How to Find Love in a Book Shop(31)

And Marlowe fuelled that passion. Marlowe was a true renaissance man. He quietly earned a small fortune, composing music for adverts, and he was an exquisite violinist. He was one of those understated people who made you believe anything was possible. He was never still for a minute, yet he had time for everyone.

Although Marlowe was nearer Emilia’s age – mid-thirties, she thought – he and Julius were as thick as thieves, sitting at the kitchen table for hours drinking bottles of New World Cabernet while they decided on the programmes for the quartet. They’d watched every series of Breaking Bad together, fuelled by tequila and tacos, and compiled an annual New Year’s Eve quiz for the Peasebrook Arms, with fiendishly difficult questions.

Emilia had always been drawn to him, and occasionally wondered if there could be more between them, but somehow, over the years she had known him, either she or Marlowe had always been attached to someone else. He had a string of glamorous girlfriends, usually musicians, whom he treated with benign absent-mindedness, always preoccupied with his latest project.

When Emilia had phoned and asked Marlowe for help to practise the piece she wanted to play at Julius’s memorial, Marlowe hadn’t hesitated.

‘That is quite wonderful,’ he told her on the phone. ‘Your father would be delighted. I can’t tell you what a loss to the quartet he is. We’ve asked Felicity back pro tem, though it will limit what we can play. Petra’s still on viola, of course. Delphine’s going to take over from Julius, though cello’s not her first instrument and so she won’t be a patch on him. But don’t tell her I said so or she’ll have my balls for earrings.’

Delphine was the French mistress at a nearby prep school and Emilia was fairly sure that Marlowe and Delphine were an item. Julius had hinted at it, expressing the merest hint of disapproval, which surprised Emilia. Her father was rarely judgemental, but he found Delphine terrifying.

‘She stands too close. And I never know what she’s thinking.’

‘She’s very attractive,’ Emilia had pointed out. She’d met Delphine briefly on several occasions, but knew instinctively they would never be kindred spirits. Delphine was a fashion plate, always perfectly made-up, inscrutable, with a hint of the dominatrix that Emilia knew she could never pull off in a million years.

Julius shook his head. ‘She’s scary. And she doesn’t eat. I’m not sure what Marlowe sees in her.’

Emilia could see exactly. Delphine was the stuff of male fantasy.

‘She’s very demanding,’ added Julius. ‘Maybe Marlowe will get fed up with it in the end.’

Emilia laughed. ‘Just don’t criticise her,’ she advised. ‘Or you’ll only make her more attractive to him.’

Marlowe arrived promptly. He gave Emilia a huge hug. He felt warm and comfortingly solid in a big cashmere overcoat, his curls stuffed underneath a bobble hat.

‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.

Emilia just shrugged. ‘You know. Vacillating between grief and despair.’

‘It’s awful for you.’

‘It is.’

‘I bloody miss him. I keep thinking I’ll drop in and have a drink with old Julius. And then I remember … So I can’t imagine how you must feel.’

Marlowe took off his coat and threw it on the sofa. Underneath he wore black skinny jeans and a grey cable-knit sweater and a pair of oxblood Chelsea boots. When he took off his hat his black curls sprang free, wild and untamed.

He looked at Julius’s cello, standing in the corner of the room.

‘May I?’ he asked, mindful of its significance.

‘No, please – go ahead.’

He strode across the room and lifted the cello off its stand. He ran his long, slender fingers over the strings, expertly listening to see if it was in tune, adjusting the pegs until the notes were just as he wanted them. Emilia felt a pang, wondering about the last time Julius had played it: what had he played? He had played every day. It was his way of switching off. He never considered it a chore.

She watched Marlowe tune up, fascinated, always intrigued by the way a true musician handled an instrument: with absolute confidence and mastery. She could never take her playing to the next level because she was always slightly afraid the instrument was in charge, rather than the other way round.

He picked up Julius’s bow and ran it over a small block of resin until the fine hairs were as smooth as silk. Then he sat down and let the bow dance over each string and the notes rang out loud and true in the stillness of the living room. He began playing a tune, short sharp staccato notes, and Emilia smiled in delight as she recognised it. ‘Smooth Criminal’. Not what one would expect from a cello.

Then he segued into something sweeter, something she didn’t recognise. He finished with a flourish, stood up and pointed her to the seat. ‘Let’s see how you are.’

‘I haven’t played for years. I meant to practise before you got here—’

‘Ah. The fatal words. I meant to practise. I don’t want to hear you say that again.’

Emilia blushed. Now he had pointed it out, it did sound lame. Brilliant musicians were brilliant because they practised, not just because they had talent.

She warmed up, playing a few scales. It was surprising how well she could remember. It was almost instinctive as she moved her fingers up and down the strings, stretching and curling them to capture just the right note, then moving on to arpeggios to reignite the muscle memory.