by Liz Eeles
Daniel’s mouth is now so close, I can make out the faintest shadow of dark stubble above his upper lip.
Move, Flora, move! But my feet are like lead weights and I close my eyes as his lips brush… my cheek. It’s the briefest of kisses – the kind that would be fine between friends or on the back of a great-aunt’s hand. It’s perfectly, totally appropriate between acquaintances in a busy shop, and I can’t help a twinge of disappointment. Does that make me a bad person?
When I open my eyes, Daniel has moved back and is looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face. ‘That should do the trick,’ he murmurs, swallowing and pressing his lips together. He glances at Malcolm, who’s staring at us, completely frozen, his fresh cup of steaming coffee halfway between the table and his mouth.
‘Uh-huh,’ I grunt, not trusting myself to speak.
‘I’ll see you later then, I guess.’ Daniel pauses and opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something else. But then he gives his head a slight shake and strides off into the shop.
Without thinking, I pick up the bunch of toxic flowers and hug them to my chest.
‘Who the hell was that?’ demands Malcolm, who’s abandoned his coffee and scooted across the café.
‘What, him?’ I ask, watching Daniel’s trim backside disappear into the distance. ‘Just a man I know.’
‘I gathered that much. What sort of “know”?’ he blusters, pulling at the neck of his creased shirt. ‘He seemed rather overfamiliar with you.’
‘He only kissed me on the cheek, Malcolm. Daniel’s like that with everyone,’ I tell him, though I truly doubt he’s much of a cheek-kisser.
‘Daniel, is it? He looks like a Daniel.’
I have no idea what that means and I don’t reckon Malcolm does either. It’s the first time ever that I’ve experienced Malcolm being jealous, and I quite like it.
When I don’t proffer any more information, Malcolm bites the inside of his cheek. ‘So what does this “Daniel” do?’
He puts ‘Daniel’ in air quotes for some strange reason, as though he’s a figment of my imagination.
‘Daniel works in finance.’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘It probably is.’
Malcolm starts shifting from foot to foot. ‘And where does Daniel live?’
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I can’t resist it. ‘He lives just outside Honeyford, with Luna,’ I say, sweetly.
It takes a moment for the penny to drop, but when it does, Malcolm’s face clouds over.
‘Luna? That witchy woman, Luna, with the auras and freaky weirdo stuff? Don’t you live with Luna?’
‘Yes, Malcolm, I do,’ I say, turning on my heel. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do and I’d better get these flowers in water before they wilt.’ And with that, I walk away, leaving my cheating husband opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish out of water.
After Malcolm has swept out of the shop in a sulk, I start sorting out a more prominent Day of Desire display, while sneezing every few seconds. Those lilies are a menace. Sniffling pathetically, I pile the extra copies of the book that I’ve ordered onto a table with a printed notice above them:
Who is April Devlin? Read this poignant tale of love, longing and regret by a mystery author. Highly recommended.
I feel like a proper bookseller, promoting a little-known book that I feel passionately about. And it’s having an effect. I overheard two women in the post office the other day talking about the book after seeing it in my shop and deliberating over who April Devlin might be.
A middle-aged lady who’s been into the shop a few times comes to stand beside me and picks up a copy of the book. ‘What’s this all about, then?’ she asks, waving it under my nose.
‘It’s a poignant love story with real insight into how women feel. I’ve read it and I absolutely love it.’
The woman squints at the cover and wrinkles her nose.
‘Honestly, it’s worth considering if you’re looking for something a little different that hits the spot. Don’t be put off by the cover. It’s not as raunchy as it might appear.’
‘Shame.’ The woman laughs as she scans the first page and peers at me over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses. ‘And you don’t know who the author is?’
‘That’s right. The book’s self-published and there’s nothing about the author April Devlin online.’
‘That’s intriguing.’ She smiles. ‘I only came in to find some books to keep my grandchildren quiet.’ She tilts her head towards two blonde-haired girls who are sitting on the floor cross-legged, leafing through picture books. ‘But maybe I’ll treat myself as well. We all need a bit of mystery in our lives.’
In the end, she buys Day of Desire, as well as books for her granddaughters, and I sell another two copies before the shop closes.
Chapter Fourteen
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ declares Becca, helping Phyllis into the wheelchair I’ve just taken out of my car boot. She glances up at the blank windows of Luna’s cottage and shivers. ‘What do you think, Phyllis?’
‘I’m just looking forward to a night out for a change, love,’ says Phyllis, settling into her chair. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t care if the house is crammed to the rafters with spirits of the undead intent on dragging us down into the depths of hell.’
‘You’re not helping, Phyllis,’ mutters Becca, tucking a thin shawl around the older woman’s legs. We’re going through a week of traditional British cool and cloudy summer weather and there’s a nip in the air once evening sets in.
‘I didn’t take you for someone who’s scared of ghosts, Becca,’ I laugh, waving at Millicent, who’s just driven up, with Knackered Mary, in her black Audi. Her gleaming car has personalised number plates and, not for the first time, I wonder just how wealthy Millicent is.
‘I’m scared of just about everything, Phyllis,’ Becca explains, ‘spiders, mice, loud people, dead people, crowded public transport, the colour orange—’
‘Orange?’ I glance down at my thin cashmere jumper, which is a deep shade of tangerine.
Becca shrugs. ‘I reckon it’s an unlucky colour and I’m a bit superstitious.’
‘You’ll get on fine with Luna, then.’
‘I’m not as bad as my mum, though,’ continues Becca. ‘She’ll cross a busy road rather than walk under a ladder and she’s always chucking salt over her shoulder. You don’t want to stand behind her when she’s cooking. Salt in the eye really stings.’
Becca hasn’t mentioned her family to me since she told me about her dad. She opens up more to Callie and the nervousness she used to show when I was around is still there sometimes.
‘My mum claimed not to have a superstitious bone in her body but she’d never open an umbrella indoors,’ I say, keen to keep our conversation going.
But all conversation comes to an abrupt halt as Dick arrives at speed. We move Phyllis back, just in time, as his ancient sports car screeches to a halt and Stanley clambers inelegantly out of the passenger seat.
‘Drives like a complete madman! It’s a miracle we got here at all,’ he moans, before waving at us. ‘Hello, everyone. Callie and Noah send their love.’
‘Aren’t they coming?’ calls Phyllis.
‘Nope. They’re loved-up and in their own little bubble. They’ll enjoy having the house to themselves for a while – though I hope they don’t get amorous on the kitchen table. I did once with my Moira and my back’s never been the same since.’
That’s far too much information and Dick looks rather sick but Stanley, bless him, doesn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Is this Luna’s place, then?’ he asks, taking in Starlight Cottage. ‘I’ve lived in Honeyford most of my life but I’ve never been here. And having seen Luna’s shop, I wonder what delights her house will have in store. I hope I won’t be disappointed.’
‘It’s very good of your landlady to have us round,’ says Millicent, before pursing her mouth into a moue of dis
taste as a squawking chicken runs down the path, being chased by Caleb.
‘Ariadne’s escaped again,’ he puffs, picking up the bird. ‘Gran says the fox will have her if she’s not back in the coop tonight.’ He glances up at us through his blonde fringe.
‘Caleb, these are some friends of mine from the café who are here for our book club meeting. Everybody, this is Luna’s grandson.’
‘Hello,’ says Caleb, shyly, holding the bird under his arm. ‘Gran’s all ready for you and she says to go through to the front parlour.’
Oh dear. I was hoping the book club could meet in Luna’s warm and cosy kitchen because that room’s fairly normal, apart from the cauldron bubbling over the fire. The parlour is kept for special guests and it’s been decorated in Luna’s more eccentric style. But it’s sweet of her to pull out all the stops for us. All I did was mention that Phyllis rarely went out of Honeyford these days and Luna insisted on hosting a night out for the book club. So we postponed our club meeting this afternoon and we’re holding it at Starlight Cottage instead.
‘Shall we go in?’ barks Millicent, wincing as she steps in a dollop of mess made by escaping Ariadne. ‘I’m told that this Luna woman is a little… um, unusual. I’ve never been into her shop. It’s not really for me.’
‘Luna’s lovely,’ I assure her, ‘and really incredibly normal.’
Millicent doesn’t know that my fingers are firmly crossed behind my back. It doesn’t really matter what people think of Luna – I don’t suppose she cares. But she’s been kind to me and I’d like everyone to see the warm, generous woman I know, rather than be blindsided by the weird stuff.
‘Watch your head, Dick,’ warns Stanley when we troop through the front door. ‘There’s some of them dream-catchy dangly things that’ll have your eye out if you’re not careful.’
Dick dutifully bends his tall frame and steps into the hall. ‘Which way now?’
‘Follow me,’ I say, a little too brightly. ‘The parlour’s this way.’
I’m on edge now I know we’re in the parlour because heaven knows what Luna’s been up to. She banished me to my bedroom half an hour ago so she could ‘get the place ready’ and refused my offer of help. Daniel offered to help too but she insisted she could manage and the last I saw of him, he was lying on his bed, scrolling through his iPad.
‘This place is mega-creepy and weird,’ whispers Becca, holding on to the back of my jumper, like a child clinging to its mother.
‘Honestly, you’ve no need to worry,’ I whisper back. ‘There’s nothing spooky or weird about Starlight Cottage or Luna. Nothing at all.’
‘You’ve arrived. Welcome, one and all!’ booms Luna, stepping out of the parlour.
Good grief. She’s gone full-on mystic for the occasion. Her long hair is wrapped in a silver silk scarf, and she’s wearing a shimmery gold kaftan shot through with flecks of metallic thread that catch the light. Around her neck is a yellow crystal so huge that I’m surprised she can stand upright. Her eyelids are shining with thick slicks of silver shadow, and golden stars are stuck to her cheeks, like astral freckles. She looks totally amazing – and absolutely barking mad.
‘A huge welcome to Starlight Cottage and may the goddesses grant you peace during your visit,’ says Luna, throwing her arms out wide. ‘Follow me and settle yourselves in the circle.’
‘Circle?’ squeaks Becca, behind me.
‘The Circle of Creativity that will enhance the flow of your energies.’
‘Lead on, matey!’ chortles Stanley. ‘This is going to be good.’
We follow Luna into the parlour, and gasp. Oh, my! Luna has upgraded the parlour from its usual New Age weirdness to full-on fairy grotto. There’s only one small window and the room is always gloomy, whatever the weather. But this evening it’s aglow with the flickering light of candles – dozens of them. Luna must have sparked a candle shortage in the local area.
The air is thick with the smell of herbs. Bunches of dried flowers have been pinned to the dark ceiling beams and fairy lights are scattered around the painted flowerpots on the wide stone mantelpiece. A fire is flickering in the grate, and, on the wall above it, there’s a huge painting that I’ve never seen before. The painting, of a woman in flowing robes, is gorgeously colourful and the woman is smiling munificently – but the third eye in the middle of her forehead is, frankly, disturbing.
‘Gosh, you’ve been busy in here, Luna.’ I take her hand and give it a squeeze.
‘What a gorgeous smell,’ breathes Mary, who’s already giddy at the thought of escaping Callum’s bedtime routine.
‘I mixed my own special blend of herbs to promote creativity. I’m so glad you like it,’ says Luna. She points at a circle of large sequinned cushions on the floor. ‘Why don’t you all take a seat and I’ll sort out drinks for everyone.’
‘On the floor? I don’t think so,’ murmurs Millicent, who’s standing just inside the low doorway, with her back to the wall.
Luna glides across to her and holds her palms to the sides of Millicent’s head.
‘What’s she doing?’ Millicent glances at me with alarm.
‘I’m reading your energies, darling,’ says Luna, closing her eyes and swaying slightly. Crikey, she’s brave. I doubt even Millicent’s husband would call her ‘darling’ without permission. Luna tilts her head to one side and opens her eyes. ‘You’re a woman of many strengths. Your energies are strong and vital. But they’re blocked. I sense that you’re chronically underappreciated and overlooked by the people around you who should recognise your talents.’
‘You can say that again,’ huffs Millicent. ‘Do you… sense anything else?’
When Luna glances over at me, I swear she gives a slight wink. ‘I’m sensing a strong streak of morality and sensibility that makes you a role model for those around you, although this can be a heavy burden in today’s uncertain world. But you bear it well. The book club is lucky to have you as a member.’
‘Hmm,’ says Millicent, but she moves away from the wall and sinks with a loud oof onto one of the enormous cushions.
Stanley, who’s been gazing around the room with childlike glee, prods at a cushion with his foot. ‘It’s kind of you to have us here, Luna, and I love the hippy cushions idea. They take me right back to the 1960s. But sadly, I’m not in my twenties any more, and I’ll never get up if I spend an hour down there.’
Luna laughs. ‘Of course. Anyone who doesn’t want to sit on the cushions is welcome to sit on the furniture, as long as you pull the chairs into the Circle of Creativity.’
‘Now she tells us,’ mutters Millicent, but she stays where she is, with her legs tucked under her. She even unzips her beige gilet and smiles at Mary, who’s propped up against her cushion and nodding off before we even get started.
‘Let me get you all a drink before you start talking about books,’ says Luna, pushing her long trailing headscarf away from candle flames. ‘I have a range of herbal teas, organic vegetable juice from my own garden or there’s some sloe gin. Home-made.’
Really? I’d assumed herbal-tea-drinking Luna was teetotal. For some reason, I got the impression alcohol might be frowned upon. But here she is, brewing up the hard stuff on the quiet.
Mary’s eyelids flicker open at the mention of gin and everyone who’s not driving plumps for the alcoholic option. Luna’s going to so much trouble. I give her a grateful smile and offer to help, but she insists she can manage and I should get the book club started.
The book we’re discussing tonight is Cider with Rosie, which Mary chose for its Cotswolds connection, but she admits she hasn’t finished it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t suppose young mums ever get much time to read. Not without falling asleep.’
‘It’s not that.’ Mary pushes her long brown hair away from her face. ‘I manage to read in the bath a bit, though I keep nodding off and dropping books in the water. But I didn’t finish Cider with Rosie because I got sidetracked by the next book we’ll all
be reading – the one you recommended.’
As Mary finishes speaking, I’m aware of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and I glance through the open door. Daniel is sitting on the bottom step and putting on his shoes. His shadow is a dark shape on the wall next to him.
‘Good grief, not that Day of Desire thing,’ scoffs Millicent. ‘Heaven knows why you suggested that one, Flora. You know it’s the sort of book I’d never have in my house and—’
‘Well, let’s get back to Cider with Rosie,’ I butt in, aware that Daniel can probably hear every word. But Millicent isn’t easily deterred.
‘You know the kind of book I mean,’ she continues, very loudly, ‘breathless prose, no plot to speak of, paper-thin characters. What sort of moron would read a book like that? I can only conclude that you’ve included it in our repertoire as light relief, Flora. As a bit of a joke.’ She laughs, while I contemplate whacking her with one of Luna’s cushions for being such a literary snob – and for having such a piercing voice.
‘You might be pleasantly surprised, Millicent, if you actually give it a try,’ I say, quickly, but Daniel has already grabbed his jacket and the front door bangs as he heads into the garden.
It’s hard to concentrate after that. If Daniel heard what Millicent said about the book, will he think I included it as a joke? We’ve been getting on better since our chat in the pub and I don’t need a new black mark against me.
The conversation about Cider with Rosie continues but I’m distracted and I don’t really register what’s going on around me. Not until Phyllis starts singing Boyzone songs at the top of her voice and declaring her undying admiration for ‘that lovely lad Ronan Keating’. She’s had far too many of Luna’s nuclear-strength gins.
Stanley’s been knocking them back too and, by the time the book club winds up, he’s claiming he can’t feel his extremities. Callie will kill me for getting her granddad wasted and I don’t envy Dick as he folds a giggling Stanley into his tiny car for the journey home.