How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  “Interesting?”

  “Seriously—you are the only person who keeps me sane at that school. I love your lessons and I come away feeling like I want to do something with my life. If it weren’t for you, I’d have legged it ages ago. You tell stories when you’re cooking. You make people want to listen. And learn more.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. You’re loads of people’s favorite teacher.”

  “You’re just saying that.” Thomasina didn’t know how to cope with all the unfamiliar praise.

  “Yes, I’m just saying that ’cause that’s what I’m like.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Shut up. And go and have a glass of prosecco. Just one, before he gets here.”

  She pushed Thomasina out of the bedroom.

  Downstairs, the little table was laid, the cutlery shining, the glassware gleaming.

  Tiny bowls were stuffed with creamy roses and burnt orange gerberas.

  Tonight, as Thomasina lit the candles and dimmed the lights, it was for her.

  Tonight, as she found a Chopin prelude and put it on, it was for her.

  Her and Jem.

  Dinner à deux.

  —

  When Thomasina opened the door to Jem half an hour later, he beamed at her.

  “You look fantastic.” He breathed in appreciatively. “And dinner smells great. I’ve brought two bottles—one red and one white. And . . .” He proffered a bunch of red roses rather sheepishly. “Not from the garage. I promise.”

  Thomasina took the flowers from him.

  Lauren took the bottles. “I’ll put the white in the fridge and open the red and let it breathe, shall I?”

  Thomasina tried not to giggle at Lauren’s solicitousness.

  “I’m really glad you could come,” she told Jem. “It would have been such a waste otherwise.”

  Lauren came over with a tray, on which were perched two flutes of prosecco, the golden bubbles shooting up inside the glasses.

  “We’re being waited on tonight,” Thomasina told Jem. “It’s good experience for Lauren. It means I can write her a reference.”

  “Awesome,” he said, taking a glass and raising it.

  Thomasina raised hers, too. She felt confident. Excited. Happy.

  “Here’s to last-minute cancellations,” she said.

  24

  It was amazing what could be done in a short space of time, with all hands on deck and a willing team. Two days after the flood, Nightingale Books was stripped bare, all the undamaged stock boxed up and stored safely in June’s garage. Emilia and Bea drove around the countryside picking up materials—shelving and lighting and paint. Jackson hired three lads to help him out with the plastering and the carpentry and hired the best electrician he knew. Everyone worked long into the night. They had three weeks to get it done in time for Christmas. Emilia couldn’t afford to keep the shop closed longer than that.

  The morning of Alice Basildon’s wedding, the door of the shop burst open.

  Emilia looked up in alarm. It was Marlowe.

  They hadn’t spoken since she’d walked away from the quartet. She thought she might have heard from him, that he might have called to see how she was, but she hadn’t.

  “I need you,” said Marlowe. His hair was wild, as if he’d only just got out of bed. By now he should be suited and booted with his hair slicked back—the wedding was at twelve.

  Emilia sighed. “What for?”

  “Delphine’s buggered off back to Paris and I need you in the quartet.”

  “What? Why?”

  Marlowe looked a bit shifty. “I haven’t got time to explain. The wedding starts in just over an hour, and we need a quartet to play ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ no matter what. And we’re only a trio right now—”

  “It’ll sound fine.”

  “Emilia. It’s Alice Basildon’s wedding. You know how important this is. We can’t let her down.”

  “She won’t notice a missing cello.”

  “Sarah Basildon will.”

  Emilia looked away. She wanted nothing more than to refuse, but she thought about Alice walking up the aisle, after everything that had happened to her, and she wanted it to be perfect for her. But she still remembered the humiliation of the last rehearsal.

  “Even though I can’t play for shit?”

  “You can play for shit. When you try.” He looked at his watch. He looked distressed. “Come on, Emilia. Fifty minutes. It’s not fair to Alice . . . Imagine if it was your wedding.”

  Emilia gave a wry smile—that was a stretch too far. She sighed, ran up to her room, threw open the wardrobe, grabbed her long black concert dress and her cello, and ran down the stairs, through the shop, and out into the street, where Marlowe was waiting outside on the double yellow lines. She jumped into the backseat of the car, and Marlowe drove off as she wriggled out of her grubby clothes.

  She could see him laughing in the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” She shimmied into the dress with its tight bodice, praying the fabric wouldn’t tear in protest. Then she looked down at her feet.

  “I’ve forgotten my shoes!” she wailed.

  “There’s no time to go back.”

  “I can’t wear sneakers with it.”

  “Go barefoot.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Call yourself the Barefoot Cellist. It’s a good gimmick.”

  “It’s freezing out there!”

  They were at the gates of Peasebrook Manor, which were decorated with holly and ivy and red roses and white ribbons and tiny pinprick fairy lights.

  “Oh,” sighed Emilia. “It looks stunning. Look, Marlowe.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said with a cursory glance, and roared up the drive. Wedding guests were being directed to a roped-off grassy area, but he drove on to the official car park near the chapel.

  Marlowe tied his bow tie in the mirror. Emilia poked her head in between the two front seats. His hair was all over the place.

  “Have you got a comb?”

  He pulled one out of the glove compartment. Emilia took it and began to tame his unruly locks.

  “Ow!” He dodged her like a small boy.

  “Keep still.” She ran her fingers through his curls, smoothing them into place. “Why did Delphine bugger off like that? What a rotten thing to do, on the morning of the wedding. It’s so selfish.”

  “Well, yes.” Marlowe looked tight-lipped. “Things had been rocky for a while.”

  “You don’t need someone in your life who’s going to let you down like that.” Their eyes met for a moment. Then Marlowe looked away.

  “No . . .”

  Emilia bit her lip. He was obviously more upset than he was letting on.

  “Well, I’m really sorry. She was . . . very glamorous.” She couldn’t think of anything nicer to say. Marlowe changed the subject.

  “Felicity and Petra have already set up. I’ve told them you’d be coming.”

  “How did you know I’d say yes?”

  Marlowe paused. “Because you’re like your dad. You’re . . .” He couldn’t find the word. He shrugged and smiled. “You’re all right, you are.”

  Emilia blushed, grabbed her cello, and hitched up her dress.

  Ten minutes later she took her seat at the front of the church, facing the congregation. She spread the skirt of her dress out, hoping no one would notice her bare feet. Thank goodness she had painted her toenails the week before, so they weren’t a total disgrace.

  Marlowe, Emilia, Petra, and Felicity tuned up.

  A sense of calm descended on Emilia as they began to play. She felt focused, the music in front of her making perfect sense, and her fingers did everything they were told. She smiled as she grew in confidence and felt a tiny thrill as Marlowe g
ave her a nod of approval. It was almost like flying with the music as the notes soared and fell.

  And then, on the most imperceptible of signals from Marlowe, they struck up “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” The congregation sat up. This was it.

  —

  The aisle in front of Alice looked endless.

  She had been awake since before dawn, millions of tiny wings beating in her stomach. But they weren’t day-before-your-birthday butterflies, or Christmas Eve butterflies. These butterflies felt as if their wings had been dipped in acid. They were making her stomach roil with anxiety.

  As Sarah buttoned her into her dress, she felt breathless, and not because the dress was too tight.

  It had a fitted cream silk crêpe bodice, with three-quarter-length sleeves, that buttoned up the back. Then a tulle skirt, on which was embroidered a trail of ivy and roses. Everyone had joked that Alice would probably be wearing wellies under her frock, but she’d found some of the prettiest beaded satin slippers with rosebuds on the front. She had her crutches waiting for her in the front row in case she needed them, but she was determined to walk down the aisle without them.

  “Oh, darling,” said Sarah. “You look out of this world. Hugh is the luckiest man alive.”

  Alice looked out of her bedroom window. The drive was filled with cars, bearing wedding guests in all their finery, crawling along, perfectly wrapped presents on the backseats. She could see the hats, almost smell the perfume. Almost everyone she had ever known in her life was going to be here today.

  She could see Dillon moving a rope to allow a new slew of cars into the parking area. He was in his camouflage trousers and a high-vis jacket. Why did her heart feel warm when she saw him, whereas when she thought of Hugh, it felt as if it had been dipped in a bucket of ice?

  Because you aren’t marrying him, silly, she told herself. Of course she felt safe when she saw Dillon because there was no risk involved. He didn’t represent change. He was solid and reliable and always there, that’s all. And he always would be.

  She thought back to the conversation in the drawing room. Hugh had done everything he could to allay her fears, but he’d been a touch too glib. And now every time they were together she looked for signs. Of course there weren’t any, but she supposed he would be extra careful . . .

  “I feel sick,” she told her mother.

  “I remember feeling terrified the morning I married your father,” Sarah said. “It’s because your whole life is going to change from now on. But it’s not a bad thing.”

  “Have you always been happy with Daddy? Did you ever think it was a mistake?”

  Her mother looked at her.

  “I suppose I would be lying if I said there weren’t moments I wished my life was different. But I don’t think I’m alone. There are always difficulties along the way. Times when you don’t always agree with the person you are married to, or see things from their point of view. But all in all, I’m glad I married Daddy. He’s a good person, a good husband. And a wonderful father.”

  If Sarah chose not to mention that it was she who was the bad person, the bad wife—although she still considered herself a good mother—it was because she wanted to see her daughter enjoy her wedding day, to banish any doubts from her mind, to enter into her union with Hugh light of heart and fully committed.

  She hugged Alice.

  “You’ve had a hard time and you’ve been very brave. You deserve a wonderful day and a life of happiness. I’m so very proud of you. But I want you to know that whatever happens, Daddy and I will be there for you. Whatever happens.”

  Alice had been shored up by her mother’s words. Sarah was the one person in the world she always respected. And trusted. And it was up to Alice to step up, take on the mantle of responsibility, and make Peasebrook Manor her life with Hugh at her side.

  The cottage was waiting for them, bright with new paint and newly hung curtains. They had spent the last couple of weeks making it theirs, and Hugh had been so excited. They’d chosen furniture and cushions and bedding together, and it really felt like home. In no time at all they would be having their first Christmas there: of course most of the day would be spent at the big house, but Alice imagined waking up in bed together on Christmas morning as Mr. and Mrs. Pettifer. It was the oddest thing to imagine.

  And now here she was, at the top of the aisle, the quartet playing. She took her father’s arm and stood as tall as she could. She could see Hugh’s straight back at the altar, tall and true in his morning suit, his dark hair slicked back. He turned and said something to his best man, and she saw his familiar grin. She felt reassured—he was her Hugh, and he was going to be her husband. It was going to be fine.

  The quartet was halfway through the entrance song. Any minute and it wouldn’t be an arrival anymore. The congregation were turning round to see what the delay was.

  Alice began to walk. No one could see her face yet, as it was hidden by the creamy lace of the Basildon family veil. No one could see her scar.

  All they could see was Alice’s smile.

  —

  Dillon had told Sarah that he wouldn’t be attending the wedding as a guest.

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable,” he told her. “I’d rather be on the sidelines, making sure everything’s all right.”

  “I don’t want you to feel as if you’re not welcome.”

  “It’s all right. I know I’m welcome. I’d just prefer not to, if you don’t mind. And could you explain to Alice?”

  “Of course,” said Sarah, but she was sad that Dillon felt like that. She prided herself on having a good relationship with her staff. Although she suspected there was more to Dillon’s reticence than social awkwardness. There was no love lost between Dillon and Hugh, she could see that, but it was just one of those things. A personality clash.

  Dillon was there first thing in the morning, to make sure the grounds were in perfect condition, that the logistics of car parking were under control and the ground staff knew exactly what they were doing. The guests were to walk from the chapel to the grand hall, where lunch was laid, and he had made sure that not one pale chipping was out of place on the paths. The adjoining marquee had been laid out with military precision, and the plush portable cabin containing the toilets was positioned discreetly behind a bank of trees.

  He thought that once everybody had made their way to the reception that he could make his escape. He didn’t want to hang around and be witness to the sort of drunken revelry he’d seen the night of Alice’s accident: most of the people who’d been in the White Horse that night would be at the wedding.

  Dillon walked straight to his car. He didn’t look over at the chapel. Inside, he could hear the sound of triumphant processional music. He blocked the vision of Alice in her wedding dress out of his head. He started up the engine and drove to the White Horse, where he ordered a pint of cider and a Scotch egg.

  —

  “You played a blinder.” Marlowe smiled over at Emilia as she packed away her cello.

  “It wasn’t a football match,” she told him, but she was smiling. She had played a blinder. For some reason, everything had fallen into place. Her bow had danced over the notes, through every piece they had played. Even the pieces she hadn’t rehearsed at all and had to sight-read, because they’d decided on them after she had left the quartet.

  “Musical genius,” said Marlowe.

  “Gifted amateur,” contradicted Emilia. She was miles away from being as gifted a musician as he was and, she hated admitting it, as Delphine. But they had done a good job, and now that the guests were being seated for lunch, they were no longer needed.

  There was a slightly awkward silence.

  “I better get back to the shop.”

  “Oh,” said Marlowe, and she thought he looked a bit disappointed. Maybe he wanted to go and drown his sorrows? She couldn’t go with him, t
hough. She felt guilty enough about swanning off—Bea would be striding around with her checklist and clipboard, wondering where she was.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” Marlowe offered.

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  She put her cello in the boot of Marlowe’s car and climbed in the front seat. She grabbed her sneakers and put them back on. She let her head fall back on the headrest as he drove through the lanes.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “About Delphine?”

  He shrugged. “I will be.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Marlowe was silent for a moment. “Not really, to be honest.”

  “Well,” said Emilia. “You know where I am if you need me.”

  Marlowe nodded. “Cheers.”

  Of course he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it, thought Emilia. He’d probably go home and drink the rest of the whiskey she’d given him. That’s what boys did when their hearts got broken.

  —

  She was married, thought Alice, a few hours later. Her face was aching from smiling, and so was her leg. She needed to sit down. But she needed the loo first. She slipped away from the reception. There was a gaggle of girls smoking outside she didn’t recognize. They must be Hugh’s London crowd. They were much more ritzy than her Peasebrook chums: long legs, long hair, expensive clothes and scent, blowing menthol cigarette smoke all over each other.

  “Hello!” she said to them all, and they gathered around her in a cooing crowd, admiring her dress, telling her how lucky she was.

  “You look just amazing,” said one, who’d introduced herself as Lulu. “Hugh made out it was much worse than it is.”

  “It’s fine,” said Alice. “It is starting to ache a bit. I didn’t want to walk around with the crutches, so I’ll probably have to sit down for the rest of the night.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean your leg,” said Lulu. “I meant your scar.” She indicated her face. “Hugh said it was really terrible, but he was totally exaggerating. And whoever’s done your makeup did an amazing job.”