He was too busy serving to speak. Thomasina left before he became free.

She got back to her cottage where Lauren was ready and waiting: she’d prepped the kitchen and it was gleaming, all the utensils ready and waiting. They divided the work up between them. Lauren made the celeriac soup with a gloriously rich chicken stock she’d made earlier in the week and she strained it and sieved it until it was silky smooth, then set it aside and fried some crispy strips of pancetta ready to put on top.

The main course was a loin of venison, coated in mushroom duxelles and wrapped in puff pastry. With it went little copper pots of potato gratin, sliced paper thin on a mandolin, and a smooth cauliflower purée.

Dessert was a delicate pear mousse, light and fluffy, with a warm rich chocolate sauce in the middle.

By half past four, everything that could be prepared in advance had been, the kitchen was cleaned, and Thomasina put the finishing touches to the dining room.

At quarter to five, the phone rang. It was the husband who had booked the table. Their baby was coming down with a cold. They couldn’t leave it with a babysitter. They would pay, of course, but they wouldn’t be coming.

Thomasina put the phone down. She looked at the table for two and then went into the kitchen, where her perfectly wrapped loin of venison was chilling. And she knew this moment was a test. She knew that if she didn’t do what she thought she might, that she would stay on her own forever, that she would spend the rest of her life cooking for other people’s birthdays and anniversaries. That she would watch them gaze into each other’s eyes. That she would never look at anyone else across her own table.

She
deserved
to look into someone else’s eyes. She knew she did.

‘What are you going to do?’ said Lauren. ‘It’s a terrible waste.’

‘Wait there,’ said Thomasina.

She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the bottle she used for cooking. She drained it in one gulp. Then she dialled the cheese shop. It might be closed. She didn’t know what time it shut. It was ten past five. It could easily shut at five. The phone rang and rang. She was about to hang up when it was answered.

‘Peasebrook Cheese.’

‘May I speak to Jem?’

‘I think he might have gone, love. We shut at five.’

‘Oh.’ She couldn’t ask for his mobile number. She just couldn’t. ‘Never mind.’

Disappointment, she discovered, was cold and lumpy and stuck in your chest. Like left over tapioca.

‘No – hold on. He’s just coming out of the storeroom. Jem – phone call for you.’

She heard the phone being put down, and voices and footsteps. She could hang up and Jem would never know. She would spare herself the humiliation. She imagined that would be as hot and burny as the disappointment had been cold.

‘Hello?’ Jem’s cheery voice came down the line, and she felt his warmth. It gave her courage. She wanted to feel that warmth again, in person. She craved it.

‘It’s Thomasina,’ she said. ‘From the book shop. From A Deux.’

‘Oh!’ Jem sounded delighted. ‘Hello.’

Thomasina summoned up the last of her courage. ‘The thing is, I’ve had a cancellation. Ten minutes ago. For tonight’s dinner. Which is all prepped and ready for the oven. I can’t freeze any of it, really. So I wondered …’

‘You want to return the cheese?’

‘No! Of course not. No …’

‘Ah. You want me to come and help you eat it?’ asked Jem.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I was only joking.’

‘There’s celeriac soup and loin of venison and pear mousse.’

‘I don’t need persuading,’ he said. ‘What time?’

Thomasina was almost struck dumb. He was coming for dinner. And he sounded pleased about the idea. What on earth had she done?

‘Half seven?’ she managed. ‘For eight o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there! I’ll bring some wine. See you later.’

He rang off and Thomasina stared at the wall with the phone still in her hand.

Lauren was in the doorway, grinning at her.

‘What are you going to wear?’

‘I’m not going to dress up.’

Lauren pointed at her. ‘Oh yes, you are. You wait there.’

She came running back in twenty minutes later with a bulging make-up bag, a magnifying mirror, a hot brush and a bag full of jewellery.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Upstairs.’

Thomasina followed her into her bedroom obediently.

‘Right,’ she said, sitting Thomasina down in front of the mirror and handing her a towelling headband. ‘Put that on.’

Thomasina protested. ‘I don’t want too much make-up on!’

Lauren ignored her. She squeezed a blob of foundation onto the back of her left hand, then started dabbing it onto Thomasina’s face until she was satisfied she had a perfect base.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Not an imperfection to be seen. Not that you have many – you’ve got lovely skin.’

Thomasina thought she looked as if she had a mask on, but she didn’t say anything. She sat in silence as Lauren pulled out endless palettes of colour and various brushes. She applied a thick black line of eyeliner to her eyelids, then coloured in the sockets with a sparkling charcoal grey. She coloured in her eyebrows, taking them up into a graceful arch, then applied a row of individual false eyelashes. She highlighted her cheeks with pale coral. Her mouth was outlined in pale pink then coloured in nude, with a little shimmer on the bow and the plumpest part of her lower lips.

Then she took the hot brush and worked her way through Thomasina’s hair until it was straight and glossy, then backcombed it and pinned it into a half up, half down tumble. She put two large silver hoops in her ears.

‘What are you going to wear?’

Thomasina shrugged. ‘Just my usual black trousers and T-shirt.’

Lauren shook her head. ‘No, you’re not.’

Lauren stood in front of Thomasina’s wardrobe and flipped through everything, tutting and sighing. When she found something that was to her satisfaction, she put it over her arm.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I think we can improvise with this lot.’

She rolled up a stretchy black skirt until it was just above the knee, then put a red cardigan over it, leaving the first two buttons undone, tying it with a black patent belt taken off an old dress around Thomasina’s waist. Then she cut the feet off a pair of black tights and made her put them on with a pair of flat black ballet pumps.

Then she let Thomasina stand in front of the mirror.

Thomasina clapped her hand over her mouth.

‘You look amazing,’ said Lauren.

‘That’s not me,’ said Thomasina, and made to do the buttons of the cardigan up. Lauren slapped her hand away.

‘Leave it,’ she commanded. ‘You look totally gorgeous. Like a French—’

‘Tart?’ suggested Thomasina, looking at herself from all angles.

‘No! Film star.’

‘I’m going to feel really uncomfy. I won’t be able to cook in this.’

‘You’re not going to cook.’

‘What?’

‘
I’m
cooking tonight. I’ve watched you often enough.’

‘I was going to send you home.’

‘Uh-uh. You’re going to be the guest. I’m going to do all the work. If I get stuck, you can tell me what to do, but I don’t want you to lift a finger. I’ve seen you run around people so often, making sure everything is perfect and they are having a great time. It’s your turn for once.’

‘But I don’t know how to behave like …’ Thomasina pointed helplessly at her reflection. The stranger with the big eyes looked back at her.

‘Just be yourself.’

‘But I’m so boring.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Lauren shook her head. ‘You’re amazing. You’re inspiring. OK, so you’re not a loudmouth show-off like me. But at least what you say is interesting.’

‘Interesting?’

‘Seriously – you are the only person who keeps me sane at that school. I love your lessons and I come away feeling like I want to do something with my life. If it weren’t for you, I’d have legged it ages ago. You tell stories when you’re cooking. You make people want to listen. And learn more.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. You’re loads of people’s favourite teacher.’

‘You’re just saying that.’ Thomasina didn’t know how to cope with all the unfamiliar praise.

‘Yes, I’m just saying that cos that’s what I’m like.’ Lauren rolled her eyes. ‘Shut up. And go and have a glass of Prosecco. Just one, before he gets here.’

She pushed Thomasina out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, the little table was laid, the cutlery shining, the glassware gleaming.

Tiny bowls were stuffed with creamy roses and burnt orange gerberas.

Tonight, as Thomasina lit the candles and dimmed the lights, it was for her.

Tonight, as she found a Chopin prelude and put it on, it was for her.

Her and Jem.

Dinner à deux.

When Thomasina opened the door to Jem half an hour later, he beamed at her.

‘You look fantastic.’ He breathed in appreciatively. ‘And dinner smells great. I’ve brought two bottles – one red and one white. And …’ He proffered a bunch of red roses rather sheepishly. ‘Not from the garage. I promise.’

Thomasina took the flowers from him.

Lauren took the bottles. ‘I’ll put the white in the fridge and open the red and let it breathe, shall I?’

Thomasina tried not to giggle at Lauren’s solicitousness.

‘I’m really glad you could come,’ she told Jem. ‘It would have been such a waste otherwise.’

Lauren came over with a tray, on which were perched two flutes of Prosecco, the golden bubbles shooting up inside the glasses.

‘We’re being waited on tonight,’ Thomasina told Jem. ‘It’s good experience for Lauren. It means I can write her a reference.’

‘Awesome,’ he said, taking a glass and raising it.

Thomasina raised hers too. She felt confident. Excited. Happy.

‘Here’s to last-minute cancellations,’ she said.

Twenty-Four

It was amazing what could be done in a short space of time, with all hands on deck and a willing team. Two days after the flood, Nightingale Books was stripped bare, all the undamaged stock boxed up and stored safely in June’s garage. Emilia and Bea drove around the countryside picking up materials – shelving and lighting and paint. Jackson hired three lads to help him out with the plastering and the carpentry and hired the best electrician he knew. Everyone worked long into the night.

The morning of Alice Basildon’s wedding, the door of the shop burst open. Emilia looked up in alarm. She was helping to sand down some of the old shelving.

It was Marlowe.

They hadn’t spoken since she’d walked from the quartet. She thought she might have heard from him, that he might have called to see how she was, but he hadn’t.

‘I need you,’ said Marlowe. His hair was wild, as if he’d only just got out of bed. By now he should be suited and booted with his hair slicked back – the wedding was at twelve.

Emilia sighed. ‘What for?’

‘Delphine’s buggered off back to Paris and I need you in the quartet.’

‘What? Why?’

Marlowe looked a bit shifty.

‘Why, Marlowe? What did you do?’

‘Look, I haven’t got time to argue. The wedding starts in just over an hour, and we need a quartet to play the “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” no matter what. And we’re only a trio right now—’

‘It’ll sound fine.’

‘
Emilia
. It’s Alice Basildon’s wedding. You know what a lovely girl she is. We can’t let her down.’

‘She won’t notice a missing cello.’

‘Sarah Basildon will.’

Emilia looked away. She wanted nothing more than to refuse, but she thought about Alice walking up the aisle, after everything that had happened to her, and she wanted it to be perfect for her. She hadn’t seen Marlowe since she’d walked out of the last rehearsal.

‘Even though I can’t play for shit?’

‘You
can
play for shit. When you try.’ He looked at his watch. He looked distressed. ‘Come on, Emilia. Fifty minutes. It’s not fair on Alice …’

She downed tools, ran up to her room, threw open the wardrobe, grabbed a long black dress and her cello and ran down the stairs, through the shop and out into the street, where she jumped into the back seat of Marlowe’s car. He drove off and she wriggled out of her grubby clothes.

She could see Marlowe laughing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Don’t laugh at me!’ She shimmied into the dress with its tight bodice, praying the fabric wouldn’t tear in protest. Then she looked down at her feet.

‘I’ve forgotten my shoes!’ she wailed.

‘There’s no time to go back.’

‘I can’t wear sneakers with it.’

‘Go barefoot. Like Dusty Springfield.’

‘Who?’

Marlowe rolled his eyes. ‘Call yourself The Barefoot Cellist. It’s a good gimmick.’

‘It’s freezing out there!’

They were at the gates of Peasebrook Manor which were decorated with holly and ivy and red roses and white ribbons and tiny pinprick fairy lights.

‘Oh,’ sighed Emilia. ‘It looks stunning. Look, Marlowe.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he said with a cursory glance, and roared up the drive. Wedding guests were being directed to a roped off grassy area, but he drove on to the official car park near the chapel.

Marlowe tied his bow tie in the mirror. Emilia poked her head in between the two front seats.

‘Why did Delphine bugger off like that? What a rotten thing to do, on the morning of the wedding. It’s so selfish.’

‘Well, yes. That’s Delphine for you.’ Marlowe looked tight-lipped. ‘Though I can’t say I’m sorry. Things had been rocky for a while.’

‘You don’t need someone in your life who’s going to let you down like that.’

Their eyes met for a moment. Then Marlowe looked away.

‘No …’

Emilia bit her lip. He was obviously more upset than he was letting on.

‘Felicity and Petra have already set up,’ Marlowe told her. ‘I’ve told them you’d be coming.’

‘How did you know I’d say yes?’

Marlowe grinned and shrugged.

Emilia grabbed her cello and hitched up her dress.

Ten minutes later she took her seat at the front of the church, facing the congregation. She spread her skirt out, hoping no one would notice her bare feet. Thank goodness she had painted her toenails the week before, so they weren’t a total disgrace.

Marlowe, Emilia, Petra and Felicity tuned up.

A sense of calm descended on Emilia as they began to play for the congregation. She felt focused, the music in front of her making perfect sense, and her fingers did everything they were told. She smiled as she grew in confidence and felt a tiny thrill as Marlowe gave her a nod of approval. It was almost like flying with the music as the notes soared and fell.

And then, on the most imperceptible of signals from Marlowe, they struck up the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’.

The aisle in front of Alice looked endless.

She had been awake since before dawn, millions of tiny wings beating in her stomach. But they weren’t day-before-your-birthday butterflies, or Christmas Eve butterflies. These butterflies felt as if their wings had been dipped in acid. They were making her stomach roil with anxiety and gave her a sense of impending doom.

As Sarah buttoned her into her dress, she felt breathless, and not because the dress was too tight.

A fitted cream silk crêpe bodice, with three-quarter-length sleeves, buttoned up the back. Then a tulle skirt, on which was embroidered a trail of ivy and roses. Everyone had joked that Alice would probably be wearing wellies under her frock, but she’d found some of the prettiest beaded satin slippers with rosebuds on the front. She had her stick waiting for her in the front row in case she needed it, but she was determined to walk down the aisle without it.

‘Oh darling,’ said Sarah. ‘You look out of this world. Hugh is the luckiest man alive.’

Alice looked out of her bedroom window. The drive was filled with cars, bearing wedding guests in all their finery, crawling along, perfectly wrapped presents on the back seats. She could see the hats; almost smell the perfume. Almost everyone she had ever known in her life was going to be here today.

She could see Dillon moving a rope to allow a new slew of cars into the parking area. He was in his camouflage trousers and a high-vis jacket. Why did her heart feel warm when she saw him, whereas when she thought of Hugh it felt as if it had been dipped in a bucket of ice?

Because you aren’t marrying him, silly, she told herself. Of course she felt safe when she saw Dillon because there was no risk involved. He didn’t represent change. He was solid and reliable and always there, that’s all. And he always would be.

‘I feel sick,’ she told her mother.

‘I remember feeling terrified the morning I married your father,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s because your whole life is going to change from now on. But it’s not a bad thing.’

‘Have you always been happy with Daddy? Did you ever think it was a mistake?’

Her mother looked at her.

‘I suppose I would be lying if I said there weren’t moments I wished my life was different. But I don’t think I’m alone. There are always difficulties along the way. Times when you don’t always agree with the person you are married to, or see things from their point of view. But all in all, I’m glad I married Daddy. He’s a good person, a good husband. And a wonderful father.’

If Sarah chose not to mention that it was she who was the bad person, the bad wife – although she still considered herself a good mother – it was because she wanted to see her daughter enjoy her wedding day, to banish any doubts from her mind, to enter into her union with Hugh light of heart and fully committed.

She hugged Alice.

‘You’ve had a hard time and you’ve been very brave. You deserve a wonderful day and a life of happiness. I’m so very proud of you. But I want you to know that whatever happens, Daddy and I will be there for you.
Whatever
happens.’

Alice had been shored up by her mother’s words. Sarah was the one person in the world she respected. And trusted. And it was up to Alice to step up, take on the mantle of responsibility and make Peasebrook Manor her life with Hugh at her side. The cottage was waiting for them, bright with new paint and freshly hung curtains.

And now here she was, at the top of the aisle, the quartet playing. She took her father’s arm and stood as tall as she could. She could see Hugh’s straight back at the altar, tall and true in his morning suit, his dark hair slicked back. He turned and said something to his best man, and she saw his familiar grin.

The quartet was halfway through the entrance song. Any minute and it wouldn’t be an arrival any more. The congregation were turning round to see what the delay was.

Alice began to walk. No one could see her face yet, as it was hidden by the creamy lace of the Basildon family veil. No one could see her scar.

All they could see was Alice’s smile.

Alice
always
smiled.

The notes of the music died away just as she reached Hugh’s side. She carried on holding on to her father’s arm, not wanting to let go. These were her last moments as just a daughter. In a short while, she would be a wife.

Dillon had told Sarah that he wouldn’t be attending the wedding as a guest.

‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable,’ he told her. ‘I’d rather be on the sidelines, making sure everything’s all right.’

‘I don’t want you to feel as if you’re not welcome.’

‘It’s all right. I know I’m welcome. I’d just prefer not to, if you don’t mind. And could you explain to Alice?’

‘Of course,’ said Sarah, but she was sad that Dillon felt like that. She prided herself on having a good relationship with her staff. Although she suspected there was more to Dillon’s reticence than social awkwardness. There was no love lost between Dillon and Hugh, she could see that now.

Dillon was there first thing in the morning, to make sure the grounds were in perfect condition, that the logistics of car parking were under control and the ground staff knew exactly what they were doing. The guests were to walk from the chapel to the grand hall, where lunch was laid, and he had made sure that not one pale chipping was out of place on the paths. The adjoining marquee had been laid out with military precision, and the Portaloos were positioned discreetly behind a bank of trees.

He thought that once everybody had made their way to the reception he could make his escape. He didn’t want to hang around and be witness to the sort of drunken revelry he’d seen the night of Alice’s accident. It was going to be inevitable. And he didn’t want to see Hugh’s smug face.

Dillon walked straight to his car. He didn’t look over at the chapel. Inside, he could hear the sound of triumphant processional music. He blocked the vision of Alice in her wedding dress out of his head. He started up the engine and drove to the White Horse, where he ordered a pint of cider and a Scotch egg.

‘You played a blinder.’ Marlowe smiled over at Emilia as she packed away her cello.

‘It wasn’t a football match,’ she told him, but she was smiling. She
had
played a blinder. For some reason, everything had fallen into place. Her bow had danced over the notes, through every piece they had played. Even the pieces she hadn’t rehearsed at all and had to sight-read, because they’d decided on them after she had left.

‘Musical genius,’ said Marlowe.

‘Gifted amateur,’ contradicted Emilia. She was miles away from being as good as him or, she hated admitting it, as Delphine. But they had done a good job, and now the guests were being seated for lunch they were no longer needed.

There was a slightly awkward silence.

‘I better get back to the shop. It’s all hands on deck at the moment.’

‘Oh,’ said Marlowe, and she thought he looked a bit disappointed. Maybe he wanted to go and drown his sorrows? She couldn’t go with him, though. She felt guilty enough about swanning off. She needed to get back.

‘I’ll give you a lift.’ Marlowe offered.

‘That would be great. Thanks.’

She put her cello in the boot of Marlowe’s car and climbed in the front seat. She grabbed her sneakers and put them back on. She let her head fall back on the headrest as he drove through the lanes.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘About Delphine.’

He shrugged. ‘I will be.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Marlowe was silent for a moment. ‘Not really, to be honest.’

‘Well,’ said Emilia. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’

Marlowe nodded. ‘Cheers.’

Of course he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it, thought Emilia. He’d probably go home and drink the rest of the whiskey she’d given him. That’s what boys did when their hearts got broken. She wasn’t going to interfere.

She was married, thought Alice, a few hours later. Her face was aching from smiling as much as her leg. She needed to sit down. And she needed the loo. She slipped away from the reception. There was a gaggle of girls smoking outside she didn’t recognise. They must be Hugh’s crowd. They were much more ritzy than her Peasebrook chums: long legs, long hair, expensive clothes and scent, blowing menthol cigarette smoke all over each other.

‘Hello!’ she said to them all, and they gathered around her in a cooing crowd, admiring her dress, telling her how lucky she was.

‘You look just amazing,’ said one, who’d introduced herself as Lulu. ‘Hugh made out it was much worse than it is.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Alice. ‘It is starting to ache a bit. I’ll probably have to sit down.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean your leg,’ said Lulu. ‘I meant your scar.’ She indicated her own face. ‘He said it was really terrible. Whoever’s done your make-up did an amazing job.’

Alice stared at her, not sure if she was hearing right. Or if anyone could be so stupid and tactless. Or that her own husband could have been so horrible behind her back. To these shallow and vacuous girls.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, and made her way to the loos.

She shut herself into a cubicle and tried not to cry. She told herself that Hugh probably hadn’t said her scar was terrible at all, that the girl had been a bit drunk and a bit tactless. She was over-sensitive, that was all. She needed to toughen up.