How to Find Love in a Book Shop(74)

‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘But if that’s what she feels, what am I supposed to do?’

‘Woo her back.’

‘That’s what I thought I was doing.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think I didn’t get the instruction manual.’

‘You’ll be all right.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

Jackson hugged his mum. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go up and give Finn a goodnight kiss, then let’s get home.’

Ten minutes later he bundled his mum into his jeep, popped Wolfie in the boot and walked round to the driver’s door. At the last moment, he looked out and saw Mia peering out of her bedroom window. As soon as she saw him looking, she dropped the curtain and was gone.



In the quiet of the empty shop, Emilia gathered up the last of the cocktail glasses that were scattered around and took them upstairs to wash them and put them back in the box to be taken to the wine merchant.

It had been a wonderful evening. It had lifted her heart. So many people had turned up to see Mick Gillespie, old customers and new. There had been a real buzz in the air.

Of course, Emilia knew that she wouldn’t get a star like him to come along to the shop every week. And the novelty would probably wear off. But it had given her a glimpse of what could be done and they had rung more through the till that evening than they did in a week because people had bought other books as well as Mick’s. Dave and Mel had worked hard to make the display tables as enticing as possible so people would make impulse purchases, and they had.

Of course, there had been one thing missing. Her father would have loved it. But she was determined not to think like that any more. Julius was gone, and she was clomping about in his shoes, trying them on for size. Sometimes they felt either too small or too big as she stumbled around.

Nights like this, though, made her feel as if his shoes fitted perfectly.



Just before midnight, June heard the wind get up and the rain begin. It was wild; she shut the curtains tight, grateful that she’d had her little cottage double-glazed when she moved in full-time. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of camomile tea, then heard a mighty rapping on the stable door. She froze, wondering who on earth it was at this time. It wasn’t as if she was on the way to anywhere. She decided she would ignore it.

Then she heard shouting. An indignant roar that carried through the gale. A roar she would have recognised anywhere.

‘For the love of God, would you open the door?’

She marched across, slid back the bolts and turned the lock. She just opened the top half, in case. And there, framed in the doorway, was Mick Gillespie, soaked to the skin.

‘Thank Christ for that. Will you let me in?’

‘Give me one good reason why I should?’ She put her hands on her hips.

‘Because it’s pissing with rain and I’m soaked through and I’ll get pneumonia. I’m an old man.’

She couldn’t help smiling. What a bloody fuss. She stood back and he bowled in through the door. She smelled wet wool and him. She took his coat – cashmere and no protection from the rain – and hung it on the Aga.

‘They told me at the hotel it was only ten minutes’ walk,’ he grumbled.

‘How did you find me?’

‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes. And the people in this town aren’t very discreet, you know.’

‘You recognised me, then?’

‘Of course I did,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. You didn’t say anything so I thought it was best left, maybe. But then I thought: you wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t wanted to see me.’

‘You’re a better actor than I thought. I didn’t think you had a clue.’

‘I’m trained, remember.’ His smile was teasing. Those bloody crinkly eyes …

June smiled and handed him a towel to dry his hair, then poured two glasses of red wine. They sat down at the kitchen table, looking at each other.

He looked around in approval. June knew the cottage looked good. She’d spent a lot of money making it comfortable and stylish, and she had a great eye for art and antiques. She’d perfected the designer farmhouse look: the gleaming pink Aga, the flagstones warmed by underfloor heating, the French kitchen table, the chunky wine glasses stamped with a bee.

‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

‘I have,’ she said, not ashamed to be proud of her achievements.

‘I was a shite,’ he told her. ‘But it was the best thing for you. I’d have led you merry hell and you’d have ended up hating me. Or killing me. I really wasn’t a very nice person in those days.’

‘And are you now?’

He tipped his head to one side to consider her question.

‘I don’t think I’m all bad.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘You’re a nice person, that’s for sure. You always were. People like you don’t change. Unless they get damaged by people like me. I hope you weren’t.’

‘Nobody as awful as you, no.’

They grinned at each other.

Mick raised his glass.

‘Well, here’s to old times’ sake. It’s very nice to see you.’