How to Find Love in a Book Shop(78)

‘Test?’

He looked at her. His eyes were teasing. ‘I never sleep with anyone who can’t read what it is.’

Her eyes widened.

He looked embarrassed. ‘Not that—’

‘No! Of course not.’

She walked on, confused. Why had he said that? It was a bit unfair, given his relationship. He’d definitely been flirting with her, just for a moment.

Back at the cottage, she felt shivery: the water had been freezing and the cold had got into her bones. Marlowe made her a hot chocolate, and lent her a grey cashmere sweater. As she slipped it on, she breathed in the smell of him. She immediately felt warmer, as if she’d been wrapped in a hug. That was cashmere for you, she supposed.

‘Stick some of this in it.’ Marlowe held out the bottle of Paddy she’d brought him to say thank you for playing. He poured a generous slug into her mug. As she drank it, curled up on the sofa, she felt her eyes close. The morning’s playing, the walk, the lunch, the swim, the warmth of the fire and the whiskey …

‘Well, well, this is cosy.’

She started awake to see Delphine standing in the doorway.

Marlowe got up off the sofa in a fluid movement. Emilia had had no idea he was sitting next to her.

‘Hey, Delph.’

Delphine’s eyes took in the scene. Luckily Julius’s cello was still out, in front of a music stand. It was all the excuse they needed.

Not that they needed an excuse. They’d done nothing. Though Emilia was conscious of wearing Marlowe’s sweater.

‘You’re back early,’ said Marlowe. ‘Have a whiskey.’ He took a glass off a shelf.

‘I should go,’ said Emilia.

‘Not because of me,’ said Delphine, taking the whiskey off Marlowe and sinking into the sofa. She was in a red sweater dress and matching beret. She looked unbelievably smug, and Emilia felt a sudden flash of intense dislike.

‘Do you mind if I keep your jumper on?’ she asked Marlowe, knowing she was being provocative. She only did it because she knew they had nothing to hide. She had a clear conscience.

Delphine didn’t flinch. Marlowe nodded. ‘Sure. Give it back to me at the next rehearsal.’

Emilia drove home, trying not to feel nettled by Delphine’s hostile presence. She concentrated instead on what she had achieved. She felt so much more confident after Marlowe’s tuition. Maybe she wasn’t going to let the side down after all.



Jackson couldn’t settle that Sunday.

Ian Mendip had called him to hassle him about the book shop.

‘It doesn’t usually take you this long to get into a girl’s knickers,’ he complained, and Jackson hung up on him. He’d blame the bad signal in Peasebrook.

He didn’t want any more to do with Ian’s twisted plan. He really admired Emilia for what she was doing at the shop and hated the thought of Ian getting his hands on it. Nightingale Books was a force for good, and Mendip was a greedy monster. If he sacked him, then so be it.

He walked over to his house. Mia was heading out on a twenty-mile bike ride as part of her triathlon training, and he’d offered to look after Finn. He didn’t see it as a chore – why would he?

‘Nice bike,’ he said, as she made everything ready – gel packs and water bottles and repair kits.

She looked at him. ‘It’s all I’ve got,’ she said. ‘I don’t spend money on clothes.’

‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ said Jackson, because he hadn’t. Why was she so defensive? Why did she make it so hard for him to be nice to her?

He looked at her, in her ridiculous tight black Lycra and the helmet that made her look like an alien, and thought how vulnerable she looked. His heart gave a little stumble.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Call me if you get tired and need picking up.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, clearly not wanting to show any dependence on him whatsoever.

He went back into the house.

He felt as if he was in limbo, halfway between being an upstanding person and a waste of space. It was as if he was in the bottom of a dark well, and there was a light at the top, and he had to climb up to it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find when he got to the light, but if he did get there, things would be better, he felt sure.

He leafed through the book Emilia had suggested he read with Finn. The Little Prince was a curious book, and a lot of it he found puzzling. It seemed to have all the wisdom in the world in its pages.



She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her. I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind all her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her …



It was true. He had been too young to love Mia properly. He had driven her away with his behaviour. He could see that now. She didn’t trust him. Of course she didn’t. He’d been immature, and feckless, and selfish.

He stared at the wall in the living room. He’d given up, he realised. He’d given up on his hopes, his dreams, his relationships. He’d become involved in something that made him hate himself more than he did already. He closed the book.

So that was why people read. Because books explained things: how you thought, and how you behaved, and made you realise you were not alone in doing what you did or feeling what you felt.