How to Find Love in a Book Shop(82)

‘Emilia. Of course. Come in.’

He stood aside to let her in. She stepped into a cavernous hallway, hung with an over-the-top chandelier, a sweeping staircase rising up carpeted in dark purple tartan. Normally she would have enjoyed inspecting his lack of taste, but today she was on business.

‘I’ve just come to say I’ve decided to sell up,’ she said. ‘The shop is yours if you still want it.’

A smile spread across his face.

‘Well, that is good news.’

‘I want to exchange contracts as soon as possible.’ She wanted to be out of Peasebrook by Christmas, only a few weeks away. She wanted to be on the other side of the world.

‘I’ll get my people onto it.’ He stood to one side and gestured she should come into the kitchen. ‘Do you want to come and have a drink on it? I always keep some Bollinger in the fridge for occasions like this.’

‘No, thank you,’ she said, recoiling at the thought.

‘Well, at least shake hands on it.’

He was the traditional type. A deal wasn’t a deal unless you’d shaken hands.

Emilia hesitated for a moment. She didn’t really want to touch him. It felt as if she was doing a deal with the devil. But she had to look after her own interests, and get the best price, so she braced herself and shook his hand.

She tried not to wonder if she was betraying Julius’s memory: what would he do if he knew she was selling to Mendip? She told herself she had done her best, and it was not to be. There was no point in her trying to carry on with Nightingale Books as some sort of infinite tribute. He had loved the shop, but it was time for her to move on. And it was silly not to get the best price possible.

‘Let me have your solicitor’s details,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get mine to draw up the contracts.’

He saw her out and she went and sat in her car. She wanted to feel victorious, as if she’d achieved something by letting go of the past. Instead, she just felt incredibly sad.

And alone. She rammed the key in the ignition, not sure where to go.

She had no job, no commitments, no ties to anyone or anything, and she’d just done a deal which would see her pretty well off. She slammed the car into reverse.

Cuba, she thought. She’d book a month’s holiday in Cuba and go and find herself. Drown herself in rum daiquiris and dance till dawn, feel the sun on her face and the music in her soul. Havana would be crazy and dirty and noisy: about as far away from Peasebrook as you could get. And she would be about as far away from herself as she could get. In fact, she could leave Emilia Nightingale at home and come back as someone else. She imagined a girl with a tan and a red ruffled dress and a flower in her hair. That’s who she was going to be for now.



Jackson’s phone rang. It was Mendip. His heart sank.

He was going to badger him about Nightingale Books. He steeled himself. He was going to tell him where to get off. He didn’t want any part in the duplicity any longer. If that meant he lost his job, so be it.

He answered, cautious. ‘Hello?’

‘Well done, my son.’

‘What?’

‘You could make a good living with your powers of persuasion. It’s a skill.’ Mendip laughed a horrible laugh.

‘What are you on about?’ Jackson asked.

‘Miss Nightingale is selling me the shop. Contracts are being drawn up as we speak. Soon as we’ve all signed on the dotted line, you’re in charge at the glove factory. We should be in there by the New Year. Good work, Jackson!’

He hung up.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Cilla.

‘Nothing,’ said Jackson. ‘Just Mendip’s usual bollocks.’

He felt sick. He should feel happy, that Emilia had decided to sell up without him putting any pressure on her. After all, he was going to have a plum job as a result. Head gaffer at the glove factory – that was something to get excited about. But Jackson didn’t feel excited at all.

The last thing he wanted Emilia to do was sell the shop.





Twenty-One

Alice was sitting in the polytunnel, wrapped up in her duckdown ski jacket and her Uggs, wearing a pair of fingerless mittens. The two girls who helped her with wedding flowers were sitting with her.

They had a long piece of rope lined up on trestle tables in front of them, and were attaching bunches of green foliage to the rope with pieces of wire. Once the rope was covered, it would be hung up on scaffolding so they could start adding individual flowers, stripping the leaves by hand from each stem so they could be easily inserted. Blooms of yellow, pink, blue and purple were mixed in with the foliage until the garland was complete, ready to be hung up in the chapel. It was a labour of love, but the Christmas garland had become a Peasebrook tradition.

Alice looked at all the dried flowers waiting in boxes. Dillon had cut every single one of them, choosing only the very best, and had put them away carefully to dry. She still hadn’t seen him properly since she got back. She had glimpsed him in the grounds, but every time she got to her feet and went to call him, he had disappeared.

He was avoiding her, she thought. She wasn’t sure why. Had she done something to hurt him? She needed to find out. She was going to go and find him. She stood up.

‘Can you two carry on with this?’ she said to the girls. ‘I’ll be back later.’