by Liz Eeles
My eye’s suddenly caught by a small framed photo on top of the bookcase. A toddler is peering out of the picture – a boy with blonde hair and chubby cheeks who’s sitting on a young woman’s lap. The woman is pretty with fair hair swept back from her face into a ponytail. She’s laughing at whoever’s taking the photo and clasping her arms around the child, as though she can’t bear to let him go. It must be Caleb and his mum. I peer at the picture, wondering with a stab of sorrow how long after the photo was taken she had to let him go forever.
Now I feel mega-guilty. Being in here without Daniel’s permission is wrong, whatever Luna says. It’s like intruding on someone’s private grief. It’s time to leave but, before I get to the door, I spot a pile of books on Daniel’s bedside table and hesitate. What does Daniel read for pleasure? A person’s choice of reading material offers a window to their soul. I’m not sure who said that – it might have been Callie – but it’s probably true. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to have a quick peek?
I tiptoe to the pile and start rifling through it. There are a couple of thrillers, a biography of Churchill and the latest Robert Harris. So far, nothing terribly unexpected. The book at the bottom of the pile is face down. What will it be? I wonder, picking it up and turning it over, The Beauty of Numbers, perhaps, or a guide to becoming more charming?
I am very, very wrong. The paperback is called Day of Desire and the front cover shows an attractive woman with full red lips in a clinch with a handsome young man. Well, that’s literally a turn up for the books! Macho Daniel Purfoot appears to be reading a steamy romance novel by an author called April Devlin. I’ve never heard of her.
People’s choice of books often surprises me when they come into the shop – the farmer who’s into obscure medieval poetry or the goth who orders a book on economics. But I’d never have taken Daniel for a reader of torrid romance. I glance at the blurb on the back of the book:
Forty-something Felicia Paulson has everything she wants in life – two lovely children, a wonderful husband and a beautiful home. Or so she thinks, until one day handsome stranger Gregor McKinley knocks on her door and blurts out a secret. A secret that will take Felicia and Gregor to hell and back, and into each other’s arms.
Blimey, it sounds a bit cheesy. I’m having another look at the cover photo when the door creaks open and I almost die of fright.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ I drop the book onto the bed as though it’s red-hot. Daniel’s tall frame is filling the doorway and blocking the light from the landing. ‘You made me jump.’
‘I do appear to have that effect on you,’ says Daniel, narrowing his eyes. He steps into the room, pushes the door to behind him and folds his arms. ‘What exactly are you doing in here?’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop.’
Daniel raises a dark eyebrow and glances at the abandoned book on his bedspread. ‘And yet you were.’ He crosses to the rain-spattered window, his long limbs fluid. He moves just like Luna.
‘This probably looks really bad. And I’m sorry for being in here but I was looking for a book to read and Luna, your mother’ – I sigh, because obviously he knows that Luna is his mother – ‘anyway,’ I burble on, ‘she said it would be OK for me to go through the bookcase in here. To pick a book to read in the summer house. I would have waited but she said you’d be ages. Because of the milkshake.’
Daniel stands in front of the window, light falling on his sharp cheekbones and raven-black hair. He looks rather spooky, here in Luna’s cottage with its old beams and low ceilings. I shudder and hope he doesn’t notice.
‘Surely the books you might be interested in are over there, on the bookcase, rather than by my bed?’ He points at the bookshelves while, behind him, the trees in Luna’s garden bend in the summer gale.
‘I’ve had a look through the bookcase and couldn’t see anything suitable. I was just leaving when I spotted the ones on your bedside table and I thought they looked interesting. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.’
Daniel walks towards me, picks the book up off the bed and turns it over and over in his hands, without saying anything.
‘It’s not the sort of book I expected you to like,’ I gabble, feeling horribly wrong-footed. Which is hardly surprising when I’ve basically been caught poking through his private things. This isn’t who I am, I want to tell him – or it wasn’t before my marriage imploded.
Daniel looks at me, his eyes steely. ‘You seem to be very adept at judging what you think I should be like, when you hardly know me at all. What did you think would be my book of choice? Some dry accountancy textbook, I suppose.’
‘No,’ I protest, rather too quickly. ‘Um, is it good?’ When I gesture at the book, Daniel pauses and then thrusts the novel at me.
‘I don’t know. What do you think, seeing as you’re the book expert?’
‘Selling books doesn’t make me a literary expert,’ I mutter, grabbing the book before it falls onto the floor. ‘Um, I’m not sure—’
‘Not your cup of tea? Is it too lowbrow for your sophisticated literary tastes? Perhaps you only read Dostoevsky, Shakespeare and Proust.’
‘Not at all.’ I know I’m in the wrong but his sneering attitude is starting to grate on me. After all, it’s not me who’s been caught reading romantic potboilers.
I’ve turned to leave when Daniel speaks again. ‘I’d be interested in your opinion, if you can spare the time to read it.’ He sounds less certain of himself all of a sudden, which throws me. Why does he care one jot what I think about his reading material? ‘You said you didn’t have anything to read. And I dare say you think of yourself as open-minded.’
Did he emphasise ‘think’? I tuck the book under my arm and nod. ‘Of course. I’ll give it a go if you’ve finished with it.’ If he’s that bothered, I can quickly scan through the book, leave it a few days for appearance’s sake, and then give him my opinion. Simple – though the whole thing makes me uneasy, as though it’s some sort of test: is the bookseller able to adequately critique a novel?
‘Wonderful,’ he says, striding to the door and opening it wide. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Caleb and I got caught in the storm and I need to get changed, unless you’re planning to stay while I do that?’
As if. It’s just as well he doesn’t know I was imagining him in a towel just a short while ago. Daniel stands back so I can get past him and I scoot along the landing with my cheeks burning with embarrassment, and his book of choice clutched to my chest.
A few days later, I sit sipping my coffee and turn another page. The afternoon book club will be arriving any minute and I need to get everything ready, but I’m hooked on the book that was by Daniel’s bed.
My plan to read the first chapter and scan through the rest was upended just a few pages in. Day of Desire does not belong to my genre of choice. Give me a clever political thriller or a historical biography and I become a total bookworm. But Daniel’s bedtime reading is the embodiment of why the old cliché – never judge a book by its cover – is bang on. Especially when the cover doesn’t do the story justice.
To my surprise, I’ve been swept up in the story of a middle-aged woman trying to negotiate her own feelings when her everyday life is upended by a romantic stranger. It’s a little cheesy in places and could do with another edit, but I’m taken aback by the depth and range of emotion portrayed. The writing itself is pretty good and I’m finding myself swept along by the plot.
‘You look engrossed, love.’
Phyllis has come into the café, being pushed in her wheelchair by Millicent.
Did she just call me ‘love’? Members of the book club sometimes call Callie and Becca ‘love’, but I don’t think any of them have ever referred to me in that way before. Maybe I’m growing on Phyllis. I smile at her and close the book reluctantly – our heroes are about to make up after an unfortunate misunderstanding and I’m desperate to know what happens next.
‘I am engrossed, but I can get back to it later. Why d
on’t you two get settled while Becca gets you a coffee? She knows what you both like.’
Millicent wheels the chair as close to the table as she can and takes a seat nearby. The two women have struck up a friendship even though they make a very odd couple. Widowed Phyllis, grey-haired and in her seventies with a smiley round face, looks like everyone’s idea of a sweet grandmother. Millicent, in her fifties and sharp-featured, with ash-blonde hair and a philandering husband, looks like the kind of grandmother who’d smack the back of your legs.
Stanley and Dick have just wandered into the café and I give them a wave. Stanley’s wearing black jeans that hang off his skinny frame and there’s a chain from the front loop into his back pocket. He spots me glancing at the chain and winks. ‘I’m down with the kids, Flora. Did I tell you that I’m getting a stud in my nose on Friday? A big diamanté one with scalloped edges. It’s proper lush.’
Dick sighs beside him and smooths down his long white beard. He looks like a bald Father Christmas.
‘Does Callie know about the piercing?’ I ask. Callie’s nipped into the bookshop to hold the fort while I’m running the book club but she hasn’t mentioned her granddad’s latest piercing plan. ‘She was pretty surprised when you turned up with an earring.’
‘Ah, Callie doesn’t care what I get up to now she’s all loved up with that Noah boy,’ says Stanley. But he grins to show how delighted he is by his beloved granddaughter’s happiness. ‘Mind you, he’s made her ill with all that kissing. She’s had a rotten cold. Did you know that the mouth is one of the dirtiest parts of the human body and saliva is basically bacterial soup?’
I did not. And I wish I still didn’t.
‘I’ve tried to talk him out of having his nose pierced, silly old fool,’ mutters Dick, Stanley’s decades-long friend, ‘but he’s threatening to have a Prince Albert instead if I don’t shut up about it.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Millicent, leaning towards them. She turns ashen-grey when Stanley whispers the answer in her ear. He’s incorrigible.
Fortunately, Becca brings the conversation to a close by arriving with the coffees. And we all call out a welcome to Knackered Mary when she scurries in with Callum, who’s strapped to her chest in a sling. Mary sinks onto a chair, smiles at us and pushes her long brown hair back from her pretty face. She’s slowly adjusting to the demands of motherhood – especially now Callum, the screamiest baby on the planet, will sometimes peacefully gum a rusk to death for five minutes.
‘Shall we get on then if we’re all here?’ says Millicent, grumpily. But she reaches out her hand and gently strokes the top of Callum’s head. And no one seems to mind – or at least they hide their disappointment well – when I say that I’ll be running the book club this afternoon, rather than Callie.
As we start discussing A Tale of Two Cities, I look round my little group of afternoon-book-club oddballs and misfits with affection. Our evening book club is much better attended and it would make sense, in many ways, to amalgamate the two. The coffees and cakes bought by afternoon club members hardly covers our time. But I’ve come to realise that local bookshops and cafés are about more than profits and the bottom line. They’re about being a part of the community, easing loneliness and spreading the love of literature. Though Malcolm would say I’m being sentimental.
Thinking of Malcolm lowers my mood so I try to concentrate on the Tale of Two Cities discussion instead. It’s pretty lively, though I’m not convinced Stanley has read the book at all as he keeps referring to the Dirk Bogarde film. Millicent picks the book apart in forensic detail and declares that Dickens is ‘marvellous if one can overlook his reliance on coincidence’. Phyllis states that she’s in love with Sydney Carton but found the book rather hard-going and Becca murmurs that she enjoyed the story. Mary’s only halfway through the book but we give her a pass because Callum has been teething.
‘So I know that we’re reading Cider with Rosie next, but what about after that?’ asks Dick, who’s really getting into book club now he’s realised that the teacher at school who told him he was stupid was, in fact, pretty stupid herself.
‘Yes, let’s read something we can’t put down. Something a bit less worthy,’ says Phyllis. ‘What about this one? You looked engrossed when we came in, Flora.’ She points at Day of Desire, which is still lying on the table.
Millicent peers at the front cover and does a double take. ‘I’m surprised at you, Flora. You’ve got a shop full of books and you choose to read one like that.’
Resistance from Millicent to anything other than the classics is inevitable. She always moans, even though she’s enjoyed the occasional modern bestseller. Not that she’d ever admit it. She stays quiet instead when we’re discussing the book and grunts rather than giving her opinion. I didn’t much like Millicent at first. But I’ve been less judgemental since realising that she’s lonely now her kids have left home. Her husband’s still around but isn’t attentive – not with her anyway. It’s a different story when it comes to the young PA who sees to his needs inside the office – and out, if Millicent’s suspicions are right. And, thinking of Malcolm, they probably are.
‘You’re not being a snob, are you, Millie?’ asks Stanley. ‘I think we should give Flora’s novel a go.’ He takes the book from me and raises a bushy grey eyebrow at its steamy cover. ‘I’ll try anything once. Absolutely anything.’ He twists his head to get a better look at the cover image.
Dick whistles softly and gives me a what is he like? stare.
‘Huh.’ Millicent sinks back in her chair, highly offended at being called Millie, as Stanley knew she would be. ‘I didn’t think a respected bookseller like Flora would recommend that we read this kind of book.’
‘Do you know what?’ I take the book from Stanley and flick through its pages, being careful to avoid the ending. ‘In my opinion, you should all read this book. It’s well written, the characterisation is great and the plot pulls you along. Plus it’s good to read something you might never normally choose.’
‘I’d never choose to read that in a million years,’ huffs Millicent, folding her arms. ‘What would my neighbours think if they saw this on my coffee table? They went into meltdown when the paperboy delivered The Sunday Sport to them rather than The Sunday Times. Personally, I think he did it on purpose because they didn’t tip him at Christmas.’
‘I think reading something a bit less stuffy is a great idea,’ pipes up Phyllis. ‘Can you get some copies in and we’ll give it a go?’
‘Of course, and I can lend you my copy, Millicent, once I’ve got to the end, if you really don’t want to buy the book. Anyway,’ I add, changing the subject, ‘what about the high-profile event I’m supposed to be organising for Charter Day? I presume you’ve all heard that we’re taking part in the festival?’
‘We’re planning a bake-off in The Cosy Kettle,’ says Becca, eyes glowing. I’ve put her in charge of the baking contest and she’s already coming up with loads of ideas.
‘And I was thinking it would be great to have an author speaking at an event in the afternoon. So we can pull people in and help to make Charter Day really special.’ I grin, because the more I think about it, the more I’m looking forward to being a part of Honeyford’s celebrations. ‘It’s a bit last minute but who could we get to speak at Honeyford Bookshop?’
‘J.K. Rowling,’ suggests Dick, bless him. ‘Or Lee Childs.’
‘It doesn’t need to be someone that well known, really. Just an author of a book that people have enjoyed who can talk to us about the writing process and answer some questions,’ I say, touched by Dick’s faith that my little shop could pull in a big name.
‘I could always ask Sebastian, I suppose, seeing as it’s a good cause,’ mutters Millicent, still smarting at Day of Desire being the club’s next book of choice.
‘Sebastian?’
‘Sebastian Kinsley. He owes me a favour after I didn’t complain too much when he vomited in my begonias.’
‘As in S.R. Kinsley
?’ I ask, incredulously.
‘S.R. who?’ asks Dick, who must be the only reader unfamiliar with S.R. Kinsley’s extensive back catalogue of highly regarded bestsellers, including one that’s been optioned by a major Hollywood studio. I’ve read that Tom Hanks’s people are in talks about it.
‘The one and only S.R. Kinsley,’ says Millicent, ignoring Dick’s question. ‘My husband has known him for a few years and he’s come to one or two of my little soirées. I could ask him, I suppose.’
‘Wow, Millicent. That would be fantastic. He’d be such a draw,’ I say, grinning even more widely at the thought of such a high-profile event in Honeyford. ‘Could you ask him, please?’
‘I suppose so. Though you’ll have to keep this kind of stuff away from him because he writes award-winning literary fiction.’ She picks up Day of Desire with her finger and thumb and grimaces before dropping it, with a thud, onto the table. She is a massive book snob but, hey, she knows S.R. Kinsley so there’s no way I’m going to challenge her on it right now.
‘We’ll also need to meet to discuss the parade,’ declares Stanley. ‘When are you going to start sorting that out, Flora? It’ll take a while for me to pull a suitably hip costume together.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you know about the Charter Parade? Everyone’s talking about it. Townsfolk will be marching from the war memorial to the park on the Saturday afternoon.’
‘I do know about it, but the shop and café won’t be taking part. There’s only two of us, me and Becca – three, if you count Callie calling in to help sometimes – and we’re all going to be busy sorting out charter events.’
‘That won’t do,’ pipes up Phyllis. ‘You’re part of the town and you need to be involved, and fortunately you have us. The afternoon book club can take part in the parade and fly the flag for The Cosy Kettle. Can’t we, Millie?’ She nudges Millicent, who sniffs but doesn’t say no. ‘And you’ll take part, Mary, won’t you? And Dick?’