How to Find Love in a Book Shop(88)

Jackson walked Wolfie home that night filled with glee. Things had worked out even better than he expected. He had his first job, and a promise of more work. And it was all on his terms.

‘Would you babysit for Finn tomorrow night?’ he asked his mum. ‘I want to take Mia out for a meal.’

‘Of course, love,’ said Cilla, sensing a sea change in her son. Sometimes she had worried he would go under and lose his way completely, but he was getting it together.



The next day Jackson told Mia he had something to talk to her about.

‘I need to tell you over dinner. I’ve booked a table at the Peasebrook Arms.’

She was reluctant, but she finally agreed.

‘What’s this all about then?’ she asked him, brittle with wariness.

‘I’m setting up on my own. I’ve left Mendip. Finally. It’s going to be tough, but I think in the long term I’m going to be better off.’

‘Oh. Is that it?’

‘It’s a pretty big deal. For me.’ Jackson was disappointed she wasn’t more impressed.

She sighed. Jackson frowned. He thought she had tears in her eyes.

‘It’s not something to cry about. Don’t worry. I’ll still give you your money.’

This wasn’t going quite how he expected. He’d wanted to ask her to start again. But obviously all she was worried about was where the money was going to come from. She wasn’t interested …

She was crying.

‘What? What is it, Mia?’

‘It’s OK. I just thought – you were going to tell me you were seeing someone else.’

‘No!’ Jackson frowned. ‘Not for a minute.’

‘Good.’ Mia nodded. ‘Because I don’t think I could handle that.’

‘Me seeing someone else? Why would you even care?’

Mia looked down at the tablecloth.

‘I – I miss you.’

‘Miss me?’

She nodded. A big tear rolled down her cheek.

‘I’m sorry for throwing you out. It was wrong.’

‘What?’ One glass of wine on an empty stomach – did she know what she was saying?

‘I was too hard on you, Jackson. But I was scared. Being a mum – being a mum really freaked me out. I know I was difficult. Impossible. Neurotic.’

‘You weren’t that bad!’

Why was he fibbing? She’d made him feel like the worst husband and father on earth.

He was fibbing because getting Mia back was more important than proving a point. He was fibbing because life was too short and he had been irresponsible and let her down, occasionally. But he’d learnt, and he loved his son with a passion, and more than anything, he realised he wanted Finn to have a family. The family he already had.

‘I thought you hated me,’ said Mia.

‘What?’ Jackson was horrified. ‘No!’

‘I thought you couldn’t wait to get away from me.’

He looked at her. ‘I thought you hated me.’

Mia shook her head. ‘I hated myself.’

‘Me too.’ He remembered the feelings of self-loathing, after one too many beers.

The two of them looked at each other.

‘Come back,’ said Mia.

Shit, thought Jackson. He was going to start blubbing now.



They walked back home, hand in hand.

Mia unlocked the door and led him inside. Inside his home – their home.

‘Come here,’ said Jackson, and she walked into his embrace.

Jackson stared over her head as he held her. He saw the big black-and-white photos they’d had taken of Finn when he was tiny. The coat rack, with the white coat he’d bought her the Christmas before he left. He heard Finn bound down the stairs and saw him leap off the bottom step then come to a standstill as he saw his mum and dad in an embrace.

‘Mum?’ He stepped forward, protective, and Jackson felt pride. He held out an arm.

‘Come here, you,’ he said, and for a few moments the three of them stood together in a group hug.

Cilla appeared in the doorway of the lounge. She felt a surge of pride in her son. He was a wayward boy, but he’d found his mettle.

‘You’d better drop me home,’ she said with a smile. ‘And pick up your toothbrush.’





Twenty-Three

A week later, Thomasina made preparations for that evening’s dinner: a young couple that had not long had a baby wanted to celebrate a birthday.

She was in Peasebrook for half past eight, collecting her meat from the butcher, selecting the best vegetables from the farmers’ market, and finishing off at the cheesemonger, where she bought a trio of French cheese: one soft, one hard and one blue. She was disappointed not to be served by Jem but by one of the other assistants, though he gave her a cheery wave and a thumbs up from the far end of the counter. He was too busy serving to speak. Thomasina left before he became free.

She got back to her cottage where Lauren was ready and waiting: she’d prepped the kitchen and it was gleaming, all the utensils ready and waiting. They divided the work up between them. Lauren made the celeriac soup with a gloriously rich chicken stock she’d made earlier in the week and she strained it and sieved it until it was silky smooth, then set it aside and fried some crispy strips of pancetta ready to put on top.