How to Find Love in a Book Shop(19)

And without A Deux, she would be alone at the weekends. It gave her something to do, a momentum, and after she had done the last of the clearing up on a Sunday morning she still had a whole day to herself to catch up and do her laundry and her marking.

She was used to being on her own, and rather resigned to it, for she felt she had little to offer a potential paramour. She had a round face with very pink cheeks that needed little encouragement to go even pinker and her hair was a cloud of mousy frizz: she had been to a hairdresser once who had looked at it with distaste and said with a sniff, ‘There’s not much I can do with this. I’ll just get rid of the split ends.’ She had come out looking no different, having gone in with dreams of emerging with a shining mane. She did her own split ends from then on.

To her surprise, her students loved her, and her class was one of the most popular, with girls and boys, because she opened their eyes to the joys of cooking and made even the most committed junk food junkie leave her class with something delicious they had cooked themselves. When she spoke about food she was confident and her eyes shone and her enthusiasm was catching. Outside the kitchen, whether at home or school, she was tongue-tied.

Which was why she had to wait until the shop was empty before approaching the counter and giving Emilia her condolences.

‘Thomasina!’ said Emilia, and Thomasina blushed with delight that she had been recognised. ‘Dad talked about you a lot. When he was in hospital he said he would take me to your restaurant when he got better.’

Thomasina’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It would have been an honour to cook for him. Though it’s not really a restaurant. Not a proper one. I cook for people in my cottage.’

‘He was very fond of you – I know that. He said you were one of his best customers.’

‘You are staying open, aren’t you?’ asked Thomasina anxiously. ‘It’s one of the things that keeps me going, coming in here.’

‘Hopefully,’ said Emilia.

‘Well, I just wanted to tell you how – how much I’ll miss him.’

‘Come to his memorial service. It’s next Thursday. At St Nick’s. And if you want to say a few words, it’s open to everyone. Just let me know what you’d like to do – a reading, or a poem. Or whatever.’

Thomasina bit her lip. She wanted more than anything to say yes, to honour Julius’s memory. But the thought of standing up in front of a load of people she didn’t know petrified her. Maybe Emilia would forget about the idea? Thomasina knew from experience that if she protested about things, people became fixated, whereas if she concurred in a vague manner very often their ideas faded away.

‘It sounds a wonderful idea. Can I have a think and let you know?’

‘Of course.’ Emilia smiled, and Thomasina was struck by how like her father she was. She had his warmth, and his way of making you feel special.

She drifted back over to the cookery section, and spent a good half-hour browsing. She had narrowed it down to two books, and was holding them both, considering them, when a voice behind her made her jump.

‘The Anthony Bourdain, definitely. No contest.’

She turned, and felt her cheeks turn vermilion. She recognised the speaker, but struggled to place him. Had he been to A Deux? He was as tall and thin as she was short and round. She was mortified that she couldn’t recognise him, for she was certain she should.

‘It’s the best book about food I’ve ever read,’ her unknown observer went on. And then she remembered. He worked in the cheesemonger. She didn’t recognise him without his white hat and striped apron – he was in jeans and a jumper and she realised she had never seen his hair properly: it was curly and fair and he looked a bit like a cherub, with his cheeky baby face. She always bought her cheese from there – she always included a cheese course, with home-made oat biscuits and quince jelly and rhubarb chutney – and he had served her a couple of times, cutting little slivers of Comté or Taleggio or Gubbeen for her to try, depending on the theme of the meal she was cooking that night.

‘Sorry,’ he went on, and she saw his cheeks went as pink as her own. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but it’s one of my favourite books.’

‘I shall have it, then.’ She smiled, and put the other one back. ‘I didn’t recognise you at first.’

He pulled his curls back from his face and made the shape of a hat with his hands. She laughed. For some reason, she didn’t feel awkward. Yet she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

‘Do you like books, then?’ was all she could manage. How ridiculously lame.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t eat a whole one.’

She frowned, not sure what he meant.

‘It’s a joke,’ he said. ‘A bad one. It’s supposed to be do you like children?’

She looked at him blankly.

‘I love books,’ he clarified. ‘But I hardly ever have time to read. You have no idea how hectic the world of cheese can be.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t. But I think it must be fascinating. Have you always been in cheese?’

He looked at her. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’

‘No!’ she said, horrified that he might think so. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Only people do. They seem to find the idea of working in cheese hilarious. Whenever I go out, I just get cheese jokes.’