How to Find Love in a Book Shop(75)

‘I suppose you were just bored in your hotel room?’

He looked a bit taken aback.

‘No. I wanted to see you. I’ve very fond memories of our time.’

‘I wrote a searing exposé,’ June told him. ‘About how cruelly you treated me.’

‘Really?’ He made a face. ‘It would be the perfect time to publish it. Everyone seems to be obsessed with my past at the moment.’

‘Ah, no – it’s staying firmly locked away. It was just a therapeutic exercise.’

‘Writing’s therapy, for sure. I was amazed what I dredged up when I did the book.’

‘So you’re trying to right wrongs now?’

‘Jesus, I haven’t enough time left on this earth to do that.’

He roared with laughter. Then stopped and looked at her.

‘Just one wrong will do me for now.’

She held his gaze. She wanted to laugh. He was incorrigible, even at this age. He couldn’t help himself. She realised that the spell she had been under for so many years was broken. He no longer had a hold over her. How many times had she dreamt of this moment over the years? She couldn’t begin to count.

Yet to turn him away would be boring. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been propositioned. She deserved some fun as much as the next person. And he hadn’t been a selfish bugger in the bedroom, that much she could remember. She felt her cheeks pinken slightly at the memory as she picked up her glass. She was going to make him work for it.

‘What are you suggesting, Mr Gillespie?’





Eighteen

Two weeks later, Thomasina and Lauren were tucked away in the kitchen at A Deux. Lauren was putting the finishing touches to a chicken and pear tagine, chopping almonds and coriander to scatter on the couscous.

‘You mark my words – this is a crisis dinner,’ Lauren whispered. ‘This is the last resort. It’s written all over them.’

Thomasina, who was cutting out lavender biscuits to go with the panna cotta, nudged her to be quiet. Discretion was the watchword at A Deux – it was the whole point.

A Deux was booked several nights a week now, and Thomasina had grown in confidence. She and Lauren had become quite a team, catering outside events. She’d had masses of enquiries since doing the canapés at Nightingale Books and it was almost getting to the point when she might have to give up the day job, though she probably never would.

Seeing Lauren blossom and flourish under her tuition had been incredibly rewarding too. That was the joy of teaching: capturing someone, inspiring them, giving them a purpose. Lauren was a different girl. She was focused, conscientious, full of initiative. If Thomasina hadn’t seen her potential and tapped into it, she would be excluded from school by now, on a one-way ticket to nowhere.



In the dining room, clusters of candles gave a rosy glow to the two guests at the table. Thomasina’s cottage was small – just one main room, which you walked straight into from the front door, and where the table was laid. She had bought the best cutlery and china she could afford: knives and forks with mother-of-pearl handles, and pale cream china with an ornate French pattern. The snowy white linen tablecloth and napkins gave an air of formality, but other than that the room had a warmth that wrapped you up, with its dark red walls and the rich Egyptian-style carpet.

Bill sighed, and looked down into his Jerusalem artichoke soup, as if the answer might lie in the swirl of cream on the top.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just …’

‘It’s just what?’

‘I think I’m going mad.’

He looked up, and Bea saw a bleakness in his eyes that scared her.

‘What do you mean?’ Bea crumbled up some of Thomasina’s walnut bread in her fingers.

‘I understand it’s been hard for you. Giving up your old life and starting anew. But I’d give anything to be in your position.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t think I can carry on.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bea panicked. ‘With what? Do you mean us?’

Oh God. He was asking for a divorce. She’d bored him into wanting a divorce, with her ‘wittering’.

‘No! Of course not. I mean this way of life.’

Bea took a gulp of wine. Then another. They were walking, so they didn’t need to have the driving conversation.

‘I hate it. I hate leaving you and Maud. It’s bloody exhausting, getting up at stupid o’clock and going to catch the train. By the time I’m back home, I’m too knackered to have a conversation or enjoy my food and the weekends go in a flash. By the time I’ve had a lie-in to get over the fact I’ve had hardly any sleep, it’s Sunday. And from midday on Sunday my stomach is in a knot, dreading Monday morning.’

‘I had no idea you felt like this.’

‘I thought it was going to get easier. But I just want a normal life, Bea. I love it here in Peasebrook. I want to be a normal bloke. Join the darts team in the pub. Muck about in the garden. Enjoy my family. Maud looks at me sometimes as if she’s someone she thinks she should recognise but isn’t quite sure …’

He rubbed his face and Bea suddenly saw how terrible he looked. Haggard and red-eyed. She’d put it down to too much red wine.