How to Find Love in a Book Shop (22 page)

Nineteen

The following Sunday, Emilia gave herself the day off. She had worked flat out for weeks, and Dave was happy to run the shop for the day.

Marlowe had offered to give her a cello lesson, to get her up to speed on the pieces she was unfamiliar with and to practise the Handel. Of all the pieces she had to get that right, as it heralded Alice’s entrance.

‘It’s renowned for being a bitch of a piece for the cello,’ he told her, ‘but we’ll nail it, don’t worry.’

It was one of those autumn days that take you by surprise. Although there was a sharpness in the air on waking, warm sunshine and a cloudless sky belied the season. Emilia put on a yellow dress and a pale green cardigan and drove to Marlowe’s house, a tiny Victorian lodge on the outskirts of Peasebrook. It was like a cottage out of a fairy tale, all pointy windows with a gabled roof and an arched front door.

Inside, it was chaos. Books and sheet music and empty wine glasses and two smoky grey cats stepping amongst it all. John Coltrane was playing and she could smell fresh coffee. With a pang, she realised it reminded her a little bit of the flat when her father was alive: he was always in the middle of twelve things at once; there was always music; something cooking.

‘God, I’m sorry. I meant to tidy up.’ Marlowe kissed her. ‘Meet Crotchet and Quaver.’

He scooped one of the cats off a chair and patted the seat. ‘You sit here. I’ll get you a coffee while you set yourself up.’

Emilia got out her cello, and as she looked around the room she spotted evidence of Delphine. A silk Hermès scarf on the sofa; lipstick on a glass; a pair of Chanel ballet flats.

‘Delph’s in Paris for the weekend – some family knees-up. So we’ve got all day if you need it.’

OK, thought Emilia. I’ve got the message. ‘Delph’. That was fond familiarity if ever she’d heard it.

After two hours, she was exhausted. Marlowe was a brilliant and patient teacher, and not once did he make her feel inferior. He helped her with her posture and her bow hold. At one point he put his hand on her shoulder. His fingers dug in until he found a muscle.

‘You need to relax that muscle. Drop your shoulder.’

Emilia tried desperately to relax, but she found it difficult. The feeling of his hand on her was making her think about things she probably shouldn’t. Eventually she managed to untense.

‘That’s it!’ Marlowe was triumphant. ‘If you relax that, you’ll be able to play for longer, and much better.’

By half twelve, she was exhausted.

‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘Let’s walk to the pub and get some lunch.’

They walked to the White Horse and bought hot pork ciabatta rolls with apple sauce and bits of salty crackling, sitting at a table outside next to a patio heater. Emilia didn’t want to leave the sunshine, the easy company, the half of cider that was making her sleepy and made her want to slide into bed …

‘Let’s go back through the woods,’ suggested Marlowe. ‘It’s a bit further than the road but we can walk our lunch off.’

The walk through the wood meandered alongside the river. Sunshine and birdsong lifted Emilia’s heart: she’d spent far too much time inside recently. She must make the effort to get out and enjoy the countryside around Peasebrook. It was truly glorious, with the trees ablaze with crimson and coral and ochre and the rich smell of dead leaves underfoot.

Eventually they came to a section of the river that was deeper than the rest, the banks widening to form a bowl-shaped pool. The water was crystal clear: Emilia could see the smooth stones at the bottom, covered in moss and there was a willow on the far bank, trailing its branches in the water.

‘Fancy a swim, then?’ asked Marlowe. ‘Doesn’t get wilder than this.’

‘You have to be joking. Surely it’s too cold?’

‘Nah. I swim here all the time, even on Christmas Day. It’s invigorating.’

‘Invigorating?’

Emilia looked doubtful. Yet part of her couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘Does Delphine swim in this?’ She couldn’t imagine she did.

‘God, no. She’s a total chicken.’

That was all the encouragement Emilia needed. She was going to prove to Marlowe she was no wuss. There was only one thing stopping her.

‘I haven’t got any bathing things,’ she said, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to inhibit Marlowe.

‘We can go in our underwear,’ he said. ‘No different to swimming trunks or a bikini.’

Emilia laughed.

‘You’re on,’ she said, and kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her dress.

Marlowe needed no encouragement. He ripped off his shirt, undid his jeans and she saw a flash of surprisingly toned skin and a six-pack before he dived straight in.

He came to the surface spluttering and whooping with the shock of the cold.

‘Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Come on! Don’t hesitate or you’ll never do it.’

She dropped her dress on top of his clothes and before he had too much time to examine her in her bra and knickers she leapt in too.

The iciness took her breath away. But it was exhilarating.

‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘It’s giving me brain freeze.’

They trod water for a while.

‘I love it here,’ said Marlowe. ‘It’s where I come when I’ve fucked things up. It clears your head.’

Emilia nodded, but her teeth were starting to chatter.

‘You don’t strike me as someone who ever fucks up.’

He gave a hollow laugh.

‘You know, when you get yourself into a situation you can’t get out of?’ His tone was dark.

Emilia wondered what he meant. Was he referring to Delphine? But he didn’t elucidate.

‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘You’re getting cold.’

They climbed back out onto the bank. Marlowe picked up his shirt.

‘Use this to get yourself dry,’ he said. ‘I can go without. We’re nearly at the cottage.’

She felt self-conscious, wiping herself down with his shirt, but it took away the worst of the water before putting her dress back on. She found herself riveted by a tattoo on his chest – a line of music on his taut skin.

She bent forward to inspect it. She wasn’t great at sight-reading, but even she could work it out.

‘Beethoven’s Fifth!’ she exclaimed in delight.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You passed the test.’

‘Test?’

He looked at her. His eyes were teasing. ‘I never sleep with anyone who can’t read what it is.’

Her eyes widened.

He looked embarrassed. ‘Not that—’

‘No! Of course not.’

She walked on, confused. Why had he said that? It was a bit unfair, given his relationship. He’d definitely been flirting with her, just for a moment.

Back at the cottage, she felt shivery: the water had been freezing and the cold had got into her bones. Marlowe made her a hot chocolate, and lent her a grey cashmere sweater. As she slipped it on, she breathed in the smell of him. She immediately felt warmer, as if she’d been wrapped in a hug. That was cashmere for you, she supposed.

‘Stick some of this in it.’ Marlowe held out the bottle of Paddy she’d brought him to say thank you for playing. He poured a generous slug into her mug. As she drank it, curled up on the sofa, she felt her eyes close. The morning’s playing, the walk, the lunch, the swim, the warmth of the fire and the whiskey …

‘Well, well, this is cosy.’

She started awake to see Delphine standing in the doorway.

Marlowe got up off the sofa in a fluid movement. Emilia had had no idea he was sitting next to her.

‘Hey, Delph.’

Delphine’s eyes took in the scene. Luckily Julius’s cello was still out, in front of a music stand. It was all the excuse they needed.

Not that they needed an excuse. They’d done nothing. Though Emilia was conscious of wearing Marlowe’s sweater.

‘You’re back early,’ said Marlowe. ‘Have a whiskey.’ He took a glass off a shelf.

‘I should go,’ said Emilia.

‘Not because of me,’ said Delphine, taking the whiskey off Marlowe and sinking into the sofa. She was in a red sweater dress and matching beret. She looked unbelievably smug, and Emilia felt a sudden flash of intense dislike.

‘Do you mind if I keep your jumper on?’ she asked Marlowe, knowing she was being provocative. She only did it because she knew they had nothing to hide. She had a clear conscience.

Delphine didn’t flinch. Marlowe nodded. ‘Sure. Give it back to me at the next rehearsal.’

Emilia drove home, trying not to feel nettled by Delphine’s hostile presence. She concentrated instead on what she had achieved. She felt so much more confident after Marlowe’s tuition. Maybe she wasn’t going to let the side down after all.

Jackson couldn’t settle that Sunday.

Ian Mendip had called him to hassle him about the book shop.

‘It doesn’t usually take you this long to get into a girl’s knickers,’ he complained, and Jackson hung up on him. He’d blame the bad signal in Peasebrook.

He didn’t want any more to do with Ian’s twisted plan. He really admired Emilia for what she was doing at the shop and hated the thought of Ian getting his hands on it. Nightingale Books was a force for good, and Mendip was a greedy monster. If he sacked him, then so be it.

He walked over to his house. Mia was heading out on a twenty-mile bike ride as part of her triathlon training, and he’d offered to look after Finn. He didn’t see it as a chore – why would he?

‘Nice bike,’ he said, as she made everything ready – gel packs and water bottles and repair kits.

She looked at him. ‘It’s all I’ve got,’ she said. ‘I don’t spend money on clothes.’

‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ said Jackson, because he hadn’t. Why was she so defensive? Why did she make it so hard for him to be nice to her?

He looked at her, in her ridiculous tight black Lycra and the helmet that made her look like an alien, and thought how vulnerable she looked. His heart gave a little stumble.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Call me if you get tired and need picking up.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, clearly not wanting to show any dependence on him whatsoever.

He went back into the house.

He felt as if he was in limbo, halfway between being an upstanding person and a waste of space. It was as if he was in the bottom of a dark well, and there was a light at the top, and he had to climb up to it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find when he got to the light, but if he did get there, things would be better, he felt sure.

He leafed through the book Emilia had suggested he read with Finn.
The Little Prince
was a curious book, and a lot of it he found puzzling. It seemed to have all the wisdom in the world in its pages.

She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her. I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind all her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her …

It was true. He had been too young to love Mia properly. He had driven her away with his behaviour. He could see that now. She didn’t trust him. Of course she didn’t. He’d been immature, and feckless, and selfish.

He stared at the wall in the living room. He’d given up, he realised. He’d given up on his hopes, his dreams, his relationships. He’d become involved in something that made him hate himself more than he did already. He closed the book.

So that was why people read. Because books explained things: how you thought, and how you behaved, and made you realise you were not alone in doing what you did or feeling what you felt.

He took Finn out to the skatepark, a million thoughts whirling round his head, not sure how to make sense of them, but knowing that he needed to, and that somewhere there was an answer. He didn’t just have to stumble along, making mistakes, doing things he didn’t want to, at the will of everyone else.

Suddenly everything seemed so clear in his mind: what he wanted from life. He wanted the chance to be a good husband to the woman he loved and had never stopped loving. He was a good father, he knew that, but he wanted to be a father in a proper family, not a single dad kicking a football or standing in the skatepark.

What would she say? How could he convince her he had changed? He had no proof, except for the fact that he felt different. That someone – Emilia – had, without knowing, shown him the way. Mia would laugh if he tried to explain it. She would think he was trying it on, trying to get his feet under the table because it suited him.

He had to ask her. He had to man up and fight for what he wanted. His wife and his child to be together with him. He’d learned by his mistakes. He wanted responsibility and security.

He picked up a couple of takeaway pizzas for him and Finn from the corner shop on the way home. They scoffed them in the kitchen, not even stopping for plates, eating them right out of the cardboard box.

Jackson was in the middle of tidying the kitchen when Mia got back from her bike ride. She looked exhausted.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ she said brightly, and looked askance at the remains of the pizza, one eyebrow raised in disapproval of its fat and carb content.

It was now or never, thought Jackson.

‘I miss you.’

Mia blinked. ‘What?’

‘I miss you. I miss us. I don’t understand, why I’m stuck in a caravan with my mum – much as I love her – and you’re obsessed with …’ he waved a hand in the air, ‘driving yourself into the ground with all that fitness and healthy eating. We should have gone out today, as a family.’

She crossed her arms. She looked away. She looked as if she was going to cry. Eventually she looked back at him.

‘But we’re not a family any more, Jackson.’ She walked away to put the kettle on, turning her back on him to indicate the conversation was over, and Jackson felt a lurch of disappointment. So much for being brave.

He sighed. ‘Oh.’ He frowned. ‘Is there … someone else?’

He imagined some sinewy cycling fanatic planning endless bike rides on a fitness app.

She gave a bark of laughter. ‘No. No, there isn’t. I don’t want somebody else, Jackson. I’m trying to figure out who I am, after everything you put me through. Build a new life.’

Without him in it. That much was clear.