How to Find Love in a Book Shop(46)
But now, here, in the kitchen, she embraced the grief when it finally hit. She put her head down and sobbed. Great big jagged sobs that threatened to choke her and take her very breath away. She could hear them, resounding round the kitchen: a primal keening, ungodly and harsh. She melted down into them until she almost became her own tears. In the midst of it all a small voice told her she was hysterical; that she needed to pull herself together.
But she’d waited a long time for this chance. The chance to purge herself of her grief. The chance to cry for the loss of her lover; her best friend. She wondered if she was wicked to hide behind Alice’s accident for the chance to have this outpouring. She wondered if Alice’s accident was a punishment for what she had done. Neither of these thoughts helped her regain control. On the contrary, she felt reason slipping further and further away. It was the sort of crying that would never stop.
Until she felt Ralph take hold of her arms. He took hold of her arms and shook her.
‘Sarah.’ His voice was firm but kind. ‘Sarah. You must stop this. This isn’t doing you any good at all. You or Alice.’
She juddered to a halt. He looked at her, concern in his eyes.
‘Listen to me. I’ve never told you how magnificent I think you are. How grateful I am for the way you stood by me. I wouldn’t have blamed you for walking away after everything I did. But you got us through that bloody awful time like the fighter you are. And you’re going to get us through this as well. Because you’re a brave and wonderful woman, Sarah.’
He trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed. Ralph wasn’t one for gushing speeches. He wasn’t sure where the words had come from. But he had meant them, of that there was no doubt.
Sarah shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her breaths were jagged but her sobs eventually stopped.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but of course he had no idea what she was sorry for.
‘Come here,’ he said, and folded her into his arms. And although he wasn’t who she wanted him to be, she felt safe, and knew that he was going to be there for Alice, and that they would get through it, that she would be able to live without Julius …
And that she wasn’t going to cry again.
Ten
Bea Brockman loved Peasebrook on a Saturday. It seemed to be fuel-injected: it was faster, busier, more animated than it was during the week. The market was full of interesting stalls: people selling berry-bright liqueurs made from local fruits, tables piled high with artisan bread, handmade beeswax candles in hot pink and emerald green and cobalt blue. She was ever on the lookout for the next new thing. It was – or had been – her job for so long, she had never lost the habit.
She dressed up on a Saturday more than she did during the week – though there was no point in doing full-scale London-style dressing. Monday to Friday she wore her casual-trendy mum-uniform of Scandi chic – asymmetric jumper, black skinny jeans and black trainers. Today, though, she had on a pretty dress, red suede boots and an Alexander McQueen scarf. Her hair was tied in a messy knot, and she’d painstakingly painted her mouth a luscious dark pink. She knew people looked at her. She was a tiny bit vain, Bea, and she missed the attention she’d had as a single girl. Though she loved being a mother. She adored Maud, who was proudly showing off her new beaded moccasins to anyone who cared to look from the depths of her fashionable all-terrain pushchair.
Bea had done the market, her favourite café, The Icing on the Cake, for a blueberry friand, and the butcher for a French-trimmed rack of lamb. She decided to head up to Nightingale Books for something to read. She had lists of all the paperbacks she should be reading to keep in the know, but there was nothing like a good browse in a book shop to broaden your horizons. She rolled the pushchair along the pavement, relishing the autumn sunshine that turned the buildings in Peasebrook to golden treacle. She was looking forward to their first winter in the country. London was so drab and bitter once the chill wind got a grip, chasing litter along the streets and alleys. Here, the air would be rich with the scent of woodsmoke, and there would always be a pub to hunker down in; game from the butcher to be transformed into a warming casserole. She’d already spent the happiest of days that week making damson jam and apple chutney from the windfalls in the garden, with fashionably minimalist labels she’d designed herself.
She was quite the country mouse.
Nightingale Books was like stepping back in time. She loved its bay windows, the ting of the bell as she walked in, and the smell – a rather masculine smell, a combination of wood and parchment and pipe tobacco and sandalwood and polish that had accumulated over the years.
She hadn’t been in for a while, because there hadn’t been much time to read over the summer. Autumn and winter were for reading. She remembered seeing in the local paper the owner had died. Nevertheless, the shop was busy. Someone must have taken it over. They’d made a few changes: the displays were a little less haphazard, and it definitely looked less dusty, although the dust had been part of the charm.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to a display at the front of the shop. It was a huge coffee-table book, of photographs by the iconic Riley. It was lavish, beautiful, and at a hundred and thirty pounds, eye wateringly expensive. She picked up the display copy – all the others were shrink-wrapped to protect them – and leafed through the pictures.
An assistant passed by her and smiled.