by Lily Graham
After Jenny finished, she put a ‘Back in Five Minutes’ sign on the counter and joined Emma, with two cappuccinos.
‘You’re spoiling me, thanks,’ said Emma, taking her cup. ‘I’m so sad I missed your opening. I missed a lot,’ she went on sadly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jen, ‘you were busy, I understood.’
Jenny had been round to visit her at the cottage a few weeks before when Emma first got back, but it was nice to be able to see the little library van for herself at last.
Emma nodded. Still, she didn’t like that she had used it as an excuse. ‘So why did you decide to start it?’
‘Why leave my high-paying accountancy job you mean?’ asked Jenny, who’d shocked quite a few friends and family when she gave up her job in Manchester and moved back home to open this small independent library.
Many people had been grateful; the old library had closed down several years before, and it was quite a schlepp to get to the big one in town.
Emma nodded. ‘You never said – just next thing we all knew, you were doing this,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I mean, it’s fantastic, I just wondered what inspired it?’
‘I think I just got to a stage when I realised – this is what I want to do, you know? Something I truly loved. For a long time, I was miserable, and I didn’t even know it. I had a well-paid job, but I rented a flat in the week and only came home at weekends. I wanted to be here, back in Whistling. I know some people just want to get out when they grow up but I love it here.’
She blushed, seeing Emma’s face. But Emma nodded. She could understand that. And in any case it was different for Jenny; she wasn’t so involved with the village and all of its old rumours like she herself was, as her family had only moved here when she was a baby.
Jenny continued, ‘I lived for the weekend. I mean, that’s normal, I guess, but I was really living for it. It got so that I was sitting in the car park one day and crying before I went in to work. I didn’t even know why I was crying. All I knew was that I was miserable. Everyone tells you “follow your passion”, and I thought I had. I mean, I’m good at numbers, I like them, but I guess maybe I wasn’t passionate about them. I didn’t know what to do at first, so I got all these self-help books out the library, and one day I was listening to this podcast on happiness, and someone asked the host the question – how do you know what makes you happy? It was the question I kept asking myself. Like, I should know, no? But I didn’t any more. So anyway, the host’s answer was: think of the thing that made you happy when you were ten.’
‘I didn’t hear anything else after that. I just sat there thinking, and then it came to me – books. It’s always been books. I’ve never been happier than with them. It was so simple and so obvious, and it was like a light bulb came on in my head, you know? Next thing you know I’d set up this business. I started as cheap as I could, found the van – it was going for a song – and started running it at the weekends. It was, what do they call it in the States, a side hustle, I suppose?’
Emma laughed. ‘I love that.’
‘Me too,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, it started doing quite well – most of the village is a member, and I get money from the coffees and sandwiches and cakes and stuff. It’s not crazy money but it’s enough for what I need, and I’ve just never been happier.’
Emma looked at her. ‘That’s incredible, so brave, Jen. I’m so proud of you – and this place, it’s wonderful,’ she said sincerely.
‘Well when you write a best-selling book with your columns or the history of food one day, maybe you can do a book signing here,’ Jen joked.
‘You’ll be my first call, I promise,’ Emma said.
While she walked home, with her bag of books swinging companionably in her grandmother’s string bag, her crutch digging slightly into her armpit, the cold air billowing out of her mouth in white plumes, she thought of what Jenny had said: ‘What made you happy when you were ten?’
Like Jenny, it was an easy answer. When she was that age, she’d liked nothing better than being in the kitchen in Hope Cottage, figuring out what someone needed, then looking in The Book and trying to make something that might help. When she opened the door, she felt her cheeks, surprised to find that she’d been crying. The trouble was, loving what she did came with a price, one she’d never been prepared to pay.
* * *
That night, a message pinged on her mobile.
Can’t stop thinking of you. Jack.
She closed her eyes. Felt her cheeks flush, then replied:
Didn’t know you had my number? How did you get it?
He texted back.
Oh, I have my ways…
* * *
Maggie?
* * *
Maggie
She laughed.
So what you up to?
She blinked. Currently she was lying in bed, with Pennywort snoring beside her, waiting for Sandro to come home so that he could join them and listen to the audiobook and she could hear about his night at the Tapas Hut. Somehow, telling Jack this didn’t seem like the best idea.
Just lying in bed with Pennywort.
Lucky Pennywort.
She laughed.
Do you want to get together tomorrow, maybe do a breakfast?
Where, your place? Not sure Evie would want me there again.
Don’t worry about Evie.
Easy for you to say.
She sighed. Was about to type a reply but he got there first.
Can’t anyway sorry, got an early meeting. How about a coffee in town in the afternoon?
She touched Pennywort’s fur, shook her head, muttering, ‘Okay Jack, not the cottage, I get it.’
Still, she typed back.
Okay.
It was after one in the morning when she gave up on waiting for Sandro. She sighed and switched off the light, feeling flat, and a little sad. ‘I’m just tired,’ she thought, snuggling up to Pennywort; but she felt wide awake, and spent a long time wondering where Sandro was, and why he hadn’t come home.
* * *
The next morning, she felt tired, and still badly in need of a good night’s sleep. Pennywort was asleep on her lap and she had her arm resting on his soft fur, but despite this she felt a bit out of sorts. Sandro still wasn’t home.
She looked at the three-legged stool and frowned. She’d never been much of a coffee drinker before, but since Sandro had been bringing her a cup every morning for the past several weeks, she’d come to rely on it.
She got out of bed and went into the kitchen to put on a pot.
Evie came down not long after. ‘Sandro must have slept at the Hut last night,’ she said, watching Emma.
‘Does he do that?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Evie. ‘Usually when there’s a new girl on the scene. Or he’s feeling a bit down about something.’
Emma put down her cup. ‘Are there a lot of girls?’ she asked.
Evie shrugged. ‘Hard to say, it’s been a while since the last. Well, can you blame him? The girls around here are a bit wild for him.’
Emma looked down, suddenly sick of the sight of the coffee.
‘So,’ said Evie. ‘Well…’
‘Well?’ asked Emma with a frown.
‘Well, everyone is talking about it.’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘Your impromptu date with Jack Allen.’
‘Oh!’ said Emma, but couldn’t help grinning. ‘Oh, yes. It just sort of happened.’
Evie raised a brow. ‘Okay?’
Emma narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, I’m staying out of it.’
Emma stared.
‘I promise.’
Emma’s phone pinged and she looked at the screen. Jack.
Hope you slept well?
Her heart started to thud, all thoughts of Sandro’s mysterious whereabouts forgotten.
‘You all right there, love?’ asked Evie.
Emma blinked, her mouth curving into a slow sm
ile.
‘That was him, I take it?’
‘I thought you were staying out of this?’
Evie rolled her eyes. ‘So did I,’ she harrumphed.
* * *
Later that morning she made her way into the greenhouse, bundled in a thick coat and wearing her bright pink bobble hat, and took a seat at the bench, wondering if Sandro was going to be coming home at all today.
The sky was the colour of an old bruise, and it looked like it might rain. She put on the lamp, trying to banish the gloom. She still couldn’t type just yet with her injured hand, but she was sure that at a push she could use her right hand if she needed to. Just then, a noise roused her.
‘Sorry I’m late, Pajarita – I fell asleep at the Hut. Was a rough night.’
In the grey light, his face looked wan and tired. There were circles round his eyes and, when he took off his dark knitted beanie, his curly hair was even messier than usual. There was stubble on his jawline and his usual carefree smile was gone.
‘Looks it,’ she said with a grin. ‘If you want to crash, I could probably type for myself – now that my vision’s improved, it should be a lot easier, even if I just use the one hand.’ She held up her right hand.
He gave a short laugh. ‘That will take you all day. I don’t mind; I just need some coffee.’ He held up a cafetière and put the kettle on.
‘Got a hangover?’ she guessed.
‘From hell,’ he agreed. He looked fairly green. She shook her head, and then took him by his arm. ‘C’mon, forget that. I’ll make you a cure,’ she said, leading him into the garden, where they made their way precariously towards the house, due to the slippery ground.
He gave her an amazed, slightly hopeful sort of look when they were in the kitchen.
She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not magic… well, maybe a little.’ She laughed.
A few minutes later she gave him a red-tinged drink with copious amounts of Tabasco in it, as well as a few Halloway secrets, like freshly grated ginger and honey. He sniffed it and his dark eyes watered. He gave a small, delicate cough and wrinkled his nose. ‘What is it?’
‘Hair of the dog.’
‘What?’ His eyes bulged.
She laughed. ‘That’s an expression – it just means that after a night of alcoholic drinks you need to drink another to feel a bit better. Drink up.’
‘That makes absolutely no sense, why call it “hair of the dog” then?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Oh! Well, the full expression is hair of the dog that bit you.’
He laughed. ‘Ah, that makes sense. I thought it was going to be like “have your cake and eat it” – what else are you going to do with it, pave your driveway, eh?’
She chuckled.
‘Okay,’ he said, taking a deep breath, pinching his nose, then downing the mixture in one. His face twisted into a grimace. ‘Oh God, Pajarita, that’s horrible.’
‘I know, sorry.’
When they got back to the greenhouse, though, he had more colour in his face.
‘Where did you learn that?’ he asked.
She snorted, ‘Not the Halloway Recipe Book, if that’s what you mean. That’s just something I learned the hard way during my wild student years.’
He looked at her. ‘You? Wild student years?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Well, only for a little while. Pete sorted me out.’
‘Pete?’
‘My ex.’
‘Ah. The one who wore lots of beige?’
She rolled her eyes, ‘You’ve been speaking to my aunts.’
‘Just Dot.’
‘She exaggerated.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, a little.’
He grinned. ‘You liked him – that’s all that matters.’
She nodded. ‘True. Thanks.’
She looked away, thinking of Pete, feeling that familiar stab of guilt when she did. It had taken her a long time even just to admit to herself that he’d been right, that she hadn’t felt about him the way he needed her to. She wished though that they had ended it differently; she hoped that wherever he was, he was happy. She’d respected his wishes though, not contacting him, even though it had been hard.
He grinned. ‘Okay. Remind me though to be careful about taking any food or drink from you again – I can handle hot things, trust me, but I think you used most of the bottle.’
She laughed. ‘Sorry, I usually taste it! Anyway, you should know by now that all Halloways come with a ready-made warning label – especially when it comes to food.’
He frowned. ‘I wouldn’t say a warning label.’
‘You just haven’t been here long enough.’
‘Well, people can be stupid.’
She folded her lips, but didn’t disagree. ‘Well, maybe things are changing,’ she said, thinking of Jack.
‘You mean – with that guy I saw you with?’
She shrugged, couldn’t help the small grin that formed.
A shadow passed over Sandro’s eyes. ‘I heard what he said.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What he said about your column explaining things about your family.’
‘Oh,’ said Emma. ‘Well, I suppose it does, in a way.’
He gave her a sceptical look. ‘I like your column, I do – but Pajarita, come on,’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s very matter-of-fact at times, you know?’
‘So?’
‘Well, I would have thought, I don’t know, that it would show the other side too – the inexplicable. I mean you can’t just sweep all of this under a rug, pretend it doesn’t exist. The things they make, they change people. I hear things, see them.’
‘And you think it’s real?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Wonder what?’
‘If there isn’t another reason.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like maybe you’re just holding yourself back, trying to be like everyone else.’
‘Maybe I am like everyone else.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Oh, and you know this how?’
‘I just do.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve lived here a couple of months, known me for a few weeks and you think that, what? Now you know me? Know what I feel?’
‘You think it’s not hard to see what’s happened? How you’ve tried so very hard to make sense of all of this,’ he said, indicating the cottage and everything else, ‘with your column? But it’s just a substitute, isn’t it? It’s the same as what you were saying about the “mock chocolate tarts” the other day, that’s what your column is.’
Emma’s eyes bulged. ‘No, it’s not.’
He shrugged. ‘I think it is – and to me, I can honestly tell you, I don’t think anyone is worth that. You shouldn’t have to give up who you are just to be loved, you should find someone who will love you for who you are, not who you’re not. You deserve so much more than that.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He shook his head. ‘Actually, I think I do.’
‘I love my job.’
‘You like it, and you’re good at it, but you know what I think?’
‘What?’
He jerked his head towards the door of Hope Cottage. ‘You love that.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong, I’ve hated that for years.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen your notebooks – your recipes. Evie showed them to me; they’re so full of life, and hope… and passion.’
‘She had no right to do that.’
He shrugged. ‘Of course she did, she loves you, they worry about you, about what’s happened to you. You can’t tell me that the way you feel about something like that is something you can just switch off?’
‘I was a child, I didn’t know any better.’
&nb
sp; He shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief. ‘But now you do?’
‘Yes,’ she spat, ‘I do.’
He stared at her. ‘You keep telling yourself that, maybe one day, eh, it’ll really come true.’
She felt her blood boiling as she set her jaw. ‘Thanks for your help today. But I’m better now. So, we can leave it at that – I can manage.’
‘Fine,’ he said, getting up fast, fists balled at his sides. ‘Well, good luck with that, you do it so well.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Did you hear about Alfred Bright?’ asked Dot, who was glazing the Christmas ham.
‘The butcher?’ said Aggie.
‘No, the MI6 agent from Istanbul. Of course, the butcher, what other Alfred Bright do you know?’
Aggie rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. Tell us.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s leaving Whistling?’ asked Emma, sadly. She really liked him, but she knew that times were tough now with the new supermarket, the Co-Mart, driving down business.
Evie shot her a look. Emma knew she was wondering if she hadn’t, somehow, bungled the recipe that Evie had asked her to watch over while she nipped out to get the cream.
For a second, Emma found herself wondering the same thing, until she reminded herself that it was all nonsense anyway.
‘No – the opposite, actually,’ said Dot. ‘Well, it seems that something went wrong with the new Co-Mart. Seems they didn’t actually have the right permissions for a store that big – some stray piece of damning paperwork has come to light and, well, looks like they’re going to have to relocate somewhere else, which is great news for the Brimbles, but especially poor Alfie.’
‘I must have missed that recipe, Evie – what did you do?’ asked Aggie.
Evie smiled. ‘The Stand By Me Soufflé.’
‘Really? That wasn’t one of our best – a trickster, for sure. I’m surprised.’