How to Find Love in a Book Shop (14 page)

Eleven

After a busy week, Emilia was looking forward to her first rehearsal that Sunday with the Peasebrook Quartet, although she was nervous too. It had taken hours of practice for her to get just one piece of music fit for human consumption. She knew she would have to get up to speed on dozens of new pieces, and she was terrible at sight-reading: it had always been her weakness. No doubt she would know some of the music, but there would be plenty that was new to her, and she was terrified of letting the side down.

Marlowe had been round earlier in the week, to drop off some sheet music. She had been surprised at how pleased she was to see him – there was something reassuring about his presence. He hadn’t stopped, though. He’d been in a hurry to get somewhere else.

‘Work your way through this lot. Practise as much as you can. We can iron out everything at the rehearsal, so don’t get into a panic. We’ve got loads of time.’

Emilia tried to be reassured, and went through as much of the music as she could in the evenings. She was pleased no one could hear her as she stumbled through, and when Sunday came she wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, agreeing. She wasn’t nearly as confident in her ability as Marlowe seemed to be.

They were rehearsing in the old church hall at the back of St Nick’s. She walked down with Julius’s cello on her back, not sure whether she was relieved to have something completely different from the book shop to focus her energy on, or whether she should be catching up on all the things she didn’t get a chance to do when the shop was open. Dave had jumped at the chance to man the shop on Sundays for the interim: she’d left him in sole charge, with instructions to phone if it got too hectic.

They’d been really busy. Autumn seemed to bring with it a hunkering down feeling that drew people back to reading, and the town was filled with people indulging in a weekend break in the countryside. With its Cotswold charm and inviting inns and welcoming shops, Peasebrook wore the colder months well and had become quite a hotspot and Emilia and her team were working hard to raise the shop’s profile. Dave had started them a Facebook page and a Twitter account; she’d been talking to several reps about supplementary merchandise; June was starting a monthly book club sponsored by the local wine merchants: for ten pounds you would get a copy of whichever paperback was going to be discussed over two glasses of specially chosen wine.

Of course, the main issue was cash flow. Andrea was still uncovering the extent of the shop’s debts, they were waiting for probate, and in the meantime, the bills and the staff still needed to be paid. There was no shortage of ideas for making Nightingale Books the best book shop in the world, but to do that Emilia needed money. And there were plenty of boring things that needed to be done before the exciting things: the computer system badly needed updating; security was non-existent, and the roof was only held on by a wing and a prayer. The autumn winds were gathering strength and Emilia fully expected to find it no longer there one morning, the contents of the attic exposed for all to see.

In the church hall, four chairs were laid out in a semi-circle in front of four music stands. There was much discussion as to the best seating order, but in the end Marlowe dictated that Emilia and he were best at either end, so that she could see him and vice versa.

Any nerves Emilia had were doubled the moment she saw Delphine. Emilia knew the viola player, Petra, from old, but she had never got to know Delphine properly; only by repute from what Julius had said. She was wearing PVC drainpipes, brothel creepers and a frilly white blouse. She had Paris written all over her, with her asymmetric bob and red lips. Emilia felt dowdy in her jeans and hoody with her hair in plaits.

‘Do you two know each other?’ Marlowe asked, his casual tone not giving anything away.

‘Hello,’ said Emilia, feeling a nasty burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘Thank you so much for playing at the memorial. It meant a lot.’

‘We miss your father very much,’ said Delphine. ‘He was a beautiful player.’

Emilia immediately felt under pressure to be as good as her father, which she knew she wasn’t.

She panicked even more when she heard Delphine play. She picked up her violin and played a snippet of Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’, in honour of the leaves turning to orange outside the window and the fact the sun had had little warmth in it that day.

It was the musical equivalent of a sketch. The bow barely touched the strings, just danced over them, picking out the few notes she wanted to give an approximation of the piece. The notes were pure and perfect and stunning in their simplicity. Delphine was a player at the top of her game.

Was she showing off? Or did she just feel the need to send Emilia a warning shot? A message to her that said you can never be as good as me, as long as you live, as often as you practise.

She finished the piece with a flourish. Petra clapped in delight. Emilia knew she would look churlish if she didn’t join in. Her face ached as she smiled. Delphine gave a tiny self-deprecating shake of her head and a shrug as if to say ‘it was nothing’. But Emilia knew she knew how good she was.

And then she sauntered over to Marlowe and slid a hand around his neck, stroking the back of it with her thumb. Marlowe was busy tightening his bow and didn’t react, but it was such a familiar gesture, Emilia was left in no doubt: of course they were going out. She could imagine them having sex. French sex. French sex where Delphine was on top with her head thrown back and her eyes half-shut but her lipstick still perfect. Delphine was Juliette Binoche, Béatrice Dalle and Audrey Tautou rolled into one, and a musical prodigy to boot.

That answered that query, then. They were an item. Why did she feel disappointed?

She snapped the locks shut on her cello case and stood up.

She was surprised how unsettled she felt.

Marlowe came over as she took out her cello and pulled out the spike.

‘I hope you’re not too nervous.’

‘No! Well, yes.’

‘You’ll be fine. We’re concentrating on the wedding music for the first half, then we’ll start looking at some carols.’

‘I should know most of them.’ Emilia suddenly felt less daunted. She had spent her school years in the orchestra, after all.

She took her seat and began to tune her cello, pulling the bow across the A string. It sounded discordant and ugly, badly out of tune. It sounded how she felt. Swiftly, she adjusted the pegs until the note rang true.

And then they were off. They were starting with the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’, the music Alice Basildon had chosen for her wedding entrance. It was a joyous and upbeat piece of music that Emilia loved, but it was extremely fast and extremely fiddly.

She played atrociously. Her fingers felt stiff and unyielding. Her mind couldn’t concentrate. She missed the dynamics. She lost her place. She forgot what key signature they were in and played several wrong notes. And because there were only four of them playing, she couldn’t hide behind the others. It made the piece sound dreadful.

Eventually Marlowe stopped.

‘Shall we go back to bar twenty-four?’ he asked. He didn’t look at her or say anything else, which made it worse.

Red with humiliation, Emilia took in a deep breath and studied the sheet music again. Petra gave her an encouraging smile and she felt as if she had one ally, at least. Marlowe raised his eyebrows and gave the signal to start again. She concentrated with all her might, but it was a huge effort. Nothing came naturally. She was playing like a robot, programmed to follow the black marks on the page, not feeling it with her heart or in her soul.

All the time, she was keenly aware of Delphine taking note of every tiny mistake she made. She wanted to throw down her cello and tell her to bugger off. She had never felt so threatened, and it was a horrible feeling.

At last, thank goodness, they got to the end.

‘Well done, everybody,’ was all Marlowe said.

Emilia kept her head low. She felt as if she had let everyone down. Her eyes felt peppery with unshed tears, but she wasn’t going to let them out. Not with Delphine gloating in the corner. There was no point in apologising or drawing attention to herself. They all knew. She would just have to do better next time.

‘Let’s try the Pachelbel,’ Marlowe said, and they shuffled through their sheet music until they found the right piece and put it on their respective stands. Emilia felt relieved. She knew this piece well, and could play it blindfold; she could make up for her earlier debacle and prove herself to Delphine.

Afterwards, Marlowe gave her a nod and a smile that said she had redeemed herself. Just.

‘Are you coming to the Cardamom Pod?’ he asked. ‘It’s where we always go after Sunday rehearsals.’

Emilia wasn’t sure if she could face it. Having to be polite to Delphine, and feeling self-conscious about her lacklustre performance.

‘I’ve got paperwork,’ she lied. ‘Mounds of it. The accountant will shoot me if I don’t get it in to her tomorrow.’

There was a flurry of protest but Emilia didn’t miss the flash of triumph in Delphine’s eye. And suddenly she wondered why she should be made to feel bad when she had done her best, and been thrown in at the deep end.

‘But why not?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to eat, after all.’

She lifted up her cello and hoisted it onto her back with a bright smile.

‘Excellent,’ said Marlowe.

The Cardamom Pod was housed in one of Peasebrook’s oldest buildings, with wonky floors and low ceilings, but it felt funky and modern, with the walls painted a hot dusty pink and the beams whitewashed. It smelled exotic: of warm spices, and Emilia swooned as her mouth began to water, realising that she had been existing on sandwiches and muffins from The Icing on the Cake. She was too tired to cook properly for herself. They ordered bottles of Indian lager and dunked poppadoms into the Cardamom Pod’s home-made mango chutney while they chose their food.

‘Your father always ordered for us,’ said Marlowe. ‘He made us be adventurous. And he always had the hottest dish he could stand.’

‘He loved Indian food,’ said Emilia, gazing at the menu.

‘I think we should propose a toast.’ Marlowe raised his glass. ‘To welcome you to the Peasebrook Quartet. I know how proud Julius would be.’

Even though she’d played abysmally, thought Emilia, but she didn’t say it, because it was ungracious.

‘I hope I can live up to him,’ she said, raising her glass too. ‘I don’t think I made a very good start.’

‘Two hours’ practice a day, remember.’ Marlowe gave her a playful stern stare. ‘I’ll be on to you.’

‘Marlowe is terribly strict,’ murmured Delphine, ladling as much innuendo into the statement as she could.

Inwardly, Emilia rolled her eyes – she’d got the message – but smiled as brightly as she could as she raised her glass and chinked it against the others’.

Twelve

On Monday morning, when Bill had safely gone off to work and before she could think twice, Bea stuffed Maud into her pushchair and walked into Peasebrook, marching up the high street until she reached the bridge by Nightingale Books. The sign outside was swinging gently in the autumn breeze. Through the bulging bay window, she could see Emilia talking to a customer.

A sign on the door, written in beautiful copperplate writing, said:
Open Monday Till Saturday 10ish until the last customer goes
. Bea smiled, pushed open the door with her bum, dragging the pushchair inside, then waited until the shop was empty. The great thing about a book shop was nobody thought it was odd if you lingered for ages. That was what you were supposed to do after all. So she hovered between the cookery and the art section, all the while keeping an eye on the other customers, until the last one drifted out of the door and there was her opportunity.

She walked up to the till before she could change her mind, and laid the book on the counter.

‘I need to bring this back to you.’

Emilia looked up and recognised her.

‘Oh! You bought
To the Moon and Back
.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t realise you’d bought a Riley.’

Bea looked down at the floor.

‘I didn’t.’ She paused. ‘I nicked it.’

Emilia looked from the book to Bea and back.

‘Nicked it?’

Bea nodded. She took in a deep breath.

‘I don’t know why. I had a really weird moment. I don’t know what came over me. It’s not even as if I couldn’t afford it. Not really. Not if I’d really wanted it.’ She looked at Emilia, bewildered. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I had to tell you. To stop myself ever doing anything like that again.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Emilia managed an uncertain laugh. ‘Except I probably wouldn’t have noticed. You could have got away with it.’

‘But I didn’t want to get away with it. I had to bring it back. To scare myself. I sort of wonder if I might be going mad. It’s such a stupid thing to do.’ She gave Emilia a smile, half rueful, half scared. ‘If you want to have me arrested, then so be it. I deserve it.’

‘Of course I won’t. You brought it back. That’s not the behaviour of a repeat offender.’

‘It’s the behaviour of someone who needs help. Don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Thank you for being so understanding.’ Bea thought she might cry. ‘I just don’t feel like myself any more. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m going to cry. No, I’m not.’

She gave a snort and a gulp, a half laugh, half sob, then pulled herself together.

‘Are you OK?’ Emilia was intrigued, but concerned.

Bea gripped the handles of the pushchair. She was struggling to speak.

‘I thought I was. But maybe I’m not. It’s been tough. This whole … motherhood thing. This whole … not having a job thing. This whole moving to the countryside to live the dream.’ She was getting more worked up. ‘This whole … not having anything to do all day thing. Except, you know, mash up carrots and change nappies.’ She looked down at Maud in her pushchair. Maud beamed up at her. ‘Not that I don’t utterly adore Maud. Of course I do.’

‘I can’t imagine what it’s like,’ said Emilia. ‘I suppose one day I’ll find out.’

‘It’s lovely. But it’s …’ Bea took in a gulp of air. ‘I’m not allowed to say it.’

‘Boring?’ offered Emilia.

‘Yes! And of course, it’s the most important job in the world blah blah blah and I should be grateful, because I’ve got friends – more than one – who’ve been trying for ages and had no luck. But—’ She stared at Emilia. She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh my God. I didn’t come in here to dump on you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t really know anyone in this town. And you look … nice. Like you might get it.’

Emilia didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you. I think.’ She put her hands on the book. ‘I’ll put this back on the pile and we won’t say anything more about it.’

‘Who nicks stuff from a book shop? That is just so wrong.’

Emilia pointed a warning finger at her. ‘We’re not saying anything more about it. Remember?’

Bea stood up straight and nodded obediently. ‘Thank you. For being so understanding. How’s it all going, anyway?’

‘I’m panicking a bit, to be honest.’

‘Why? I’d have thought this would be the least stressful job in the world.’ Bea looked around the shop. ‘I’d love to spend every day here.’

‘Yeah, but it’s losing money hand over fist.’

‘What with people nicking stuff and all. That can’t help.’

The two girls laughed.

‘So what did you used to do? Before the little one?’ asked Emilia.

‘I was an art director. For
Hearth
magazine?’

‘Oh wow. I love
Hearth
. It’s how I want my life to be.’

‘That’s exactly why they sell so many copies.’

Studying Bea, Emilia thought she looked just like the poster girl for
Hearth
. Beautiful and on trend with all the latest accessories and the perfect baby. And she must be smart.
Hearth
was one of the bestselling women’s lifestyle magazines, dictating what any modern woman with even a hint of style should be putting on her wall or on her plate or in her plant pots, leading the zeitgeist in interior design and food and gardening. But clearly something was not right.

Bea shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’ve brought the book back and I promise I won’t darken your doors again.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Emilia felt drawn to Bea and her self-deprecating honesty. ‘And actually, you might be able to help me.’

‘Help you?’

Emilia grinned. ‘Yes. It could be your punishment. You can give me some advice.’

‘Advice on what?’

‘I need to turn this place round. Make it appeal to a wider customer base. But I haven’t a clue where to start. Oh, and the kicker is – I don’t really have any money to do it. Maybe you could give me some ideas?’

Bea put one hand on her hip. She grinned.

‘And in return you won’t have me banged up?’

‘Something like that.’

Bea looked around her thoughtful. ‘I love it in here. The shop’s got great atmosphere. It’s really warm and welcoming. But it is kind of …’

She screwed up her face.

‘Dickensian? Out of the ark?’ offered Emilia.

‘Not out of the ark. I like that it’s old-fashioned. But you could make more of it. Keep the spirit, but open it up a bit. Lighten it. Create some little sets, maybe – you know, dress it up? And that mezzanine?’ She pointed upwards. ‘That is totally wasted on boring old history and maps. Does anyone ever really go up there?’

Emilia looked up. ‘Sometimes. My father used to. He keeps his special editions locked in a glass case. But you’re right. It’s wasted space, really.’

‘Maud goes to nursery two mornings. What if I come back and measure up. Take some photos. Then draw you out some ideas.’ She frowned. ‘What is your budget, exactly?’

Emilia made a face. ‘Um – I don’t really have one. But I suppose it will be an investment. I can use my credit card.’

Bea put her hands over her ears. ‘Don’t let me hear the word credit card. Don’t worry – I’m used to creating magic out of muck. The great thing is you have lovely architectural features. Like a woman with good bone structure. You can’t go too far wrong.’ She smiled. ‘I know all the tricks. And I’ve got great contacts. I can get you all sorts of things at trade prices. Lighting.’ She looked up at the ceiling. The red velvet lampshades were dusty and she could definitely see cobwebs. ‘And paint.’ She looked at the floor, at the old red carpet, almost worn through in places. ‘And carpets.’

Emilia looked amazed. Bea seemed to have blossomed and flourished right in front of her eyes.

Bea stopped mid flow.

‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’

‘You’re not! It’s good to have an objective eye. I’ve lived with this shop for so long I don’t notice that it’s a bit old and tired.’

‘We won’t throw away the spirit of the place. That’s vital. The ambience in here is what makes it special. But look – the old fireplace, for example. You should be using that as a feature. It would be wonderful opened up, with a squashy armchair next to it so people could read.’

Emilia stared at the fireplace, which had been bricked up.

‘If you get cold feet, and start thinking what on earth am I doing asking that crazy girl to help me, just say. I won’t be offended. Or surprised.’

‘No. Weirdly, I feel as if this could really work.’

‘Window displays,’ said Bea with a sigh, looking over at the windows on either side of the door. ‘Those windows are just waiting for stories to be told! Can you imagine? Valentine’s Day, filled with love stories? Or ghost stories, at Halloween? As for Christmas …’

Bea clapped her hands in excitement.

Emilia thought Bea was possibly a little bit mad. But she didn’t care. Bea’s enthusiasm had lifted the fug of the past few weeks and given her life. She had felt weighed down since her meeting with Andrea, not sure what to address first. It was exciting to hear someone brimming with enthusiasm. For the first time since her father had died, she felt a glimmer of hope.

She told June about her encounter with Bea later that afternoon.

‘I feel as if things are falling into place. I’ve got a vision of what the shop could be like. I know I mustn’t get carried away because I can’t afford to wave a magic wand and have it how I want it, but at least I don’t feel so overwhelmed.’

‘I think once you start making changes, things
will
fall into place,’ agreed June. ‘In the meantime, what do you think about this?’

Emilia looked at the press release June handed her.

There were months of them, piled up under the counter. Endless missives from publicists wanting their book to be given pride of place. Julius never read them, because he wanted to make up his own mind about which books to give preference. He had a brilliant instinct for what would sell well, and he hated gimmicks and hype.

Emilia knew, however, that if she was going to increase Nightingale Books’ profit by any significant margin that she had to raise her game. She needed publicity and a raise in profile as much as the authors and publishers of the books she was selling. So why not use them?

Two blue eyes were staring at her from the middle of the blurb. Mick Gillespie. Even a photocopy of him at seventy years old still had it. His expression made you feel as if you were the centre of his universe. Emilia wondered what it was like to be under his gaze in real life.

He was doing a pre-Christmas book tour to promote his no-holds-barred autobiography, which promised any number of secrets and scandals and behind-the-scenes indiscretion. He would give a talk, answer questions, sign books. Not that he needed to do anything, Emilia thought. He just needed to breathe.

Mick Gillespie was the perfect person to kick off her new campaign. No one was immune to his charms. Men and women young and old would be intrigued. She imagined the shop bursting at the seams, the queue snaking out of the door. He was a legend. An icon. As cool as Steve McQueen and James Dean and Richard Burton all rolled into one. Handsome and devil-may-care and charismatic.

‘June – that is a genius idea.’

‘I knew him once,’ admitted June, with a twinkle in her eye.

‘No way!’

‘Yeah. I was an extra on one of his films. For my sins.’

‘An extra? I didn’t know you were an extra.’

‘Not for long. I was no good at it.’

‘But you met Mick Gillespie? It must have been in his hey-day.’

June nodded. ‘Yes …’

‘What was he like?’

‘Absolutely out of this world. Unforgettable. Magical.’

‘Do you think you can pull strings?’

June laughed. ‘No. Absolutely definitely not. There’s no way he’d remember me. I played a barmaid. If I’d been an
actual
barmaid he might have paid me more attention.’

Mick Gillespie’s love for the drink was legendary.

‘Well. Nothing ventured,’ said Emilia. ‘This would bring everybody to the shop. We’d be in the papers and everything.’

She picked up the phone to his publicist. He was probably fully committed already. No book shop in the country was going to pass up this opportunity.

Luck was on her side. Peasebrook would fit neatly in between Mick’s current commitments.

‘It’ll be a chance for him to have a little rest. We’ve given him the next day off, so where better to spend it than in the Cotswolds?’ the publicist said.

Emilia grinned to herself as she hung up the phone.

‘Nightingale Books is added to the tour. Mick Gillespie is coming here, to Peasebrook.’

‘Goodness!’ June looked rather taken aback.

‘I think we should get Thomasina to do the food,’ Emilia went on. ‘An Irish theme. She gave me a card the other day in case I needed any catering. What do you think?’

June was away with the fairies.

‘Stop daydreaming, would you?’ Emilia teased. ‘What drinks should we serve?’

‘I’d keep him well away from the drink if I were you,’ said June darkly.

‘But he must be getting on a bit.’ Emilia looked at his picture. ‘And they wouldn’t let him out on tour if he was trouble.’

‘Careful who you’re calling old,’ teased June. ‘He’s not much older than I am.’

‘Well, we all know you don’t look your age.’ Emilia gave June a hug. She was so grateful for the older woman’s advice and help. She almost felt like a maternal presence, something Emilia had never had, or, to be honest, felt the need for. But with her father gone, June’s presence was comforting, and she thought perhaps she didn’t appreciate her enough.

She was only too aware how important the people in this town had become to her in such a short space of time. Without their support, she’d have thrown in the towel weeks ago.

‘Mick Gillespie,’ she sighed, looking at the press release again.

By four thirty in the afternoon, there was just one man in the shop. It was getting dark outside and he was hovering, looking uncertain. This wasn’t unusual. Emilia found people were either totally at home in a book shop, or felt a little out of place. He had a dog with him, a shaggy lurcher who looked as awkward and out of place as his owner.