How to Find Love in a Book Shop(32)

‘There you are, you see?’ Marlowe looked delighted. ‘It doesn’t go away. It’s like riding a bicycle. You just need to put the time in now.’

She took out the sheet music for ‘The Swan’ from the pile on the piano. She began to play. She had done it years ago for one of her grades. She couldn’t remember which – six, she thought. She had been note perfect then, and had got a distinction. But after all this time, her playing was dreadful. She scraped and scratched her way through it, determined not to stop until she got to the end.

‘It’s awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll do something else. I’ll read a poem.’

‘No,’ said Marlowe. ‘This is perfect for your father. And yes, it was bloody awful. But you can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you. If you practise two hours a day between now and the memorial, it will be the perfect tribute.’

He started breaking the music down for her, picking out the fiddly bits and getting her to master them before putting them back in, marking up the manuscript with his pencil. After an hour and a half of painstaking analysis, he asked her to play it through again.

This time it sounded almost like the tune it was. Not perfect, far from perfect, but at least recognisable. She laughed in delight, and he joined in.

‘Bravo,’ he said.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she told him.

‘You’ve worked hard. We better stop now. There’s only so much you can take in.’

‘Would you like a glass of wine before you go?’ she asked, hoping he’d say yes. ‘It’s going to take me years to work my way through Julius’s wine collection if I don’t have help.’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘Go on then. Just a glass. I mustn’t be late.’

She couldn’t help wondering if it was Delphine he mustn’t be late for, but she couldn’t really ask.

She flicked on the sound system in the kitchen. Some Paris jazz sessions flooded the room: cool, smooth sax and piano with an infectious beat. It took her breath suddenly. It must have been the last thing Julius listened to.

Marlowe found his way around the kitchen, pulling a bottle of red from the rack, opening the drawer to find Julius’s precious bilame, the corkscrew favoured by French wine waiters. He opened the bottle effortlessly and poured them each a glass.

He looked at her, and she couldn’t hide her tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she laughed. ‘You just don’t know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always music that does it.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Marlowe, handing her a glass. ‘But it’s OK to cry, you know.’

Emilia managed to compose herself. She wanted to relax, not grieve. As she drank her wine, Emilia managed to unwind properly for the first time since she’d come home. The kitchen felt alive again, with the music and the company, and she found herself laughing when Marlowe told her about the disastrous impromptu poker school he and Julius had set up the winter before last.

‘We were rubbish,’ he told her. ‘Luckily the maximum stake was only a fiver, or you probably wouldn’t have a roof over your head.’

Emilia didn’t mention that she was slightly worried she might not anyway.

When he left, after two glasses of wine not one, the flat seemed a slightly dimmer place. He ruffled her hair as she left, an affectionate gesture, and she smiled as she turned and shut the door. People were kind; people were loving. At least, the people her father had attracted were.

When Emilia went to bed that night, her head was spinning with accidentals and spreadsheets and pizzicato and bank loans and opening hours and crescendos. And the running order for Julius’s memorial – everyone in Peasebrook wanted to do something, it seemed. But despite all the things whirling around in her brain, she thought how lucky she was to have the support of such wonderful people – June and Mel and Dave, and Andrea, and Marlowe. Whatever she decided, she was going to be all right.





Seven

On the morning of Julius’s memorial, the staff gathered in the middle of the book shop just before it was time to set off. Emilia felt filled with pride. June, who still insisted on coming in every day to help out, was in a deep pink wool dress with a matching wrap. Dave, as a Goth, always wore black anyway, but he had on a splendid velvet frock coat and a black ribbon in his ponytail. Mel had changed three times but settled on a purple satin Stevie Nicks skirt and a plunging top that showed off her impressive cleavage. Emilia had gone for traditional black, in a high-necked dress with lace sleeves and a full skirt that fell almost to her ankles but would enable her to play. Her dark red hair was tied in a chignon.

‘We look like something out of Dickens,’ smiled June. ‘He’d be very proud.’

They’d decided to shut the shop, as a mark of respect, but Dave and Mel were coming straight back to open up. Emilia wasn’t providing anything afterwards. She felt as if she had already made everyone in Peasebrook tea over the past few weeks, and she didn’t have the emotional energy left to host any sort of wake. The memorial would be uplifting and that, she hoped, would be it. She could start looking ahead to the future and make some concrete decisions.

‘I just want to say, before we go, how grateful I am. You’ve been diamonds, all of you. I wouldn’t have got this far without your support. I’d have fallen apart.’