How to Find Love in a Book Shop(77)

‘God, I’m sorry. I meant to tidy up.’ Marlowe kissed her. ‘Meet Crotchet and Quaver.’

He scooped one of the cats off a chair and patted the seat. ‘You sit here. I’ll get you a coffee while you set yourself up.’

Emilia got out her cello, and as she looked around the room she spotted evidence of Delphine. A silk Hermès scarf on the sofa; lipstick on a glass; a pair of Chanel ballet flats.

‘Delph’s in Paris for the weekend – some family knees-up. So we’ve got all day if you need it.’

OK, thought Emilia. I’ve got the message. ‘Delph’. That was fond familiarity if ever she’d heard it.

After two hours, she was exhausted. Marlowe was a brilliant and patient teacher, and not once did he make her feel inferior. He helped her with her posture and her bow hold. At one point he put his hand on her shoulder. His fingers dug in until he found a muscle.

‘You need to relax that muscle. Drop your shoulder.’

Emilia tried desperately to relax, but she found it difficult. The feeling of his hand on her was making her think about things she probably shouldn’t. Eventually she managed to untense.

‘That’s it!’ Marlowe was triumphant. ‘If you relax that, you’ll be able to play for longer, and much better.’

By half twelve, she was exhausted.

‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘Let’s walk to the pub and get some lunch.’

They walked to the White Horse and bought hot pork ciabatta rolls with apple sauce and bits of salty crackling, sitting at a table outside next to a patio heater. Emilia didn’t want to leave the sunshine, the easy company, the half of cider that was making her sleepy and made her want to slide into bed …

‘Let’s go back through the woods,’ suggested Marlowe. ‘It’s a bit further than the road but we can walk our lunch off.’

The walk through the wood meandered alongside the river. Sunshine and birdsong lifted Emilia’s heart: she’d spent far too much time inside recently. She must make the effort to get out and enjoy the countryside around Peasebrook. It was truly glorious, with the trees ablaze with crimson and coral and ochre and the rich smell of dead leaves underfoot.

Eventually they came to a section of the river that was deeper than the rest, the banks widening to form a bowl-shaped pool. The water was crystal clear: Emilia could see the smooth stones at the bottom, covered in moss and there was a willow on the far bank, trailing its branches in the water.

‘Fancy a swim, then?’ asked Marlowe. ‘Doesn’t get wilder than this.’

‘You have to be joking. Surely it’s too cold?’

‘Nah. I swim here all the time, even on Christmas Day. It’s invigorating.’

‘Invigorating?’

Emilia looked doubtful. Yet part of her couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘Does Delphine swim in this?’ She couldn’t imagine she did.

‘God, no. She’s a total chicken.’

That was all the encouragement Emilia needed. She was going to prove to Marlowe she was no wuss. There was only one thing stopping her.

‘I haven’t got any bathing things,’ she said, but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to inhibit Marlowe.

‘We can go in our underwear,’ he said. ‘No different to swimming trunks or a bikini.’

Emilia laughed.

‘You’re on,’ she said, and kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her dress.

Marlowe needed no encouragement. He ripped off his shirt, undid his jeans and she saw a flash of surprisingly toned skin and a six-pack before he dived straight in.

He came to the surface spluttering and whooping with the shock of the cold.

‘Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Come on! Don’t hesitate or you’ll never do it.’

She dropped her dress on top of his clothes and before he had too much time to examine her in her bra and knickers she leapt in too.

The iciness took her breath away. But it was exhilarating.

‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘It’s giving me brain freeze.’

They trod water for a while.

‘I love it here,’ said Marlowe. ‘It’s where I come when I’ve f*cked things up. It clears your head.’

Emilia nodded, but her teeth were starting to chatter.

‘You don’t strike me as someone who ever f*cks up.’

He gave a hollow laugh.

‘You know, when you get yourself into a situation you can’t get out of?’ His tone was dark.

Emilia wondered what he meant. Was he referring to Delphine? But he didn’t elucidate.

‘Come on,’ said Marlowe. ‘You’re getting cold.’

They climbed back out onto the bank. Marlowe picked up his shirt.

‘Use this to get yourself dry,’ he said. ‘I can go without. We’re nearly at the cottage.’

She felt self-conscious, wiping herself down with his shirt, but it took away the worst of the water before putting her dress back on. She found herself riveted by a tattoo on his chest – a line of music on his taut skin.

She bent forward to inspect it. She wasn’t great at sight-reading, but even she could work it out.

‘Beethoven’s Fifth!’ she exclaimed in delight.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You passed the test.’