How to Find Love in a Book Shop(30)
Emilia put her hands over her ears. She couldn’t take it all in.
‘But all this costs money,’ she wailed. ‘Money I don’t have!’
‘I’ve got an idea there. The obvious thing to do would be to rent the flat out. That would bring in a regular income – at least a thousand a month if you’re clever. There’s a huge demand for holiday accommodation in Peasebrook. I’ve got an agency on my books. I can introduce you – get them to give you an estimate. You’d need to spend some money on it, though. People expect luxury.’
‘I’d have to find somewhere to live myself.’
‘Well, yes.’
Emilia’s head was spinning with all the possibilities.
‘I can’t think straight.’
‘I’ll help you as much as I can,’ said Andrea. ‘There’s nothing I would love more than to see Nightingale Books turn a healthy profit. But we’ve got to be realistic. You need to do a watertight business plan.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start! I’ve never done a spreadsheet in my life.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m here for. I love spreadsheets.’ Andrea grinned at her. ‘But it won’t be easy. It’s a question of whether you want to live, breathe, sleep, and eat books for the foreseeable future.’
‘It’s how I was brought up.’
‘Yes, but you won’t be able to float around plucking novels from the shelf and curling up in a corner.’ Andrea laughed. ‘Every time I went in your father had his nose in a book, away with the fairies. That’s not going to work. You’re running a business. And that means being businesslike.’
Emilia nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But I need to get the memorial service out of the way first. I feel as if I can’t move on until that’s happened.’
‘Of course,’ said Andrea. ‘There’s no rush. The shop will tick over for a few months yet. And in the meantime, if you’ve got any questions, just pick up the phone. I want to help you make the right decision. But the right decision for you, not one made out of sentiment or a sense of duty.’
The two women hugged. Emilia left Andrea’s office, not for the first time gratified by how kind people were, and reassured at how perceptive and caring Andrea was. She felt that whatever decision she made, she’d be in safe hands.
Later, Emilia sat in the familiarity of the kitchen.
On a shelf were rows of glass jars, with stickers on, their contents carefully stated in Julius’s copperplate handwriting: basmati rice, red lentils, brown sugar, penne. Below them were smaller jars containing his spices: bright yellows and brick reds and burnt oranges. Julius had loved cooking, rustling up a huge curry or soup or stew and then freezing it in small portions so he could pull whatever he fancied out in the evening and heat it through. Next to the food was his collection of cookery books: Elizabeth David, Rose Elliot, Madhur Jaffrey, all battered and stained with splashes. Wooden chopping blocks, woks, knives, ladles.
She could imagine him in his blue and white apron, standing at the cooker, a glass of red wine to one hand, chucking in ingredients and chatting.
Never had a room felt so empty.
She had an A4 pad in front of her on the table. She picked up a pen and began to make a list of ideas.
Staff rota
Open Sunday (extra staff?)
Website – Dave (She was pretty sure Dave would be able to help).
Redecorate
Relaunch. Party? Publicity?
It all looked a bit vague and nebulous. The problem was Nightingale Books had been the way it was for so long she couldn’t imagine it any other way. She completely understood Andrea’s concerns, and that it couldn’t carry on the way it was. But did she have the wherewithal to turn it around?
She had no idea what to do for the best. She tried to empty her mind and focus, so she could identify what she wanted, but it was impossible, because what she wanted was for everything to still be the same, for her father to be here, and for her to be able to drop in whenever she liked; have coffee with him, a meal with him, just a chat with him.
She sighed. It was only half past two, and she felt as if she could go to bed now and not wake up until tomorrow.
She couldn’t though. Julius’s friend Marlowe was coming over to give her a lesson on Julius’s cello. She desperately wanted to play ‘The Swan’ by Saint-Sa?ns at his memorial, but she hadn’t played for so long, and she’d sold her own cello when she went abroad.
Julius had been a founder member of the Peasebrook Quartet along with the formidable Felicity Manners, who had retired from the quartet a couple of years ago when her arthritis became too bad for her to play the more intricate pieces. Marlowe, who had been second violinist, had taken over as first and now did a wonderful job of choosing and arranging pieces that pleased both the hoi polloi and the music snobs (of which there were quite a few in Peasebrook).
The quartet was affiliated to Peasebrook Manor and played a variety of concerts in the gardens every summer, and at half a dozen carefully chosen weddings, as well as a popular Christmas carol service in the chapel. That way the quartet didn’t take over their diaries, and left them room to get on with other things. They were respected and enjoyed, and although they were never going to make millions, they were all passionate about the music they made.