How to Find Love in a Book Shop (13 page)

She went to the folly when she got back. She curled up on the sofa with a cushion in her arms, folding herself into the smallest ball. There was a copy of
Anna Karenina
she had been reading. It was the last book Julius had given her. She tried to read it but the words were too small. She shut her eyes and prayed for sleep. She couldn’t bear to be awake. It was Dillon who found her, hours later, and shook her awake. She had looked up at him, wide-eyed, confused for a moment.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she nodded, slowly. She had to be. She had no choice.

But now, here, in the kitchen, she embraced the grief when it finally hit. She put her head down and sobbed. Great big jagged sobs that threatened to choke her and take her very breath away. She could hear them, resounding round the kitchen: a primal keening, ungodly and harsh. She melted down into them until she almost became her own tears. In the midst of it all a small voice told her she was hysterical; that she needed to pull herself together.

But she’d waited a long time for this chance. The chance to purge herself of her grief. The chance to cry for the loss of her lover; her best friend. She wondered if she was wicked to hide behind Alice’s accident for the chance to have this outpouring. She wondered if Alice’s accident was a punishment for what she had done. Neither of these thoughts helped her regain control. On the contrary, she felt reason slipping further and further away. It was the sort of crying that would never stop.

Until she felt Ralph take hold of her arms. He took hold of her arms and shook her.

‘Sarah.’ His voice was firm but kind. ‘Sarah. You must stop this. This isn’t doing you any good at all. You or Alice.’

She juddered to a halt. He looked at her, concern in his eyes.

‘Listen to me. I’ve never told you how magnificent I think you are. How grateful I am for the way you stood by me. I wouldn’t have blamed you for walking away after everything I did. But you got us through that bloody awful time like the fighter you are. And you’re going to get us through this as well. Because you’re a brave and wonderful woman, Sarah.’

He trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed. Ralph wasn’t one for gushing speeches. He wasn’t sure where the words had come from. But he had meant them, of that there was no doubt.

Sarah shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her breaths were jagged but her sobs eventually stopped.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but of course he had no idea what she was sorry for.

‘Come here,’ he said, and folded her into his arms. And although he wasn’t who she wanted him to be, she felt safe, and knew that he was going to be there for Alice, and that they would get through it, that she would be able to live without Julius …

And that she wasn’t going to cry again.

Ten

Bea Brockman loved Peasebrook on a Saturday. It seemed to be fuel-injected: it was faster, busier, more animated than it was during the week. The market was full of interesting stalls: people selling berry-bright liqueurs made from local fruits, tables piled high with artisan bread, handmade beeswax candles in hot pink and emerald green and cobalt blue. She was ever on the lookout for the next new thing. It was – or had been – her job for so long, she had never lost the habit.

She dressed up on a Saturday more than she did during the week – though there was no point in doing full-scale London-style dressing. Monday to Friday she wore her casual-trendy mum-uniform of Scandi chic – asymmetric jumper, black skinny jeans and black trainers. Today, though, she had on a pretty dress, red suede boots and an Alexander McQueen scarf. Her hair was tied in a messy knot, and she’d painstakingly painted her mouth a luscious dark pink. She knew people looked at her. She was a tiny bit vain, Bea, and she missed the attention she’d had as a single girl. Though she loved being a mother. She adored Maud, who was proudly showing off her new beaded moccasins to anyone who cared to look from the depths of her fashionable all-terrain pushchair.

Bea had done the market, her favourite café, The Icing on the Cake, for a blueberry friand, and the butcher for a French-trimmed rack of lamb. She decided to head up to Nightingale Books for something to read. She had lists of all the paperbacks she should be reading to keep in the know, but there was nothing like a good browse in a book shop to broaden your horizons. She rolled the pushchair along the pavement, relishing the autumn sunshine that turned the buildings in Peasebrook to golden treacle. She was looking forward to their first winter in the country. London was so drab and bitter once the chill wind got a grip, chasing litter along the streets and alleys. Here, the air would be rich with the scent of woodsmoke, and there would always be a pub to hunker down in; game from the butcher to be transformed into a warming casserole. She’d already spent the happiest of days that week making damson jam and apple chutney from the windfalls in the garden, with fashionably minimalist labels she’d designed herself.

She was quite the country mouse.

Nightingale Books was like stepping back in time. She loved its bay windows, the ting of the bell as she walked in, and the smell – a rather masculine smell, a combination of wood and parchment and pipe tobacco and sandalwood and polish that had accumulated over the years.

She hadn’t been in for a while, because there hadn’t been much time to read over the summer. Autumn and winter were for reading. She remembered seeing in the local paper the owner had died. Nevertheless, the shop was busy. Someone must have taken it over. They’d made a few changes: the displays were a little less haphazard, and it definitely looked less dusty, although the dust had been part of the charm.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to a display at the front of the shop. It was a huge coffee-table book, of photographs by the iconic Riley. It was lavish, beautiful, and at a hundred and thirty pounds, eye wateringly expensive. She picked up the display copy – all the others were shrink-wrapped to protect them – and leafed through the pictures.

An assistant passed by her and smiled.

‘Stunning, isn’t it?’

Bea sighed. ‘It’s gorgeous. I love his work.’

‘Who doesn’t? He’s a genius. You should treat yourself.’ Then she coloured. ‘Sorry – I’m not trying to do a hard sell. Well, I suppose I am. It’s a limited edition.’

Bea shook her head. ‘I can’t afford it.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a lot of jars of organic baby food.’ She put her hand on the handle of the pushchair by her side. Maud was gazing up at them as if fascinated by their exchange.

‘She’s adorable,’ said the assistant.

‘She’s taking up all my money.’

‘Oh my goodness. I love the shoes. Teeny little moccasins.’

Bea wasn’t going to tell the girl how much they had cost. It was embarrassing.

‘Me and Maud are going to choose a book together. You can’t start them too young.’

‘Absolutely. Get them a book habit. We’ve got lots of lovely new stock. I’m trying to build up the children’s section.’

Bea was curious.

‘Is this your shop, then?’

‘It was my father’s.’

‘I heard he’d passed away. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s great that you’ve taken it over. I love it in here.’

‘Good. Just let me know if there’s anything you want. I’m Emilia.’

‘I’m Bea.’ They exchanged smiles, then Emilia walked away.

Bea looked down at the pile of Rileys.

In a trice, she took the top one off the pile. Then she pushed Maud over to the children’s section, and they spent the next ten minutes browsing through any number of board books until they chose just the right one.

‘
I
Love You To The Moon and Back
,’ said Bea. ‘It’s true, darling Maud. I do.’

She pushed Maud over to the counter.

Maud stared up at Emilia, the board book clutched in her hands.

‘Ah – that book’s lovely. She’ll adore it.’

‘If she doesn’t eat it first.’ Bea smiled. ‘Everything goes straight in her mouth at the moment.’

‘Is that all?’

‘For today. Yes. Thank you.’

Afterwards, Emilia watched Bea go. She was the just kind of customer she needed. Young and vibrant, with a disposable income. What else could she do to attract people like her? Cards and wrapping paper? Women like Bea were always buying cards and wrapping paper, because they had friends galore. She made a note on a pad, and turned to her next customer.

Bea walked briskly up the high street, her heart pounding. She didn’t stop until she came to the church, where she swung into the churchyard. She strode on until she reached a bench and sat down. She put her head in her hands momentarily, then looked up. She reached over and pulled up the hood of the pushchair.

There, nestled in the folds, was the copy of Riley’s book, still in its shrink-wrap. She picked it up and sat with it in her lap, staring at it.

What the hell was happening to her? What on earth had she become? What was she
doing
?

It had seemed the logical thing to do at the time. She’d wanted the book and she couldn’t afford it. It had taken her two seconds to lift one off the pile and slide it into the hood of the pushchair.

A single tear trickled down one cheek. She wanted the book, yes. She wanted to sit at home and leaf through the photographs, studying them, analysing them, wondering at the skill and the talent and the artistry. She could have afforded it if she’d really wanted it. Bill wouldn’t have minded if she’d put it on their credit card.

But more than the book, she’d wanted a thrill. She’d wanted to feel alive. She’d loved the adrenalin the feat gave her. It had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in months.

Bea sat back on the bench and looked up at the sky. A few swallows were circling overhead and the breeze rustled the last of the leaves in the trees that lined the path. The church reminded her of her own wedding only three years ago. She remembered the vintage Dior dress she’d had shipped over from the States, pale blue silk taffeta, with its tight bodice and covered buttons and full skirt. She’d been a perfect bride at their perfect wedding.

They had thought they were so clever, she and Bill. Selling up their trendy warehouse flat to start a life in the countryside. They’d agreed they didn’t want to bring up their kids in London. Peasebrook had been the answer, with its brilliant commuter service, its cute shops and gorgeous houses. They had felt very pleased with themselves when they bought the gingerbread cottage in one of the back streets, with its tiny walled garden. It was idyllic; the ideal place to start a family. Bill carried on commuting to his ludicrously well-paid job as a digital guru and Bea did up the house and garden. And popped out Maud. Their friends all exclaimed in wonder and envy at how cunning and brave they had been, and came down in their droves to stay in their spare bedroom with its white floorboards and chalky walls and silk curtains and the high bed with mounds and mounds of feather-light bedding.

But now Bea thought she was going mad. She missed work. She had been exhausted when she left. As art director for a women’s magazine, she had lived on black coffee and deadlines, working right up to the wire on each issue, dealing with a crazed editor who changed her mind every two minutes and expected her to be psychic. When she left, she never wanted to lift another finger.

Now, she was psychotic with boredom. She adored Maud, of course she did, but once she’d pureed some organic carrots and free-range chicken breasts and frozen them into portion-sized blobs, and hand-washed Maud’s little cashmere cardigans in lavender-scented washing powder, and taken her for a walk in the flower-filled meadow down by the riverbank on the outskirts of Peasebrook – what more was there? Apart from cooking a Mongolian fish curry for when Bill cycled back from the train station at seven o’clock at night.

She was living the life she had depicted so many times in the magazine. She thought of all the spreads she’d done outlining bucolic bliss: girls in tea dresses and wellies pegging out washing. Wicker baskets and picnic rugs and muddy vegetables and home-made bloody jam. She had pots of it. Pots and pots and pots.

From the outside, she was living the dream. Inside, she felt bored and empty and meaningless. How on earth had she thought that full-time motherhood was going to be enough for her? She stroked Maud’s fat little hand and felt her heart shrivel with the ugliness she was feeling. She was an ungrateful cow. How could this little bundle not be enough?

Maud had fallen asleep, one hand clutching her little towelling blankie with the rabbit in one corner. What would her daughter think, having a kleptomaniac as a mother? Bea knew she’d always been impulsive, but she’d never put her impulsiveness to bad use until now.

What would Bill think if he knew what she’d done? He was under enough pressure, with the travelling and the job. He could barely speak in the evenings when he came home. He just ate and went to bed then got up at six to set off again. He wasn’t much fun at the weekend either. For the past two months he’d refused to let them have guests down. He didn’t do much. Slept. Watched a bit of telly. Opened his first bottle of beer at midday and drank steadily until he fell asleep again at about nine. If she complained, he snapped at her.

‘You’re living the dream, remember?’

OK, so it had been she who had orchestrated the massive change. She’d found the house, sold theirs, organised the move. Taken voluntary redundancy so she had a lump sum to live on. Arranged their finances so they could manage the drop in salary. Found ways to make savings so their weekly outgoings dropped by half but without a drop in standards. She’d saved them two hundred pounds a week by stopping them going out to eat or getting takeaways and getting a more economic car and not having a cleaner. Saving money had become her hobby, a point of pride.

She thought now she would do anything to be standing in a crowded train, with a takeaway latte in one hand and her iPhone in the other, brainstorming for a breakfast meeting. She would kill for an impossible brief or a draconian deadline or a crisis. These days, a crisis constituted running out of milk or nappies. Neither of which she ever did, because she had infinite amounts of time on her hands and so was the most efficient housekeeper on the planet.

But was she really so bored she’d resorted to shoplifting?

She walked back through the winding streets and by the time she got home Maud had fallen asleep. She pushed the pushchair into the living room, then sat on the pale grey velvet sofa that exactly matched the one opposite. In between was an antiqued mirrored coffee table that bore nothing but the occasional fingerprint. She spent most of her life polishing them off, and didn’t want to think about the day when Maud began to cruise around the furniture.

She put the copy of the Riley in the middle of the table. It was the perfect book to have on display. She admired the black and white graphic on the front cover. She itched to take off the wrapping and look inside, to feast on the images and imagine herself to be one of his models.

Before she had a chance to remove the wrapping, she heard Bill come in the front door. He’d been to the garden centre, to get some posts and some wire for some fruit trees he was planning to espalier in the garden. It was a serious business, espaliering. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was …

She jumped up and grabbed the book. She slid it under the cushions of the sofa just as Bill came in.

‘Hey!’ She smiled at him, trying her best not to look like a thieving lunatic. ‘How are you? Me and Maud have had a lovely morning.’

‘Good.’

‘We bought a book. Didn’t we, darling?’ But Maud was still fast asleep, the book on her lap.

‘Great.’

‘How about you?’

‘I bought a chainsaw.’

‘How much was that?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good. Because we need one. I’m going to hack that old pear tree by the back gate down. It’s blocking the light into the kitchen.’

‘Great. We can have a gorgeous pile of logs. Make sure you chop them up evenly, so we can stack them by the fire.’ She held her hands eight inches apart. ‘About this long would be perfect.’

Even as she said it, she knew she sounded like a control freak.

Bill looked at her. ‘Does everything have to be a fucking design statement?’

Bea opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of a good answer. She was puzzled, though. It wasn’t like Bill to be so grumpy. What on earth was eating him?

She had to take the book back. She couldn’t live with herself otherwise. She would confess all to the girl in the book shop. That was the only way to shock herself back to normality.