How to Find Love in a Book Shop(91)

It was Marlowe.

They hadn’t spoken since she’d walked from the quartet. She thought she might have heard from him, that he might have called to see how she was, but he hadn’t.

‘I need you,’ said Marlowe. His hair was wild, as if he’d only just got out of bed. By now he should be suited and booted with his hair slicked back – the wedding was at twelve.

Emilia sighed. ‘What for?’

‘Delphine’s buggered off back to Paris and I need you in the quartet.’

‘What? Why?’

Marlowe looked a bit shifty.

‘Why, Marlowe? What did you do?’

‘Look, I haven’t got time to argue. The wedding starts in just over an hour, and we need a quartet to play the “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” no matter what. And we’re only a trio right now—’

‘It’ll sound fine.’

‘Emilia. It’s Alice Basildon’s wedding. You know what a lovely girl she is. We can’t let her down.’

‘She won’t notice a missing cello.’

‘Sarah Basildon will.’

Emilia looked away. She wanted nothing more than to refuse, but she thought about Alice walking up the aisle, after everything that had happened to her, and she wanted it to be perfect for her. She hadn’t seen Marlowe since she’d walked out of the last rehearsal.

‘Even though I can’t play for shit?’

‘You can play for shit. When you try.’ He looked at his watch. He looked distressed. ‘Come on, Emilia. Fifty minutes. It’s not fair on Alice …’

She downed tools, ran up to her room, threw open the wardrobe, grabbed a long black dress and her cello and ran down the stairs, through the shop and out into the street, where she jumped into the back seat of Marlowe’s car. He drove off and she wriggled out of her grubby clothes.

She could see Marlowe laughing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Don’t laugh at me!’ She shimmied into the dress with its tight bodice, praying the fabric wouldn’t tear in protest. Then she looked down at her feet.

‘I’ve forgotten my shoes!’ she wailed.

‘There’s no time to go back.’

‘I can’t wear sneakers with it.’

‘Go barefoot. Like Dusty Springfield.’

‘Who?’

Marlowe rolled his eyes. ‘Call yourself The Barefoot Cellist. It’s a good gimmick.’

‘It’s freezing out there!’

They were at the gates of Peasebrook Manor which were decorated with holly and ivy and red roses and white ribbons and tiny pinprick fairy lights.

‘Oh,’ sighed Emilia. ‘It looks stunning. Look, Marlowe.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he said with a cursory glance, and roared up the drive. Wedding guests were being directed to a roped off grassy area, but he drove on to the official car park near the chapel.

Marlowe tied his bow tie in the mirror. Emilia poked her head in between the two front seats.

‘Why did Delphine bugger off like that? What a rotten thing to do, on the morning of the wedding. It’s so selfish.’

‘Well, yes. That’s Delphine for you.’ Marlowe looked tight-lipped. ‘Though I can’t say I’m sorry. Things had been rocky for a while.’

‘You don’t need someone in your life who’s going to let you down like that.’

Their eyes met for a moment. Then Marlowe looked away.

‘No …’

Emilia bit her lip. He was obviously more upset than he was letting on.

‘Felicity and Petra have already set up,’ Marlowe told her. ‘I’ve told them you’d be coming.’

‘How did you know I’d say yes?’

Marlowe grinned and shrugged.

Emilia grabbed her cello and hitched up her dress.

Ten minutes later she took her seat at the front of the church, facing the congregation. She spread her skirt out, hoping no one would notice her bare feet. Thank goodness she had painted her toenails the week before, so they weren’t a total disgrace.

Marlowe, Emilia, Petra and Felicity tuned up.

A sense of calm descended on Emilia as they began to play for the congregation. She felt focused, the music in front of her making perfect sense, and her fingers did everything they were told. She smiled as she grew in confidence and felt a tiny thrill as Marlowe gave her a nod of approval. It was almost like flying with the music as the notes soared and fell.

And then, on the most imperceptible of signals from Marlowe, they struck up the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’.



The aisle in front of Alice looked endless.

She had been awake since before dawn, millions of tiny wings beating in her stomach. But they weren’t day-before-your-birthday butterflies, or Christmas Eve butterflies. These butterflies felt as if their wings had been dipped in acid. They were making her stomach roil with anxiety and gave her a sense of impending doom.

As Sarah buttoned her into her dress, she felt breathless, and not because the dress was too tight.

A fitted cream silk crêpe bodice, with three-quarter-length sleeves, buttoned up the back. Then a tulle skirt, on which was embroidered a trail of ivy and roses. Everyone had joked that Alice would probably be wearing wellies under her frock, but she’d found some of the prettiest beaded satin slippers with rosebuds on the front. She had her stick waiting for her in the front row in case she needed it, but she was determined to walk down the aisle without it.