How to Find Love in a Book Shop(94)

‘Here’s the deal,’ she said to him. ‘You leave this wedding reception right now. On Monday morning you call your solicitor and arrange for an annulment. For which you will pick up all the fees, yours and mine. And I never want to see you again.’

Hugh opened his mouth to protest. He put up his hand to take the bag off her, but she snatched it away.

‘Either that, or I call the police. But then it would all be over the papers and, to be honest, we don’t want the scandal.’

She could see her parents bearing down on her out of the corner of her eye.

‘Darling?’ said Sarah.

‘Hugh will explain,’ said Alice. ‘Won’t you, Hugh?’

Ralph loomed over his son-in-law. ‘What’s the story, Hugh?’

‘It’s not what it looks like. I think Alice is—’

‘Alice is what?’ asked Alice. ‘Look, I don’t want a fuss. I want everyone to carry on and enjoy themselves. It would be a shame to break up the party now. Daddy, perhaps you would get Hugh a taxi? I don’t think he’s fit to drive. And Mummy – there’s someone I need to go and see. Could you be hostess for me? I’ll be back later.’

Sarah hesitated for a moment. Whatever had happened, it was serious. Things weren’t going to pan out as she’d thought they would. But she trusted Alice, and had made her a promise that very morning. She and Ralph would be there for her, whatever happened. And she thought she knew who it was Alice was going to find.

‘Of course, darling.’

Alice gave her mother a hug and left the reception.

She was going to leave Hugh to explain. She smiled as she thought about his bluster. How he would try and squirm out of it. Her parents would deal with him appropriately, she was sure, and make certain there was as little fuss as possible.

She made her way to the courtyard round the back of the house, where her old banger was parked. She fished around for the key on the top of the wall. She always kept it there, because she lost it otherwise. She started up the engine and put the car into reverse. Luckily she’d only had one glass of champagne, because she was still on painkillers. She turned the car round and headed off down the drive.



Dillon was on his second pint of cider. He’d better stop at that, and maybe have something more to eat. Or maybe he should go home now. The trouble with drink was it could fool you into thinking it made you feel better.

Brian walked past him and patted him on the back. ‘Not at the wedding of the year, mate?’

‘No chance,’ said Dillon. She’d be married by now, he thought. He took another sip of his pint, then put it down. It tasted sour. He didn’t want any more.

There was consternation over by the door. He looked over and frowned. It was dark outside so he couldn’t be sure. But the figure in the doorway was wearing a white dress. A wedding dress. The veil on her head had come loose and her hem was spattered with mud.

‘Alice?’

She walked over to his table.

‘I think I’d like a glass of elderflower cordial,’ she said. ‘And maybe some crisps. Salt and vinegar.’

She sat down on the wobbly bench.

‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be …?’

‘I’ve buggered it up a bit,’ she said, ‘but I expect a good lawyer will get me out of it. I should have realised earlier.’

‘Realised what?’ He looked at her, her mascara running and her hair falling out of its elaborate do and her lipstick all smudged.

‘It’s you I want to be with,’ she told him.

‘Me?’

‘You’re always there for me. We always have a good time together. You love Peasebrook as much as I do. And more than anything, I want you to kiss me.’

For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of joke. If Hugh would appear with a shotgun if he did what he’d been wanting to do ever since that day in the hospital.

Well, kissing Alice was worth getting shot for.

Her veil had fallen back down over her face. He lifted it up, so he could see all of her: her beautiful eyes, her lovely mouth.

And then he kissed her. And as he did so, he swore he was going to look after her and protect her as long as he lived, whatever happened.





Twenty-Five

Two weeks later the refurbishment at Nightingale Books was complete.

The shop was still recognisable as its former self, but looked fresher and brighter. The walls were pale grey, the shelves white, with hand-painted signs.

Bea had dressed each section to feel like a room. Fiction had a pink squashy sofa and small tables either side, each with a jug of fresh roses. Crime was positioned by the fireplace, with a plaid armchair and a Persian rug, and you could almost imagine Sherlock Holmes reclining there with his pipe. Cookery was designed around a butcher’s block displaying the ingredients from a particular recipe. She’d accessorised all the other sections too: an easel for art, a spinning globe for travel.

They reopened the first week of December, ready for Christmas. There was no time to organise a party, but Emilia had a small opening ceremony for everyone who had been involved: June, Mel and Dave, Jackson and his cohorts, Bea, Andrea …

‘This means the world to me,’ said Emilia. ‘Thank you all. And I know my father would thank you all too.’