How to Find Love in a Book Shop (9 page)

And Marlowe fuelled that passion. Marlowe was a true renaissance man. He quietly earned a small fortune, composing music for adverts, and he was an exquisite violinist. He was one of those understated people who made you believe anything was possible. He was never still for a minute, yet he had time for everyone.

Although Marlowe was nearer Emilia’s age – mid-thirties, she thought – he and Julius were as thick as thieves, sitting at the kitchen table for hours drinking bottles of New World Cabernet while they decided on the programmes for the quartet. They’d watched every series of
Breaking Bad
together, fuelled by tequila and tacos, and compiled an annual New Year’s Eve quiz for the Peasebrook Arms, with fiendishly difficult questions.

Emilia had always been drawn to him, and occasionally wondered if there could be more between them, but somehow, over the years she had known him, either she or Marlowe had always been attached to someone else. He had a string of glamorous girlfriends, usually musicians, whom he treated with benign absent-mindedness, always preoccupied with his latest project.

When Emilia had phoned and asked Marlowe for help to practise the piece she wanted to play at Julius’s memorial, Marlowe hadn’t hesitated.

‘That is quite wonderful,’ he told her on the phone. ‘Your father would be delighted. I can’t tell you what a loss to the quartet he is. We’ve asked Felicity back pro tem, though it will limit what we can play. Petra’s still on viola, of course. Delphine’s going to take over from Julius, though cello’s not her first instrument and so she won’t be a patch on him. But don’t tell her I said so or she’ll have my balls for earrings.’

Delphine was the French mistress at a nearby prep school and Emilia was fairly sure that Marlowe and Delphine were an item. Julius had hinted at it, expressing the merest hint of disapproval, which surprised Emilia. Her father was rarely judgemental, but he found Delphine terrifying.

‘She stands too close. And I never know what she’s thinking.’

‘She’s very attractive,’ Emilia had pointed out. She’d met Delphine briefly on several occasions, but knew instinctively they would never be kindred spirits. Delphine was a fashion plate, always perfectly made-up, inscrutable, with a hint of the dominatrix that Emilia knew she could never pull off in a million years.

Julius shook his head. ‘She’s scary. And she doesn’t eat. I’m not sure what Marlowe sees in her.’

Emilia could see exactly. Delphine was the stuff of male fantasy.

‘She’s very demanding,’ added Julius. ‘Maybe Marlowe will get fed up with it in the end.’

Emilia laughed. ‘Just don’t criticise her,’ she advised. ‘Or you’ll only make her more attractive to him.’

Marlowe arrived promptly. He gave Emilia a huge hug. He felt warm and comfortingly solid in a big cashmere overcoat, his curls stuffed underneath a bobble hat.

‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.

Emilia just shrugged. ‘You know. Vacillating between grief and despair.’

‘It’s awful for you.’

‘It is.’

‘I bloody miss him. I keep thinking
I’ll drop in and have a drink with old Julius
. And then I remember … So I can’t imagine how you must feel.’

Marlowe took off his coat and threw it on the sofa. Underneath he wore black skinny jeans and a grey cable-knit sweater and a pair of oxblood Chelsea boots. When he took off his hat his black curls sprang free, wild and untamed.

He looked at Julius’s cello, standing in the corner of the room.

‘May I?’ he asked, mindful of its significance.

‘No, please – go ahead.’

He strode across the room and lifted the cello off its stand. He ran his long, slender fingers over the strings, expertly listening to see if it was in tune, adjusting the pegs until the notes were just as he wanted them. Emilia felt a pang, wondering about the last time Julius had played it: what had he played? He had played every day. It was his way of switching off. He never considered it a chore.

She watched Marlowe tune up, fascinated, always intrigued by the way a true musician handled an instrument: with absolute confidence and mastery. She could never take her playing to the next level because she was always slightly afraid the instrument was in charge, rather than the other way round.

He picked up Julius’s bow and ran it over a small block of resin until the fine hairs were as smooth as silk. Then he sat down and let the bow dance over each string and the notes rang out loud and true in the stillness of the living room. He began playing a tune, short sharp staccato notes, and Emilia smiled in delight as she recognised it. ‘Smooth Criminal’. Not what one would expect from a cello.

Then he segued into something sweeter, something she didn’t recognise. He finished with a flourish, stood up and pointed her to the seat. ‘Let’s see how you are.’

‘I haven’t played for years. I meant to practise before you got here—’

‘Ah. The fatal words.
I meant to practise
. I don’t want to hear you say that again.’

Emilia blushed. Now he had pointed it out, it did sound lame. Brilliant musicians were brilliant because they practised, not just because they had talent.

She warmed up, playing a few scales. It was surprising how well she could remember. It was almost instinctive as she moved her fingers up and down the strings, stretching and curling them to capture just the right note, then moving on to arpeggios to reignite the muscle memory.

‘There you are, you see?’ Marlowe looked delighted. ‘It doesn’t go away. It’s like riding a bicycle. You just need to put the time in now.’

She took out the sheet music for ‘The Swan’ from the pile on the piano. She began to play. She had done it years ago for one of her grades. She couldn’t remember which – six, she thought. She had been note perfect then, and had got a distinction. But after all this time, her playing was dreadful. She scraped and scratched her way through it, determined not to stop until she got to the end.

‘It’s awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll do something else. I’ll read a poem.’

‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘This is perfect for your father. And yes, it was bloody awful. But you can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you. If you practise two hours a day between now and the memorial, it will be the perfect tribute.’

He started breaking the music down for her, picking out the fiddly bits and getting her to master them before putting them back in, marking up the manuscript with his pencil. After an hour and a half of painstaking analysis, he asked her to play it through again.

This time it sounded almost like the tune it was. Not perfect, far from perfect, but at least recognisable. She laughed in delight, and he joined in.

‘Bravo,’ he said.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she told him.

‘You’ve worked hard. We better stop now. There’s only so much you can take in.’

‘Would you like a glass of wine before you go?’ she asked, hoping he’d say yes. ‘It’s going to take me years to work my way through Julius’s wine collection if I don’t have help.’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Go on then. Just a glass. I mustn’t be late.’

She couldn’t help wondering if it was Delphine he mustn’t be late for, but she couldn’t really ask.

She flicked on the sound system in the kitchen. Some Paris jazz sessions flooded the room: cool, smooth sax and piano with an infectious beat. It took her breath suddenly. It must have been the last thing Julius listened to.

Marlowe found his way around the kitchen, pulling a bottle of red from the rack, opening the drawer to find Julius’s precious
bilame
, the corkscrew favoured by French wine waiters. He opened the bottle effortlessly and poured them each a glass.

He looked at her, and she couldn’t hide her tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she laughed. ‘You just don’t know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always music that does it.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Marlowe, handing her a glass. ‘But it’s OK to cry, you know.’

Emilia managed to compose herself. She wanted to relax, not grieve. As she drank her wine, Emilia managed to unwind properly for the first time since she’d come home. The kitchen felt alive again, with the music and the company, and she found herself laughing when Marlowe told her about the disastrous impromptu poker school he and Julius had set up the winter before last.

‘We were rubbish,’ he told her. ‘Luckily the maximum stake was only a fiver, or you probably wouldn’t have a roof over your head.’

Emilia didn’t mention that she was slightly worried she might not anyway.

When he left, after two glasses of wine not one, the flat seemed a slightly dimmer place. He ruffled her hair as she left, an affectionate gesture, and she smiled as she turned and shut the door. People were kind; people were loving. At least, the people her father had attracted were.

When Emilia went to bed that night, her head was spinning with accidentals and spreadsheets and pizzicato and bank loans and opening hours and crescendos. And the running order for Julius’s memorial – everyone in Peasebrook wanted to do something, it seemed. But despite all the things whirling around in her brain, she thought how lucky she was to have the support of such wonderful people – June and Mel and Dave, and Andrea, and Marlowe. Whatever she decided, she was going to be all right.

Seven

On the morning of Julius’s memorial, the staff gathered in the middle of the book shop just before it was time to set off. Emilia felt filled with pride. June, who still insisted on coming in every day to help out, was in a deep pink wool dress with a matching wrap. Dave, as a Goth, always wore black anyway, but he had on a splendid velvet frock coat and a black ribbon in his ponytail. Mel had changed three times but settled on a purple satin Stevie Nicks skirt and a plunging top that showed off her impressive cleavage. Emilia had gone for traditional black, in a high-necked dress with lace sleeves and a full skirt that fell almost to her ankles but would enable her to play. Her dark red hair was tied in a chignon.

‘We look like something out of Dickens,’ smiled June. ‘He’d be very proud.’

They’d decided to shut the shop, as a mark of respect, but Dave and Mel were coming straight back to open up. Emilia wasn’t providing anything afterwards. She felt as if she had already made everyone in Peasebrook tea over the past few weeks, and she didn’t have the emotional energy left to host any sort of wake. The memorial would be uplifting and that, she hoped, would be it. She could start looking ahead to the future and make some concrete decisions.

‘I just want to say, before we go, how grateful I am. You’ve been diamonds, all of you. I wouldn’t have got this far without your support. I’d have fallen apart.’

June put her arm round her. ‘Rubbish. You’re made of stern stuff. And you know how much we all thought of your father.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Emilia. ‘Let’s go and see him off. Give him the send-off he deserves.’

She was trying to be brave, but inside she felt small, and really all she wanted was her father here to tell her it was going to be all right, but he was never going to do that again. It was up to
her
to make everything all right. And not just for herself, she was starting to realise. For everyone. Julius had left behind so much: so many friendships, so much loyalty.

She shut the door of the shop with a ceremonial flourish and set off down the high street with her little entourage. Marlowe had taken the cello to the church and was going to tune it so it was ready for her. The quartet was going to play too – Elgar, one of Julius’s great loves. Marlowe had arranged the ‘Chanson de Nuit’ especially for the four of them.

St Nick’s was at the other end of the high street, fronted by an ancient graveyard. It was a bright autumn day, the sky a brisk blue, the sharpness of the air cutting through the smell of fallen leaves. Emilia arrived at the church door and stepped inside. She gasped. The service wouldn’t start for half an hour but already the pews were full to bursting.

‘Oh,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘Look how many people there are.’

June touched her shoulder gently.

‘Of course, my darling girl,’ she told her. ‘Of course.’

Sarah loved her kitchen in the mornings. There was an estate office, but she liked to hold her briefings round the table in here: run over any problems they’d had with visitors, talk about upcoming events, discuss any brainwaves the staff had. The kettle was on the Aga top non-stop, and there was always a tray of brownies or flapjacks or date slices sent over from the tea room. This time of year was their quietest. They always took some time in autumn to take a breath after the furore of summer and before the mayhem of Christmas.

Sarah had been auditioning Father Christmases for the grotto all week. It was more difficult than she had anticipated. Their old Father Christmas had finally decided to hang up his boots, but finding someone good-natured and jolly and bearded (she had no truck with false beards: Peasebrook Manor was all about authenticity) was a challenge. Still, it had taken her mind off the impending memorial service.

But now the day had come. The service was at twelve o’clock. No one ever questioned what Sarah was doing or where she was – she knew that from years of discreet vanishing – but today she felt self-conscious, exposed and slightly vulnerable, as if today was the day she was finally going to get caught for her transgressions, because of her emotions.

Of course, the safest thing to do would be not go. To take herself off somewhere and have her own private memorial. But she wanted to be there for him. He would want her there, she was sure. She wished she had a friend, a stalwart who could come with her, but she had never confided in anyone. It was the only way to be sure.

If she could get through today, she would have got away with it.

She felt slightly giddy with the risk. Perhaps it was better to focus on that than her grief, a little black bundle she only opened when she knew no one was around.

She also knew it was easier to get away with things if you were open. She had never pretended not to know Julius. If she was with Ralph and they bumped into each other in Peasebrook at a social function, or in the supermarket or simply in the street, she always made a point of talking to him. So it wasn’t in the least odd that she was going to pay her respects.

Ralph was reading the paper, and the two girls who worked in the office were comparing text messages.

‘Right – I’m off into Peasebrook. I’m going to Julius Nightingale’s memorial.’ Sarah said it as casually as she could. Never had three words struck such coldness into her heart.

Ralph didn’t flicker. He didn’t take his eyes away from the paper.

‘Sure. See you later.’

Sometimes, she had wondered if he knew, or suspected, but judging by his reaction, he hadn’t a clue. And now he never would know.

Sarah had never set out to be an adulteress. But like all adulteresses, she had found a way to justify her infidelity. The one thing she was glad of was that at least Julius wasn’t married, so she was only causing potential harm to her own marriage, not her lover’s. The only person who ever gave herself grief about her infidelity was herself, because no one else knew. And when she backed herself into a corner over it, Wicked Sarah told Pious Sarah that Ralph was lucky she hadn’t left him. He should be grateful that the only knock-on effect of his behaviour was her affair.

It was fifteen years ago now, but she could remember the shock as if it was yesterday.

In retrospect, Sarah supposed that it was a testament to the strength of her marriage that Ralph was able to confess the extent of his debt to her. A lesser man might have driven them to the brink of ruin. Ralph stopped short of that. Just. And for that Sarah was, if not grateful, then thankful. For she would never have forgiven him if it had meant selling Peasebrook. Never.

It was unusual for a house like Peasebrook to be passed down the distaff side, but Sarah’s parents handed it over to her when she turned thirty and scarpered off to live in the Scilly Isles, and she took on the responsibility with gusto. Ralph was working in the City as a financial analyst and making plenty of money for them to maintain the house and have a good life. But when the pressure of that became too much, he took early retirement. He claimed to have done the maths, and assured her there was enough in the coffers to keep them in Hunter wellies and replace the roof tiles when necessary. He had the rent from his bachelor flat in Kensington and he still played the stock market.

‘We’ll never be helicopter rich,’ he told her, but he knew helicopter rich wasn’t Sarah’s bag. And it meant a much more relaxed life, having him around instead of up in London during the week, and he was there for Alice – whom they both adored – and somehow it was as it should be. They both did their own thing, and agreed it had been the right thing to do when they met in the kitchen for coffee or were able to turn up as a couple to Alice’s nativity play or when they went off to the White Horse for lunch just because they could. When Ralph had worked, they had barely seen each other, and that was no way to run a marriage.

It was the horses that did for Ralph. He couldn’t help it. He was used to taking risks with money, and missed the adrenalin. Sarah knew he had a flutter every now and again, but she didn’t mind. It was important for men to have an interest, and if that meant Ralph poring over the
Racing Post
at breakfast and trotting off to the races with his cronies she didn’t mind – she liked the occasional trip to Cheltenham or Newbury herself if there was a decent meeting or a horse they knew running.

Until one day she came into the kitchen and saw Ralph sitting at the table. In front of him were a bottle of Laphroaig and a set of keys. With a lurch, Sarah recognised them as the keys to the gun cabinet.

‘Take them away,’ said Ralph, his voice thick with whisky.

‘What’s going on?’ Her heart was hammering as she picked them up. ‘You’re drunk.’ Ralph wasn’t the type to get drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning. Eleven o’clock at night, yes.

He rubbed his face in his hands and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re going to have to spell it out.’ Sarah was crisp. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I should have quit while I was ahead. I was at one point. But I couldn’t resist, could I? And I should know, better than anyone. The only one that wins is the bookie.’

Sarah sat down at the table opposite him.

‘You’ve lost money?’

He nodded.

‘Well, at least you’ve told me. We can deal with it. Can’t we?’

‘I don’t think you understand.’

Ralph put his hand on the neck of the bottle to pour another drink, but Sarah stopped him.

‘That’s not going to help. Come on. Tell me.’

‘I’ve lost the lot,’ he said.

‘What lot?’ Sarah felt fear.

‘All my money. Everything I had.’

Sarah swallowed. All his money? She had no idea how much that was. Not that Ralph would have hidden it from her, but his assets went up and down every day. Sarah had her own bank account, with her own family money, and they had a joint account for bills and housekeeping, but they didn’t really get involved in each other’s financial matters.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s all on my account on the computer if you want to look at it.’ There was a bleakness in his eyes Sarah found harrowing. ‘I broke all my own rules, didn’t I? I let emotion get in the way.’

‘How much?’

He turned the laptop screen towards her. She thought she might be sick.

‘What do we do?’

He could only manage a shrug.

She tried to think. Her brain couldn’t take it in: the staggering sum, or how she could have missed what he was doing. She’d been too engrossed in Alice and Peasebrook to notice.

‘It was going to be all right.’ His voice was cracked. ‘I would have stopped.’

‘Ralph. You know better than anyone …’

‘That’s why I thought I was being clever.’

Sarah’s mind raced. It settled on the most logical conclusion.

‘You’ll have to sell the flat.’

The flat was their safety net.

He looked at her. His eyes said it all.

‘Oh God!’

She stood by him, of course she did. She still loved him, and she didn’t want to destroy their little family, or what they had together. Her support of him was unstinting: practical and no-nonsense. She made him face up to the fact he had an addiction. She cut up his credit cards, took away his laptop, made him give her access to his online bank accounts – all with his permission; she wasn’t trying to emasculate him. They needed a strategy to stop him being tempted, ever again, and if that meant she had to police him, then so be it.

And it was then she decided to make Peasebrook work for them and open it to the public. It was the best chance they had of a steady income. It would be hard work, but Sarah certainly wasn’t afraid of that. After all, Peasebrook was her life already, so it might as well be her living too.

But her trust in Ralph had gone, and she didn’t know if she would ever be able to get it back. He had risked everything he had because he was a fool, and she felt sure Peasebrook had only been spared because it was a step too far. It made her blood run cold to think of what might have happened. Her respect for him had gone too. He was weak. And no matter how he tried to excuse it, or explain it, he just wasn’t the man she thought he was. In no way did she blame herself for what had happened. She was a good wife, and she wasn’t insecure enough to start looking for imperfections or ways in which she didn’t measure up. She bloody well did. It was Ralph who didn’t.

She didn’t share what had happened with many people. She hated gossip and speculation. She didn’t want Ralph being a public spectacle, for Alice’s sake as much as anything. Sarah was a very private person. It was a huge burden to shoulder all alone. Every now and then she longed for a friend to share the truth with, but she didn’t trust anyone. A few glasses of wine and your private business was public knowledge. She’d heard enough intimate secrets splurged at dinner parties to know that. So she kept quiet.

The first Christmas was awful. They had to tighten their belts. They didn’t send out invitations to their usual Christmas Eve party and Sarah ended up fabricating an excuse involving a tricky and unpleasant varicose vein procedure to stop people thinking they had been left off the guest list because the party had become a tradition locally. She found the pretence dispiriting and exhausting, and all the excitement of Christmas was tainted. Tainted by the stupid, awful, ridiculous debt. She still didn’t understand why Ralph had felt the need, because there’d always been sufficient, or so she thought, but when he tried to explain that gambling wasn’t driven by any logic, she got upset. And tried not to get angry.

But when there wasn’t enough money for Christmas presents, because every last penny was going into the development fund for Peasebrook, she felt resentful. All those bloody acres, she thought, and no cash in the kitty. She was determined that Alice should have what she wanted, and not have any sense of the crisis they were in, so she bought everything on her list to Father Christmas – more than she would usually – and everyone else was going to have books.

Books, after all, were her escape from the horror she had been through. At night she could curl up with Ruth Rendell or Nancy Mitford and the stress melted away and for a couple of hours she could be somewhere else. Reading gave her comfort.