How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  Alice stared at her, not sure if she was hearing right. Or if anyone could be so stupid and tactless. Or that her own husband could have been so horrible behind her back. To these shallow and vacuous girls.

  “Excuse me,” she said, and made her way to the loos.

  She shut herself into a cubicle and tried not to cry. She told herself that Hugh probably hadn’t said her scar was terrible at all, that Lulu had been a bit drunk and a bit tactless. She was oversensitive, that was all. She needed to toughen up.

  She could hear the clatter of high heels as the same girls clustered into the loos. She could hear Lulu’s voice above the rest.

  “Hugh said a wedding’s not a wedding without a little goodie bag,” she said.

  Alice could hear gasps of glee.

  “Oh my God—amazing!” said another girl. “He is such a party animal.”

  “He says just wait for the parties he’s going to have down here.”

  “Chop it out on the sink surround,” said another. “I’m not snorting it off the loo seat.” Alice stood up, rearranged her dress, and came out of the cubicle. Lulu smiled at her brightly.

  “Do you want some?” she asked. She held up a little bag of white powder.

  They were too stupid and drunk to be careful, thought Alice, and they assumed that because she was marrying Hugh she would be the same as they were. She held out her hand.

  “Can I have it, please?”

  Lulu blinked for a moment. “Sure—if you want to do the honors.”

  “Thanks.” Alice took the bag. She looked down at it.

  “There’s loads,” said Lulu. “Enough for all of us to have a good time.” She giggled. “Hugh said just because he’s moving to the country doesn’t mean he’s going to turn into a bumpkin.”

  Alice shut her hand around the bag. “Sorry, girls,” she said. “But this is mine.”

  Lulu was outraged. “You can’t just walk off with it!”

  “Watch me,” said Alice.

  She felt very calm as she walked down the steps and across the lawn back to the reception, the adrenaline masking any pain. No one dared to follow her. She could see Hugh, holding court at their table. He’d looked her in the eye and lied to her, she thought. She could almost, almost have excused the cocaine, but not the lying. You couldn’t be married to someone who was prepared to hide that kind of thing from you.

  She walked over to their table. Hugh saw her and stood up with a smile.

  “My beautiful bride,” he said.

  She wasn’t going to take issue with him about what he’d said about her scar.

  She couldn’t be bothered.

  Instead, she dangled the little bag in front of him. His face turned as white as the powder.

  “What’s that?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “Lulu gave it to me,” she said, then went to tip the bag out onto the carpet. Hugh’s hand shot out to stop her, then he realized what he was doing. She smiled at him.

  “How much is this worth?” she asked.

  “I’ve no idea. Come and sit down, darling. You must be tired—”

  “You lied to me.”

  Hugh was floundering for words. Both Ralph and Sarah were looking at them from the other end of the table, wondering what was going on. Sarah stood up and came over.

  “Darling—what’s the matter?”

  Alice handed her the bag, and Sarah looked down at it as if it were a dead mouse.

  “Hugh will explain,” said Alice. “Won’t you, Hugh?”

  By now Ralph had joined them, too, and turned to his son-in-law. “What’s the story, Hugh?”

  “It’s not what it looks like. I think Alice is—”

  “Alice is what?” asked Alice. “Look, I don’t want a fuss. I want everyone to carry on and enjoy themselves. It would be a shame to break up the party now. But there’s someone I want to go and see.”

  She looked at her parents and Hugh. “Perhaps you three could have a chat while I’m gone and sort things out?”

  She turned away and walked back through the marquee to the exit. She didn’t care if anyone had noticed the hubbub. She knew she could trust her parents to deal with it swiftly and discreetly. As she left, she passed Lulu and her entourage coming back in, their expressions a mixture of outrage and anxiety. She didn’t give them a second glance.

  —

  In the small drawing room, Ralph and Sarah flanked Hugh, who had his back to the fireplace. Ralph was holding the bag of cocaine, swinging it in front of Hugh’s eyes as if trying to hypnotize him. Hugh was trying very hard not to look at it, or be antagonized.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Ralph. “On Monday morning you call your solicitor and arrange for an annulment. For which you will pick up all the fees, yours and ours. And we never want to see you again here at Peasebrook.” Hugh opened his mouth to protest. Ralph cut him off.

  “Either that or I call the police.” He weighed the bag in his hand. “There’s probably enough here to put you away for dealing. How long would that get you, do you think?”

  Hugh nodded. There was no point in negotiating.

  “Oh,” said Ralph. “And we’ll send you the bill for the wedding. You’re lucky because obviously having it here made it quite a bit cheaper, but you can compensate us for the rest. I’ll expect a check by the end of next week. Or you can do a bank transfer. I don’t mind either way.”

  And with that, he pulled open the bag, leaned behind Hugh, and sprinkled the contents onto the fire burning in the grate.

  Sarah looked at her husband in admiration. She felt a burst of pride. He was magnificent. Ralph was absolutely magnificent.

  “Shall I call you a cab?” she asked Hugh. He just looked at her and strode out of the room.

  The fire crackled merrily.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t deck him,” said Ralph. “Or take a shotgun to him. Poor Alice. She must be heartbroken.”

  “I don’t think so, actually,” said Sarah. “I think this might turn out to have been a very good thing indeed.”

  —

  Alice had made her way to the courtyard round the back of the house, where her old banger was parked. She fished around for the key on the top of the wall. She always kept it there, because she lost it otherwise. She started up the engine and put the car into reverse. Luckily she’d had only one glass of champagne, because she was still on painkillers. She turned the car round and headed off down the drive.

  —

  Dillon was on his second pint of cider. He’d better stop at that, and maybe have something more to eat. Or maybe he should go home now. The trouble with drink was it could fool you into thinking it made you feel better.

  Brian walked past him and patted him on the back. “Not at the wedding of the year, mate?”

  “No chance,” said Dillon. She’d be married by now, he thought. He took another sip of his pint, then put it down. It tasted sour. He didn’t want any more.

  Someone threw open the door of the pub. He looked over and frowned. It was dark outside so he couldn’t be sure. But the figure in the doorway was wearing a white dress. A wedding dress. The veil on her head had come loose, and her hem was spattered with mud.

  “Alice?”

  She walked over to his table. “I think I’d like a glass of elderflower cordial,” she said. “And maybe some crisps. Salt and vinegar.”

  She sat down on the wobbly bench.

  “Shouldn’t you be . . . ?”

  “I’ve messed it up a bit,” she said, “but I expect a good lawyer will get me out of it. I should have realized earlier.”

  “Realized what?” He looked at her, her mascara running and her hair falling out of its elaborate do and her lipstick all smudged.

  “It’s you I want to be with,” she told him.

  “Me?”

 
“You’re always there for me. We always have a good time together. You love Peasebrook as much as I do. And more than anything, I want you to kiss me.” For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of joke. If Hugh would appear with a shotgun if he did what he’d wanted to do ever since that day in the hospital.

  Well, kissing Alice was worth getting shot for.

  Her veil had fallen back down over her face. He lifted it up, so he could see all of her: her beautiful eyes, her lovely mouth smiling at him, waiting for him . . .

  And then he kissed her.

  25

  “We’re creating . . . a complete experience. This won’t be just a bookshop. This will be . . . an emporium of delight. A feast for all the senses. A place of comfort. An escape. Somewhere you can come and browse to your heart’s content, curl up with whatever book you’ve chosen, meet a friend, hang out . . . When people walk into Nightingale Books, I want them to feel as if they’ve been wrapped up in a big hug that won’t let go. There’ll be something for everyone.”

  Bea was standing in the middle of the shop, Emilia by her side, briefing the team. The repair work had been done: new lights and new shelves and a new cash desk. It was time for the fun to start.

  On one wall were Bea’s drawings and mood boards outlining the designs for the shop. Paint samples were lined up: she and Emilia had spent a week trying a range of colors to see how they played out in different lights, before settling upon a soft blue for the walls that was both warm and calming. There were squares of fabric in tartan and gingham and toile de Jouy, each chosen to represent a different section.

  “We’re going to have different visual themes, like rooms, for each subject,” Bea went on. “Almost like a mini department store. Every time you move to a different area, the mood will change.”

  She was nothing if not ambitious. But Emilia trusted her. She loved the whole experience—choosing colors and fabrics and artifacts. She and Bea went to an antiques center and loaded up Jackson’s van with a selection of ornaments: a globe for the travel section, a Roman statue for history, an old easel for art, a couple of Persian rugs to go in front of the fireplace. Bea was insisting on making a feature of it.

  “It’s perfect for the crime section! We can line up the latest bestsellers on the mantelpiece. I want to get the feel of murder in the library. Kind of Agatha Christie meets Sherlock Holmes.”

  Occasionally Emilia worried that Bea was getting carried away, that the shop would end up looking like the Olde Curiosity Shoppe, but as the refurbishment evolved she could see why Bea was so very good at her job. She had designed the shop to have more light and space, to have a more logical layout, and then added in the quirky touches that lifted it from functional to fun.

  Jackson had come into his own as well. He seemed to spark off Bea—for every idea she had, he came up with something clever to make it even better: a more cunning use of space, or a quirky touch that added to the charm.

  Knowing the interior was in safe hands, Emilia concentrated on talking to the reps and building her stock back up. She wanted to focus on the most exciting new fiction at the front of the store, with classics at the back, and also grow the lifestyle sections—cookery books and art and travel—to encourage browsing.

  She was going to need more staff, too, as her opening hours were going to be extended. She interviewed for weekend and holiday staff, as well as two new permanent assistants. She chose people who were passionate about reading, but with an eclectic range of tastes. She wanted to set up a system of recommendations and have her staff really engage with customers. Before they reopened she organized two days of training, where they could get to know each other and learn how to interact with customers. The key was to be welcoming and informed without being invasive.

  Bea’s pride and joy was the total refurbishment of the mezzanine into a seating area with velvet sofas that swallowed you up, and half a dozen tables where you could scoff coffee and cakes while you read your purchases.

  “We can get Thomasina to make us piles of madeleines. You have to have cake while you’re reading. It’s the law,” Bea said enthusiastically. And she ordered half a dozen glass domes and a marble-topped table to display the cakes.

  On the walls of the café area she put posters of iconic book covers in black frames—The Great Gatsby and The Catcher in the Rye and Lolita—and stenciled well-known literary quotes.

  —

  Emilia made sure Andrea was keeping tabs on the costs, but Andrea seemed as swept away as Bea was. “I want to live here, basically,” she sighed, and Emilia laughed. By the beginning of December, they were ready. Emilia hardly recognized her father’s old shop. It was bright, fresh, modern, inviting—her team, headed by Bea, had done her more than proud. Two days before opening, the freshly painted shelves were filled with stock.

  As the last paperback slid into place, Emilia found tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  “Dad would love it. I know he would love it,” she sobbed, and hugged everyone.

  They had a grand reopening. To celebrate, Thomasina made a gingerbread house that looked exactly like Nightingale Books. She also made dozens of gingerbread books, and she and Lauren painstakingly iced author names onto them—from Austen to Zola. Every customer was given one.

  There were people waiting on the pavement, eager to shop, and they carried on flooding in all day long. There were queues at the till, and Emilia was relieved she’d had the foresight to take on three new members of staff to cover the Christmas period.

  At the end of the day she had just thanked the staff and said good-bye to them but hadn’t locked the door when the bell tinged again.

  It was Marlowe.

  “Are you closed?”

  “I can make an exception. Just for you.”

  She stood aside to let him in.

  “I’ve been in LA again,” he said. “Or I’d have come to help out. But I want to buy a book on your first day. To mark the occasion.”

  “Well, come in and have a look round.”

  “And I got you this.” He pulled out a bottle of champagne from his coat pocket. He put the bottle down on the counter and looked around in admiration.

  “It’s wonderful, Emilia.” She looked around and saw it with his eyes. It was wonderful. And suddenly she felt overwhelmed, because the one person she wanted to see it wasn’t there.

  She felt tears well up.

  “Hey!” Marlowe was at her side in a moment.

  “I’m sorry. I just wish he was here to see it.”

  “Of course you do.” Marlowe took her in his arms. He put up a finger to wipe away her tears. “He’d be so proud. You know that.” Emilia nodded. She should pull herself together. Go and open the champagne or something. But she didn’t want to move out of his embrace. On the contrary, she wanted to move closer. She shut her eyes.

  They stood there for a moment, closer than close, their breathing in rhythm.

  “Which book was it you wanted?” she asked eventually, barely able to speak.

  Marlowe didn’t answer for a moment. She could feel the warmth of him, and his heartbeat, and her own got faster. She put a hand up to touch his curls, and he took in a sharp breath. For a moment she feared she had read the signals wrong, but no . . . he pulled her in closer to him till their cheeks were touching. And finally he spoke.

  “Have you got a book about a man who takes ages to realize the person he loves has been right under his nose all along?” She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his lips on her ear.

  “There’s loads of those,” she breathed. “Can you be more . . . specific?”

  “Well,” said Marlowe. “He’s a violinist. And she’s got a bookshop.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I don’t think there is.”

  “Someone should write one, then,” said Marlowe, smiling down at her.

  Emilia swallowed, trying to take in exa
ctly what this meant.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  “Yes. Ever since I watched you play ‘The Swan’ at your father’s memorial. You were terrified but you were so brave and you did it with so much love . . . I’d never heard it played like that before.”

  Emilia didn’t know what to say. She was overwhelmed, both by his confession and his comments about her performance.

  “Delphine knew before I did,” said Marlowe. “That’s why she left. She was pretty good about it. She said she didn’t want to stand in the way.”

  Emilia rested her head on his shoulder and felt his arms tighten around her.

  “So how’s this book going to end, then?”

  “Oh, happily,” said Marlowe. “Like all the best books. And it would be called . . . How to Find Love in a Bookshop.”

  They stood holding each other, tighter than tight.

  “It sounds,” said Emilia, “like the best book ever written. I shall order fifty copies at once.”

  26

  It was Christmas Eve in Peasebrook.

  From early in the morning its streets were thronged. There were queues snaking out of the butcher as people came to collect their turkeys and their geese, and Peasebrook Cheese was busy selling wheels of Cheddar and wedges of Stilton and boxes of vacherin. A choir sang lustily around the Christmas tree in the marketplace. The air was crisp and cold, the blue sky filled with plump white clouds.

  “There’ll be snow before the day’s out,” said Jem, gazing up with a knowing look in his eye.

  The promise of snow added a sense of urgency to the day. Eyes were bright, noses were pink, and smiles were wide as people hurried through the streets to finish their errands and head home.

  In Nightingale Books, Emilia hadn’t drawn breath since turning the sign to OPEN at nine o’clock and she’d been nearly trampled in the stampede. She had no idea how people had the nerve to wait so late to buy their presents, but she didn’t complain. They were buying with gusto. Thomasina had made gallons of mulled wine to hand out to customers as they browsed, and the air hung heavy with the scent of cloves and cinnamon. She and Lauren had also made gingerbread men for any stray children to nibble on while their parents shopped.