True Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop

by Annie Darling

  Johnny got that hazy look that he’d had before when they were sitting in the silent shop and he was remembering. ‘Being back in the shop where I spent so many happy Friday afternoons with her was strange, sad, but also rather wonderful. Thank you for giving that back to me.’ His smile became sharper, more in focus. ‘You know as first dates go, this one wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  It wasn’t really a first date. Technically, it was more like a third date. Actually it wasn’t any kind of date at all. And Verity couldn’t do this again. Her heart couldn’t take the strain.

  ‘Shall we just call it quits?’ she asked a little desperately. ‘This was only meant to be a one-off and I only agreed to it under duress!’

  Johnny gave a little start, as if she’d shocked him. ‘Oh no, you don’t wriggle out of it that easily.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘You showed me yours, now I get to show you mine. It’s only fair. My friends have a rotating open-house brunch kind of thing on Sundays and I know they’d love to meet you. What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?’

  Verity resisted the urge to stamp her foot. ‘OK, fine. One thing each, then we’re even and I am done. Agreed?’

  Johnny smiled patiently as if he were humouring her. ‘So, is ten o’clock good for you?’

  7

  ‘She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man.’

  Sunday dawned bright and early. Too bright. Too early.

  Verity could hear Nina snoring as she tried to do some yoga in the living room to calm her inner chi. Mostly she contemplated brunch. It was a very vague, woolly concept, brunch. Neither breakfast, nor lunch but occupying some neither here nor there place in between and was never the brunch that Verity had seen when she was watching repeats of Sex and the City. All perfect egg-white omelettes, avocado on sourdough toast and mimosas. Whenever Verity met Merry and their friends for brunch, it always meant a glorified fry-up with alcohol.

  Verity was ravenously hungry at the thought of bacon but couldn’t eat anything more substantial than rice cakes, for fear of offending her unknown hosts at this open-house brunch thingy. It would probably be buffet-style, which would be awkward. Having to hold a drink in one hand and plate in the other and not knowing what to do when she was introduced to one of Johnny’s friends and needed a hand free for shaking. Unless they did air kisses. Or worse, proper kisses.

  Then again, it could be a sit-down brunch and even if Johnny was on one side of her, Verity barely knew him and the person on her other side would be a complete stranger.

  Each possible scenario was more nightmarish than the last. As Verity pulled on a loose, drapey, bird-print top (a genuine designer item found in the Oxfam on Drury Lane, which always had rich pickings), and her favourite skinny jeans, she was surprised she didn’t have hives popping out all over her body. She accessorised with the silver leather hi-top, zipped sneakers that Merry had bought in an internet flash sale then realised they were a size too small.

  Verity hoped that the overall effect would be a little fashion forward but not too fashion forward. Then she tried to replicate her make-up of the night before with so-so results.

  It was still only nine o’clock. There was another hour before she’d grudgingly agreed to meet Johnny on the corner of Rochester Street and so, munching on another rice cake, this time smeared with peanut butter for energy, Verity googled him.

  Googling Johnny was fair game because he’d already admitted to googling her first and their relationship origin story yesterday had sucked and she didn’t want to walk into brunch unprepared and all right, she was curious. There was no crime in being curious.

  After she typed in his full name, right at the top of her search page was a link to Johnny’s company WCJ Architects, because apparently, he owned his own company. The second item was an article in the Guardian about his four-storey Canonbury townhouse, which he’d bought as a derelict shell and painstakingly brought back to life.

  While he was studying for his architecture degree at Cambridge, Johnny would spend his holidays working on building sites, instead of at the family firm, which he took over when his father retired five years ago. ‘I’m actually a certified plasterer, but I’ve learned a bit of everything over the years from bricklaying and carpentry to plumbing and rewiring.’

  These skills were all put to good use in 2007 when, on qualifying as an architect, Johnny moved to New Orleans to work with Habitat for Humanity to provide new homes for families affected by Hurricane Katrina.

  Now settled back in London, WCJ Architects, under his guidance, has grown from strength to strength and specialises in lovingly restoring nineteenth and early to mid twentieth century buildings while updating them for the rigours of twenty-first century living.

  Nowhere was this more apparent than in the pictures of Johnny’s Canonbury house. It was full of natural light and period details mixed with modern minimalism in shades of white and blue.

  Much too big for one man to live in all by himself, Verity thought, though it must be idyllic; all that space, all those empty rooms. Even with a couple of flatmates, you could still have all the peace and quiet you needed.

  Verity stared intently at a picture of Johnny that had been taken in his airy, light kitchen so the glint of the sun turned his hair almost blond. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt and perched on his burnished steel kitchen table, fingers clasped round a black and white graphic mug that Verity had lusted after in Liberty then hastily put back on the shelf because it cost over forty pounds. Of course, Johnny photographed extremely well; his eyes looked especially blue …

  Verity shook herself out of her stupor and glanced up at the clock. She only had ten minutes before she was due to meet Johnny and she needed to do something about the thick rice cake and peanut butter paste that was coating every inch of her mouth.

  Verity was two minutes early, but Johnny was already waiting at their allotted meeting place. He was wearing jeans again and another faded T-shirt, which thankfully meant that Verity hadn’t got the dress code horribly wrong, and carrying a large bouquet of flowers, wrapped in brown paper, because the fanciest, most expensive bouquets of flowers were always presented in humble brown paper.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Verity said by way of greeting, taking a step back when Johnny tried to lean down to kiss her so he had to give it up as a bad job. ‘Am I meant to bring something too? I should, shouldn’t I? It’s so rude to turn up at someone’s house empty-handed when you’re expecting them to feed you.’

  ‘It’s fine. The flowers can be from both of us,’ Johnny said. ‘We should probably get going or we’ll get there for lunch instead of brunch,’ he added as if he instinctively knew that Verity hated being late for anything.

  The brunch was being held in Primrose Hill. As they stepped onto Theobald’s Road, Johnny was already hailing a taxi. ‘Shall we get out at Great Portland Street and walk through Regent’s Park?’ he suggested and Verity nodded, even though walking through the park would mean walking and talking.

  Verity needn’t have worried. As they settled into their seats, Johnny’s phone beeped. Text message incoming. Then, like the day before, he was glued to his phone. As soon as Johnny sent a message out into the ether, he got a message back within seconds.

  Maybe it was an architect emergency. Something to do with subsidence or dry rot, Verity thought as she sat and stared out of the window at the familiar London streets thronged with Sunday shoppers, sightseers, tourists with backpacks and comfortable shoes.

  Even when they got out of the cab at Park Square Gardens, Johnny batting Verity’s hand away as she tried to give him a fiver towards the fare, and began the long stroll through Regent’s Park down the Broad Walk towards London Zoo, Johnny was still riveted to his phone.

  It was actually quite bad manners to invite someone to a brunch to meet all your friends, and ignore her for the entire journey. Peter Hardy, oceanographer, would never have behaved in such a rude fashion.

  ‘I’m so
sorry about that,’ Johnny murmured as if he could read Verity’s mind. He slipped his phone into a pocket. ‘You now have my undivided attention.’

  Then again, Verity wasn’t sure that she wanted his undivided attention. ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she mumbled and every step she took felt as if it were taking her nearer to her execution. That sounded very melodramatic. Not execution but maybe a little light torture. ‘So … um, whose house are we going to exactly?’

  ‘Now that I think about it, we should be better prepared than we were yesterday.’ Johnny gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Shall we stick to the story that we met when we were both stood up?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Verity agreed as she had no better ideas. Merry had come up with the meet cute for Verity and Peter Hardy. He’d dropped a scuba mask at the top of the escalators at Angel tube station and Verity had managed to catch it before it brained someone.

  ‘So, this brunch … it’s being hosted by my friends Wallis and Graham. Wallis is American, a barrister, grew up on something called a dude ranch, and I was at school with Graham. In fact, I was at school with most of the people at the brunch. They’re all good sorts. Not at all scary, I promise.’

  Johnny went on to explain how he and his old school friends met for brunch on the third Sunday of every month and took turns to host. ‘Though when it’s my turn, I get it catered and I can’t cook eggs to order. I feel like I let the side down.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Verity said. ‘I could never cook eggs to order either. Far too much pressure.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, just how many sisters do you have?’ Johnny asked before Verity could think of a tactful way to grill him on how long exactly they were expected to stay at the brunch.

  ‘Four of them, though it feels like more.’

  ‘Four?’ Johnny whistled. ‘Older or younger?’

  ‘Both. I’m the middle child.’ Verity was a classic middle child, if ever there was one. The quiet one, the peacemaker, the odd one out. ‘Which is why they always tried to stick me with being Mary Bennet when we were playing Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Merry mentioned something about that.’ Johnny shot Verity a sideways look as they walked by London Zoo, past the huge netted aviary. ‘What’s wrong with Mary Bennet?’

  ‘Have you never read Pride and Prejudice?’ Verity asked him in scandalised tones. If Johnny had been a proper boyfriend then not reading Pride and Prejudice would be a total deal breaker.

  ‘Can’t say I have. Not really my kind of thing. Too many bonnets.’ Johnny held up his hands in protest. ‘Please stop looking at me like that. Like I’ve just admitted to kicking kittens and punching puppies.’

  ‘It’s almost that bad,’ Verity said and she tried to briefly précis the plot of Pride and Prejudice and the role of Mary Bennet, which was hard when it was her favourite book. ‘So, to get my revenge on years of having to be Mary, whenever my sisters are arguing, which they do, all the time, I quote her being particularly priggish. “But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into each other’s wounded bosoms the balm of sisterly consolation.” It winds them up like nothing else,’ Verity admitted at the end of her pitch. ‘So, no siblings, then?’

  ‘I was a lonely only,’ Johnny said. They left Regent’s Park through the Gloucester Gate, crossed over at the traffic lights and began to walk along Gloucester Avenue. ‘It wasn’t so bad. I had lots of friends and my parents were the fun kind of parents. They were both architects and for my sixth birthday, they built me a treehouse in the back garden in the style of a pirate ship so I was very popular at school.’

  ‘I really am sorry about your mother. I know she passed away a while ago, but she sounds like such a wonderful, warm person,’ Verity said and Johnny dipped his head in acknowledgement, and though he was in profile, he suddenly looked so sad that Verity felt sad too. Sad by proxy. ‘Sorry, I’ll shut up if you don’t want to talk about her.’

  ‘Actually, I never mind talking about her because I don’t ever want to forget how beautiful and kind she was. And last night when I was thinking about her, about being back in Bookends, I remembered that each time we went, she’d buy a romance novel.’ Johnny frowned at the memory. ‘Said it was a special treat for getting all her spellings right too. My father would tease her; complain that she already had enough romance in her life. I’d forgotten all about that until yesterday.’

  Verity knew then, that if Johnny’s mother were still alive, she would have liked to have met her. Also, that she’d approve of her favourite bookshop’s transformation. ‘I’m pretty sure your mother must have read Pride and Prejudice then, despite its high bonnet count,’ she said and Johnny smiled at her gratefully as if he needed a little bit of light relief because memories of lost loved ones, even good memories, were always painful.

  ‘I’m pretty sure you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I must ask my father.’ Johnny sighed. ‘However much I miss her, my father misses her more. They really were soulmates.’ Their pace slowed as Johnny told her about how his father, William, and his mother, Lucinda, had met as students at Cambridge and had never spent a day apart until Lucinda died. William, still heartbroken from the sound of it, now lived in the basement flat of Johnny’s house. ‘He’s not quite so heartbroken any more but my mother was his one and only love and so I suppose his heart will never completely heal.’

  ‘He even takes care of his ageing Papa, could he be any more perfect?’ asked a voice in Verity’s head that sounded like a composite of all her sisters, her mother, Mrs Bennet and also Chandler Bing and was so loud she barely heard Johnny thank her.

  ‘Huh? Thank me? For what?’

  ‘For asking me about my mother. For not ignoring it because it was awkward. That was very kind of you,’ he said gently.

  ‘Just because something’s difficult to talk about doesn’t mean it should be swept under the carpet. My family doesn’t believe in sweeping anything under the carpet. I mean, you met Merry …’

  ‘Is she the bossy sister?’

  Verity couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Not the bossiest. She’s about a seven on the bossy scale. Five and a half if I stuff enough cake in her first.’ Johnny looked incredulous. ‘Con, she’s the eldest, is the bossiest sister. Hands down, then Chatty and Immy, the youngest, they’re twins, share joint second on the leader board.’

  ‘Four bossy sisters. I can’t even imagine what that must be like.’

  ‘Very, very noisy for one thing,’ Verity told him.

  There had been many times that Verity had longed to be an only child. Especially stuck in a three-bedroom prefab house (the original vicarage had been destroyed by bombs during World War Two and the diocese had yet to rebuild it) so there had been nowhere to get away from four sisters and the unholy racket that accompanied them. Our Vicar wasn’t much better. He had a booming voice all the better for sermonising with, but even when he wasn’t in the pulpit he was still booming away, usually singing from a selection of classic musicals accompanied by his wife. You couldn’t even have a wee in peace, without someone hammering on the door and demanding to know how long you were going to be.

  ‘You’re not at all noisy,’ Johnny noted.

  ‘I do ramble sometimes,’ Verity said, ‘but that’s just nerves.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about.’ Johnny had come to a halt, which meant Verity had to stop too. They were standing outside a huge stucco-covered house, wisteria clinging lovingly to its walls, a perfect match for the front door, which was painted the same shade of lilac. ‘Anyway, we’re here.’ He unlatched the front gate. ‘After you.’

  8

  ‘Where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour.’

  Though she longed to turn tail and run, Verity squared her shoulders and followed Johnny down the path to the lilac front door.

  Johnny rang the bell and she even managed to return the encouraging smile that he gave her, though it was as limp as
a week-old lettuce.

  Verity could hear people chatting, laughing, children shrieking and footsteps that got louder and louder until the door opened and a tall, elegant blonde woman stood there. Her face lit up. ‘Johnny! You’re late!’ She had a soft, lazy American accent. Her gaze rested on Verity and she gave a little start, blinked, regained her composure and smiled again. ‘And you’ve brought someone?’

  It was definitely a question. Not a statement of fact. Like Johnny hadn’t bothered to tell his friends, his matchmaking-him-with-fake-breasted-divorcees friends, that he was bringing a woman to their open-house, rotating brunch thingy.

  ‘This is Verity,’ Johnny said breezily. ‘You’re always telling me that I’m welcome to bring a guest.’

  ‘You are and Verity, I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Wallis. Please, come in!’

  No sooner had Verity taken one step over the threshold than she was gathered up in Wallis’s arms for an enthusiastic hug.

  Nobody had said anything about hugging. Verity tried not to stiffen but she didn’t do a very good job of it and was Wallis stroking her hair?

  She was, then Wallis took Verity’s hand and pulled her down the hall, Verity shooting a pained glance back at Johnny who smiled encouragingly again, and into a huge country-style kitchen absolutely full of people all milling about and helping themselves to a selection of fruit, juices and pastries set up on the kitchen island. There were also savoury items keeping warm on a hot plate, the sight and scent of crisp bacon making Verity’s dry mouth suddenly water, and a tall man with a harried air was manning a frying pan and asking loudly if anyone wanted chopped chives in their omelettes. Yet more people were pouring themselves coffee then spilling out of the open patio doors into a large garden.