How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  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.”

  “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 heyday.”

  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 bookshop in the country was going to pass up this opportunity.

  Luck was on her side. Peasebrook would fit neatly in among 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 grinned. “Mick Gillespie,” she sighed, looking at the press release again. “Maybe he’ll turn my fortunes around.”

  “Emilia,” said June, pushing her reading glasses up into her thick hair and looking slightly anxious. “I don’t want you to be offended, or take this the wrong way, but if you need money to tide you over . . . I’ve got more than enough. I’ve only got myself to worry about these days. I’d be very happy to lend you whatever you need.”

  “Oh,” said Emilia. “Oh, thank you—but I couldn’t possibly. If this place is going to work, I need to work out how to do it myself.”

  “I understand that. I’d be exactly the same. But I just wanted you to know the offer is there. Julius was a very, very dear friend. It would be wrong of me not to offer.”

  Emilia could see June felt quite emotional: her voice shook slightly as she spoke and she couldn’t quite look Emilia in the eye. Emilia thought she was probably struggling not to cry.

  “You’re amazing,” she told her. “And thank you. If I need it, I promise I will ask.”

  She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. But she knew June had made the offer out of the kindness of her heart, so she didn’t want to offend her. She was so grateful for the older woman’s advice and help. June 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 was comforting, and she thought perhaps she didn’t appreciate her enough. When things were calmer, she’d have to find a way of showing her gratitude.

  —

  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 bookshop 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.

  Dogs were a good icebreaker.

  “Hi.” She walked over in a friendly but unobtrusive manner, holding a book in one hand so she looked as if she was on her way to put it somewhere rather than accosting him. “Look at you. You’re a lovely boy, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks,” joked the man, and Emilia laughed, bending down to rough up the dog’s ears.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Wolfie.”

  “Hey, Wolfie.” She looked up at the bloke. “Were you looking for something in particular, or are you just browsing?”

  He grinned at her and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. She could tell he was on unfamiliar territory. People unused to bookshops had an awkwardness about them. An apologetic awkwardness.

  “It’s a bit . . .” He trailed off as he searched for the word. “Embarrassing.”

  “Oh.” She tried to sound reassuring. “I’m sure it’s not. I’ll help if I can.”

  She watched him move his weight from one foot to the other. He was cute, she thought. Faded jeans and a white T-shirt with a soft red plaid shirt undone over the top. His hair was dark and scruffy and he had a five-o’clock shadow, but both of these things were by design rather than neglect: she could smell baby shampoo and something else more manly.

  “Don’t tell me—your girlfriend’s sent you in for Fifty Shades of Grey.” She grinned. On impulse, because her mind had suddenly gone that way.

  He looked startled. “God, no.”

  “Sorry. Only you wouldn’t believe how many women send their boyfriends in for it. Or how many men think they might spice things up a bit.”

  “No. It’s even more embarrassing than that.” He scratched his head and raised his eyebrows, looking sheepish. “The thing is, my little boy asked me the other day what my favorite book was. It was for his homework. And I realized—I’ve never read one. I’ve never read a book.”

  He looked at the floor. It was as if he was waiting for a punishment.

  “Never?”

  He shook his head. “No. Books and me just don’t get on. The few times I’ve opened one I just glaze over.”

  He made a glazed-over face and Emilia laughed. Then stopped.

  “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you.”

  “No, I know. It’s okay. Anyway, I’ve decided. I’m a really bad example to him. I want my son to get on and do really well. And I don’t want to die never having read a book. So I want to start reading with him. So I can encourage him. But I don’t know where to start. There’re bloody millions of them. How do you choose?”

  He looked round at all the shelves, baffled.

  “Well, I can sort you out with something, I’m sure,” said Emilia. “How old is he, for a start? And what sort of thing do you think he might like?”

  “He’s five, nearly six. And I don’t really know what he’d like. Something short, preferably.” He laughed, self-conscious. “And easy. I mean, I can read, obviously. I’m not that thick.”

  “Not reading doesn’t make you thick.”

  “No. But his mum’s going on at me for not getting involved with his homework.” He looked sheepish. “She likes any chance to have a go. We’re not together anymore.”

  “Oh,” said Emilia. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s a good thing. Mostly.”
He ruffled his hair, looking awkward. “But I just want to show her I’m not as rubbish as she seems to think I am.”

  “Well, let me see what I can come up with. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  Emilia walked slowly up and down the children’s bookshelves, turning over possibilities in her mind. Every now and then she would stop, pluck out a book, study it, then put it back. She wasn’t sure she had ever met anyone who had never read a book before. Which made the choice even more difficult. She was determined not to put him and his son off for life. She had to hook them in. And she didn’t want to patronize him. He might not be a reader, but he clearly had a lively mind. She mustn’t judge.

  “What’s his name? Your son?”

  “Finn.” The bloke smiled proudly.

  “Ah,” said Emilia. “That makes the task a whole lot easier.”

  She picked out a book, and walked back over to her new customer, who looked at her with an eager curiosity.

  She laid it on the counter in front of him.

  “This is one of my absolute favorites of all time. Finn Family Moomintroll.”

  “Yeah?” He picked the book up and eyed it warily.

  “I think you’ll both like it. It’s a bit mad, but it’s cool.” She paused. “It’s a bit quirky. It’s about this family of Moomintrolls who live in a valley, and all their crazy friends.”

  “Moomintrolls?”

  “They’re kind of big white creatures who hibernate in the winter.”

  He turned the book over to read the back, not saying anything.

  “Honestly, it’s really cute. I’ll give you your money back if you don’t like it.”

  “Really?”

  “As long as you don’t spill your tea on it.”

  “I promise.”

  She slid the book into a paper bag. He gave her a tenner and she gave him his change.

  “I’ll let you know how I get on.” He lifted the bag with a smile. “Cheers.”

  Emilia watched him go. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She thought she’d probably flirted with him a little bit. It was wrong, really, to flirt with customers, but she didn’t care. She’d had a tough time lately. At least this proved she was still alive. And it took away the sting of Delphine’s hostility the evening before, and her proprietorial attitude toward Marlowe—as if Emilia had been a threat. Which she absolutely wasn’t.

  As the door shut behind her newest customer, she felt a tiny thrill, and hoped he’d read the book and fall in love with reading. That was the whole point of Nightingale Books. It cast a spell over its customers by introducing them to the magic. And how wonderful, for her to open up a whole new world—

  She realized she was being utterly ridiculous. She was romanticizing. This wasn’t some Hollywood movie where she unwittingly changed someone’s life.

  Get real, Emilia, she told herself. He’s had a bit of a row with his ex and he’s trying to prove himself. He probably won’t even open the bloody book. And he definitely won’t come back.

  —

  Jackson walked along the road with the book tucked under his arm. That had been easier than he’d thought. He was a good actor. At school, acting was about the only thing he’d been good at, but because he’d been so naughty, they hadn’t let him have the lead roles in the annual play. The plum parts always went to the swots. Which was one of the reasons Jackson had hated school so much. It wasn’t fair, how it was run. You couldn’t be good at everything. And why were you punished for not being clever?

  Actually, going into the bookshop hadn’t been as daunting as he’d thought. Emilia had been really helpful, and hadn’t laughed at his desire to read to his son, or his admission that he’d never read a book. She’d been really sweet and hadn’t made him feel like an idiot at all. She’d definitely flirted with him. It was impossible not to flirt with Jackson, unless you’d been officially pronounced dead. It never got him anywhere, though.

  At the house, Finn answered the door and barreled into him with joy.

  “Dad! It’s not your day, is it?”

  Jackson usually had Finn on a Sunday, but he didn’t see why he couldn’t see him every day if he wanted to.

  Finn knelt down and started hugging Wolfie.

  Mia appeared, looking wary. She was still wearing her work uniform—a white tunic and black trousers. She’d gone back to work as a dental nurse now that Finn was at school. Her hair was scraped back into a tight bun that was too severe for her heart-shaped face.

  He held up the book.

  “I thought I’d come and read to Finn.”

  “Read?” She looked very dubious.

  “Yeah. It’s important. Reading to your kids.”

  “It is. Yes. You don’t have to tell me that.”

  She watched him as he came in. He flopped down on the sofa. He remembered their going to choose it, from the big out-of-town retail park. Five years’ interest-free credit. That was another thing he was still paying off. So he might as well get some use out of it. On one wall was their collection of vinyl records—funk and soul hits from the sixties that they would dance to in the evenings, kicking off their shoes and laughing. He had no room for them where he was. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to enjoy them again. He sighed and turned to Finn.

  “Come here, buddy.” Finn was still small enough to sit on his lap. “I got this crazy book. Finn Family Moomintroll.”

  Wolfie muscled his way in, too. Jackson trapped him between his legs so he didn’t jump up on the sofa. He suspected Mia wouldn’t approve.

  He cracked open the spine and began to read.

  He was astonished to find that both he and Finn were soon under the spell of the Moomins and their funny little world. He read two chapters. Three.

  “Shall we stop there? Carry on tomorrow?”

  “No,” said Finn. “I want to know what happens.”

  Mia was standing in the doorway, watching them. She’d changed out of her uniform and her hair was down. She almost had a smile on her face. Jackson could see she had been taking advantage of her staff discount—her teeth were dazzlingly white.

  To Jackson’s surprise, she came over and sat on the sofa next to him. She reached out for the book and had a look at the cover.

  “Looks to me like the Moomins have BMI issues,” she said.

  Jackson looked at her. If anyone had BMI issues, it was Mia. Now that she was next to him, he could see she’d lost even more weight. There was nothing to her.

  She never used to worry about her figure—she had known she was sexy. He’d found her even more so when she was pregnant—he remembered curling himself round her at night, a protective arm thrown over her bump, loving every inch of her. Had someone told her she was overweight? She definitely wasn’t, never had been—if anything, voluptuous was the word—but some men were weird and liked to undermine women. Was she going out with someone who had given her a complex?

  He couldn’t ask. She certainly wouldn’t tell him. So he didn’t mention it.

  He pulled Finn closer to him and carried on reading.

  —

  While she was cooking a sage and butternut squash risotto, Bea outlined the afternoon’s events to Bill, omitting the bit about taking back a stolen book, obviously. Just telling him she was going to do some plans for Nightingale Books.

  Bill frowned. “Why?”

  “I owe her a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  Bea didn’t have a clue what to tell him. She could hardly tell him the truth. She wished she’d never started the conversation. She concentrated on pouring the stock onto the rice while she thought of a suitable reply.

  “Maud had a meltdown in her shop. She was really kind to her.”

  “That’s not like Maud.”

  Bea felt awful, blaming her gorgeous daughter who rarely had tantrums. />
  “She was a bit tired and hungry. Emilia gave her a biscuit.”

  “A set of plans in return for a biscuit?”

  Bea frowned at him. “Look, I want to do it. Okay? It’s nice to use my brain.”

  She felt unsettled. It wasn’t like Bill to be so ungenerous.

  Did he feel left out? She had read somewhere—not in Hearth, because in Hearth life wasn’t allowed to be anything less than perfect—that men could get jealous of new babies, and resent the attention their partners lavished on the newborns. But if anything, Bill was the one who lavished attention on Maud. He spoiled her far more than Bea did.

  Maybe he was just tired.

  “Shall I see if I can get a babysitter for tomorrow?” she asked. “We could try one of the new restaurants in Peasebrook? It would be nice to have a night out.”

  Bill poked at something on his iPad. “Nah. Let’s stay in. I don’t want a hangover midweek.”

  They could never go out for dinner without demolishing a bottle of wine each. For some reason they were never as profligate at home. Bea supposed it was because if they started drinking like that in their own kitchen, they would be heading for rehab in a month.

  Unless guests came, of course. Then the bottle count was shameless. But they hadn’t had so many people to stay lately.

  Maybe Bill was lacking stimulating company. Guests were hard work but it was always fun, and now that Maud wasn’t getting up quite so horrifically early, it would be easier.

  “Shall we ask the Morrisons down for the weekend?” she asked. “Or Sue and Tony? We’ve been a bit unsociable lately.”

  Bill gave a sigh. “It’s nonstop washing up and sheet changing.”

  “Not really. Everyone gives a hand.” And he never did the laundry. It was Bea who stripped the beds, washed the linen, and sprayed it with lavender water before ironing.

  He didn’t answer.

  Bea frowned.

  Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was missing their London life? And the London her? Maybe stay-at-home-in-Peasebrook Bea was too dull for him? She knew they didn’t have sex as often as they used to. And certainly never those up-against-the-wall sessions they used to have when they first met, when the need for each other overcame them. They were both exhibitionists. Both admitted the thrill of possibly being seen or caught turned them on.