How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  Inside, it was chaos. Books and sheet music and empty wineglasses and two smoky-gray cats stepping among it all. John Coltrane was playing and she could smell fresh coffee. With a pang, she realized 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 and something cooking.

  “God, I’m sorry. I meant to tidy up.” Marlowe kissed her on the cheek. “Meet Crotchet and Quaver.”

  He scooped one of the cats off a chair. “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 get-together. So we’ve got all day if you need it,” called Marlowe from the kitchen.

  Okay, thought Emilia. I’ve got the message. “Delph.” That was fond familiarity if ever she’d heard it. She pretended to look at the reams of staff paper on his desk—pages and pages of black dots dancing over the pages.

  “Is this your latest?”

  “Yes. I’m heading out to LA next month.” He brought in two mugs of coffee and put them on the desk.

  “Lucky thing.”

  “I hate the place. But I have to meet with the producer. It’s only a small film . . .”

  Emilia loved the way Marlowe was so casual and modest about his achievements. Flying out to Hollywood? She couldn’t imagine it.

  “Come on,” said Marlowe. “We’ve got a lot to get through.”

  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 loosen up.

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

  By midday she was exhausted.

  “Come on.” Marlowe jumped up. “Let’s walk to the pub and get some lunch.”

  They walked to the White Horse and bought hot pork ciabatta rolls with applesauce 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 farther than the road but we can walk off our lunch.”

  The walk through the woods 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 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 chicken. 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 from 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 tanned skin and a six-pack before he dove 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 leaped 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 she put 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 cold and had got into her bones. Marlowe made her a hot chocolate. She pulled his sweater out of the bag she’d brought it back in.

  “Can I borrow this?”

  “Sure. It’s not like I missed it!”

  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 your drink.” 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 cozy.” 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 she was wearing Marl
owe’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 woolen 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 said it because she knew they had nothing to hide.

  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 lesson. Maybe she wasn’t going to let the side down after all.

  20

  Bea took Emilia out for breakfast to tell her what she and Bill had decided.

  Emilia was feeling terrible. She hadn’t felt right since her wild swim with Marlowe. She was coming down with something—a cold or the flu. Every step was an effort and her limbs felt heavy; her head was muzzy and she couldn’t think straight. She ordered eggy sourdough with roasted vine-ripened tomatoes to give her some strength. Bea was feeding Maud discs of banana.

  Emilia scooped the froth off her cappuccino. The café roasted its own coffee, and she always swore never to drink instant again when she came in here.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.” Bea finished her granola. “I didn’t want to say until it was definite, but I’m going back to work. In London. I got the official offer through this morning.”

  “Oh.” Emilia tried to look happy for her. “That’s a bit of a life change.”

  “Bill’s going to work from home and have Maud when I’m in London. We both realized we’d got our lives the wrong way round.”

  “But I need you!” Emilia was joking, but she realized she had become increasingly dependent on Bea’s vision and advice. She really valued their friendship. The thought of forging on ahead without her was suddenly daunting. She’d wanted to talk to her about Marlowe, too—about the feelings she was starting to have for him. He kept creeping into her mind: that flash of skin with the tattoo, his laughing eyes. The heat of his fingers when he touched her . . . She scolded herself. It was simply that Marlowe was undeniably hot, and she had been single for too long. She needed to get out more.

  No. Not just hot, but smart and funny and he made her laugh. And think.

  “I can still help you with the shop,” Bea was insisting. “It was getting involved with you that made me realize how much I miss work.” Emilia pulled her attention back to her friend.

  “If I stay open,” she said gloomily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It all seems like a bit too much effort at the moment.”

  Bea punched her arm. “Shut up! I won’t listen to that negativity. You’ve got plans, Emilia!” Emilia couldn’t be bothered to argue. Her throat was on fire and her head throbbed. So she just smiled. She was happy for her friend. Of course she was.

  —

  By the following Sunday, Emilia felt like the walking dead. She wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, but she was scheduled to spend the day rehearsing with the quartet. The wedding was getting closer and closer. She stayed under the duvet as long as she could get away with, then scrambled into her clothes without having a shower and rushed to the village hall.

  She knew she looked rough in her jogging bottoms and hoodie. To add to her malaise, Delphine was looking particularly stunning in an electric-blue silk blouse with a pussycat bow, which she wore with a tiny leather miniskirt.

  Marlowe went to give her a hug, but she dodged out of his way.

  “Don’t come anywhere near me. I’m full of germs.” She thrust his hand-washed cashmere sweater back at him.

  Usually, playing the cello took Emilia out of herself and soothed her soul. They were rehearsing Salut d’Amour by Elgar, the background music they would use while waiting for the ceremony to start. It reminded Emilia of the Elgar piece at her father’s memorial service: Chanson de Nuit.

  She couldn’t keep up. Her fingers were all over the place, her bow kept slipping, and she lost her place.

  Marlowe stopped them all and looked at her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You did know we were doing this?”

  His tone was even, but she sensed he was hiding his annoyance. The unspoken accusation was that she hadn’t practiced. She had. But she was a human being. Not a bloody robot.

  She put down her bow on the music stand.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on. And I don’t feel well . . .”

  Everyone was looking at her. Only Petra looked sympathetic. Delphine looked inscrutable.

  Marlowe just looked exasperated.

  “If you’re feeling that bad you should have canceled. We’re just wasting time.”

  Emilia got up and headed for the door. Marlowe followed her outside.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I always get stressed before events. I just want us to get it right and I know you can do it. You were amazing when you came to my house. You’d cracked it. What’s going on?”

  “It’s my father’s birthday today.” Emilia looked down at the ground.

  “Oh shit, you poor baby.” Marlowe softened immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come here.”

  He was about to pull her into his arms when Delphine appeared by the door.

  “We’ve only got the hall till four,” she told him.

  Marlowe backed away from Emilia as if she had the plague. Which she felt as if she did.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” said Emilia. “I thought I was good enough but I’m not. You’ll have to get Felicity back.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Marlowe.

  “Honestly. It’s much better that I pull out now than mess it up on the day. Felicity knows all the music, I know she does. I’m sorry.”

  She hurried back in and packed up her cello. She didn’t want to talk about it. Nor, it seemed, did the others, which confirmed she was doing the right thing. No one tried to stop her leaving. They’d obviously been longing for her to pack it in but hadn’t had the heart to tell her. She left the hall as quickly as she could so they could get on with their rehearsal. Without her messing it all up for them.

  She walked past Delphine. Delphine tried her best to give her a smile of sympathy, but she really wasn’t that good an actress.

  —

  When she got home, she didn’t even stop to go into the shop and see how Dave was getting on. She didn’t feel like pretending she was all right. He’d be closing up any minute—they shut at four on a Sunday.

  Instead, she went upstairs to the flat and felt plunged into stifling gloom. She decided to phone Sarah Basildon. Maybe they could have a glass of wine, share some memories of Julius, and raise a glass to him. Sarah had said to call her anytime. And no doubt she would be thinking about Julius, too.

  “I’m really sorry,” said Sarah. “Any other time, but Alice is coming home from the hospital today. Ralph and I are just going to collect her. You’re welcome to come here, of course. We’re doing a celebration tea to welcome her back.”

  Emilia lay on her bed. Even Sarah Basildon had moved on. She hadn’t even mentioned his birthday. She stared at the ceiling. She missed her dad more than ever.

  Maybe staying in Peasebrook was the wrong thing to do? Maybe keeping the shop open was a romantic gesture, but a foolish one? She shouldn’t be trying to live her father’s life. She should be living her own.

  She decided to run a bath, warm up, and put clean sheets on the bed and fresh pajamas and have an early night. She poured half a bottle of Badedas into the bath and turned the taps on, then went int
o the kitchen to make a Lemsip, adding two spoons of honey to soothe her throat. She sat on the sofa while she sipped at it. It was scalding hot, but she knew it would do her good. By the time she reached the honey at the bottom of the cup, her eyes felt heavy and were closing. She curled up in the corner of the sofa and let sleep take over.

  —

  Alice was packing up the last of her things before going home. She couldn’t wait.

  Her room at the hospital was starting to drive her mad. Although all the staff had been wonderful, she’d had enough. The last operation on her leg had been deemed a success, and it was up to her now to build up her strength. It still hurt horribly, and she got very tired, but she longed to be at home, at Peasebrook, and felt sure she would heal more quickly there.

  She shut her case and looked around the room to see if there was anything else. Her book, Riders. She picked it up. It reminded her of Dillon. She had loved him reading to her. It had been so comforting, lying there listening to him, and if she drifted off it didn’t matter, because she knew the book so well. He hadn’t been in to see her recently and she wasn’t sure why. She supposed he was busy putting the garden to bed for the winter.

  Hugh wouldn’t read to her. It wasn’t his thing, reading. He was always on edge when he came to visit. He hated hospitals, he told her. Alice wasn’t sure anyone liked hospitals all that much, but she didn’t say so. She chatted to him and he pretended to listen and spent most of the time on his BlackBerry. He was doing a few deals he wanted to get out of the way before the wedding.

  “You don’t have to come and see me every night if you don’t want to,” she told him, but he insisted. He brought her super-kind presents, too. Perfume and a silk pillow and a pair of pajamas covered in owls, because he knew she loved owls. It was lovely of him to be so thoughtful when he was obviously under a lot of pressure.