by Jenny Colgan
All she remembered was the fierceness of the joy. Jaz had been taking stupid pictures for his stupid friends and she had known, even then, even as soon as she got pregnant when she hadn’t even met his parents, that this was wrong, this was all wrong – but as soon as Hari had arrived, they had both coalesced somehow, not with each other, but with the baby. He had found him as wondrous as she did. Still did. There was no denying that.
Zoe suddenly heard a great piercing wail; a brand-new soul, entering the world.
She checked her watch. Midnight, exactly midnight. The tiny gap where spirits can creep through; where the living and the dead can meet; where worlds collide.
Tears sprung to her eyes.
And something else; a reminder. That when Hari had been born, she had sworn, over and over again, that she would do nothing – nothing – but the best for him. Ever.
And here, on a freezing autumn evening, in a little hospital in the middle of great dark hills silhouetted against a starry sky, she remembered that vow.
To do what was best for him.
And then she turned and went to greet the new mother, who, safely back in a warm and cosy hospital bed, a tiny wrapped bundle in her arms, had forgotten all rancour. She had earned that badge, the stripe of women who have gone through labour, blooded in the same war.
And Nina could do nothing but cry and stare at the tiny face and hug everyone (and occasionally lean over the side of the bed and throw up).
‘Go on then,’ said Surinder. ‘Darcy? Heathcliff? Rochester. Willoughby. Definitely Willoughby. Lawrie. Gatsby. Ooh, I like Gatsby.’
Nina looked at Lennox, who looked back at her and smiled.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Nina. ‘This is John.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Zoe had left them to it, driving home alone in the van to a silent house.
Ramsay was waiting for her in the kitchen, sitting in the dark doing nothing, simply waiting for her to come home. He knew she would have time to think about things; have time to think things over.
He looked at her face. She wasn’t smiling.
She came over, clambered up on top of him and curled up on his chest, and they both cried.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I have to. A child needs a mother and a father.’
Ramsay nodded, sighing.
‘And it’s not good for Mary and she’s going to need a lot of support, you know that. She’s not going to get “fixed”.’
He nodded again, stroking her head.
‘We could . . . we could visit?’ she said hopefully. But she felt strongly that somehow, once she was back in London, commuting on the tube, struggling to make ends meet, to pay her bills as the way money vanished through your hands in the city was terrible, the spell would be broken. They both knew it.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘I think Nina is going to be just fine,’ said Zoe. ‘If Lennox ever puts the baby down.’ (Zoe was oddly prescient about this: Lennox never did put the baby down.)
Ramsay nodded.
‘She wants it done her way,’ said Zoe. ‘I get that.’
They didn’t kiss again. Not with the children’s pictures a bright cheerful display around the new coffee machine. They just lay, her on top of him, the two heads together, one big, one small, for a long time.
* * *
Down in London, in a small pretty kitchen in Wembley, things were incredibly loud.
‘What the hell?’ Shanti was yelling. ‘What the hell is this shit?’
She was reading his email.
‘It’s all we can afford, darling. This is all I’m making.’
Shanti looked down them.
‘These are awful! I wouldn’t put my dog in a place like this!’
‘But . . . I want to have him near me! Especially now he can talk! We can hang out, and go to the football, and I can teach him how to DJ and we can be buddies . . .’
Shanti gave him a look.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘You know how we said. You know how we said it was about what was best for your son.’
‘Being near me,’ said Jaz stubbornly.
‘You saw him up there.’
Jaz stared at the floor.
‘You can see how good it is for him up there.’
‘But it’s miles away.’
‘Not as far as Ibiza, babes.’
Jaz stared at his shoes.
‘Tell her,’ said Shanti. ‘She’ll be so upset.’
‘It’s two a.m.’
‘Tell her,’ said Shanti. ‘If it was me, I wouldn’t be sleeping a wink.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Zoe sat up in the kitchen, Ramsay making coffee, as her phone was buzzing. Who was texting at this time of night? Oh, of course, DJ Jaz didn’t keep the same hours as everyone else.
‘I don’t need to see it,’ she grumbled out loud. ‘You’ve won already.’
But she opened it of course.
‘Look. Those flats are all crap. Let’s leave it for now, yeah, babes? You seem happy. Just stop him speaking Scottish and teach him to love Tottenham.’
Zoe’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my God.’
‘What?’
‘He . . . Oh my God! Oh my God!’
She frowned.
‘He is never going to support Tottenham.’
She stared, breathing heavily, for ages, then she sent back a stream of emojis: a pouring out of endless hearts and kisses.
‘Hearts and kisses?’ said Ramsay, peering over her shoulder. ‘Can I have some?’
She looked at him. The house gave out not a creak as if it too were holding its breath. Outside the trees swished gently in the deep dark. It was a very quiet moment.
Zoe looked at him, huge, at home, looking at her with lust and hope. He was absolutely irresistible in the dying light of the kitchen fire.
‘I suppose . . . you could . . . visit the maid’s quarters.’
‘You’ll have to tell me where it is.’
‘Stop that!’ she said as he pulled her close to him.
‘You really are,’ he said, ‘quite impossibly short. I’ve been thinking that a lot.’
‘Have you?’ said Zoe as he swung her into his arms.
‘Go right,’ she said. ‘Back stairs.’
‘Christ,’ said Ramsay, pausing to kiss her. Then he put her down, picked up the two coffee cups, rinsed them in the sink and put them in the dishwasher.
‘Well,’ said Zoe. ‘I think you would be amazed to know how much that turns women on.’
‘Would I?’ said Ramsay, taking her by the hand as they turned the lights out in the kitchen, shushing each other.
* * *
Back in London, Jaz put down his phone.
‘Did you hear back?’ said Shanti, rubbing his back.
He shook his head.
‘She must think I’m such a dickhead, messing her about.’
‘I reckon,’ said Shanti, ‘you’re the least dickheadish she’s ever felt about you in her life. And I am very, very proud of you.’
Tears formed in Jaz’s eyes.
‘I just . . . I just miss him.’
‘We can visit,’ said Shanti. ‘You know he’s better up there. You know it’s the right place for him, in the open air, surrounded by other children; not some shitty bedsit on his own. You saw what was best for him. You’ve done the right thing. I am so, so proud of you.’
Jaz sat down and nodded, the tears sliding down his face, while she buried her face in his back and held on tight.
Chapter Twenty-five
Mary was standing looking awkward as Zoe plaited her hair in the mirror. She had a new school uniform, which looked scratchy on her and too big, and the tie was wonky. She grimaced.
‘You look good,’ said Zoe. ‘And Dr Wainwright said you could come and visit your mum after your session.’
‘She likes to brush my hair,’ said Mary thoughtfully. She looked at Zoe. ‘But I don’t know if she’ll ever ta
lk. Will she ever talk?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Zoe honestly. ‘But I think nothing could make her happier than having you there.’
Mary nodded as if she was taking this in.
‘Okay,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘School.’
Mary nodded sadly. ‘Shackleton says he’s up for it and Kirsty is going to come out and meet you.’
Mary sighed.
‘All those books . . . all those adventures. None of them happened in school. I don’t think there are adventures in schools.’
Zoe smiled.
‘Ah, Mary,’ she said, finishing off the plait with a smart tartan ribbon. ‘Do I have some books for you.’
Chapter Twenty-six
And now it is nearly Christmas, and there’s a bright hoar frost running right across the lawn, and Patrick and Hari are wrapped up like little skiers, waiting anxiously on the steps.
Shackleton and Mary are waiting indoors, not desperate to go out in the cold. Mary is doing her homework and Snapchatting her friends constantly. Shackleton is making scones. They chat occasionally.
Ramsay is upstairs in the library, door wide open, working with a fire on. The boys were running about earlier, but now everyone is a little nervous.
Also, Zoe and Ramsay aren’t much closer to telling the children, having convinced themselves that the children haven’t noticed, which is odd because if there is one thing Zoe knows, it’s that children notice everything. But they have kept it till late at night, and used one of the many, many unused guest bedrooms (they thought they were getting away with it too until they met there one night and realised that Mrs MacGlone had laid a fire, changed the bedding and put a vase of fresh flowers next to the bed). It is their very private haven and they are keeping it to themselves as long as they are able.
Wullie from the village turning up with an extra second-hand van made Zoe feel an absolute idiot for not thinking of it before. She was tempted to paint the van tartan just to shock Nina, but has wisely decided against it for now. Nina is back in Kirrinfief with her beloved regulars. John sometimes accompanies her, but Lennox has a Baby Bjorn and rarely goes anywhere without him, so in fact she hasn’t found maternity leave the trial she was dreading. And Zoe goes to Loch Ness and they meet regularly and let Agnieszka try out her new sandwich on them – ham, cheese and tomato – and talk about books and babies. Zoe doesn’t go over to the farm much. She really does hate that chicken.
At The Beeches, the large white car draws up slowly. Zoe steps forward, the front door, for once, wide open.
Jaz jumps out first, and gallantly opens the door for Shanti behind.
From the passenger seat emerges a stooped, slightly balding figure wearing a smart suit with a tie.
Jaz jumps around the other side, still, Zoe thinks, with a slight grin, slightly showing off. From the other side emerges a sweet-faced woman in a sari and heavy coat. Zoe worries she is cold.
‘Daddy!’ yells Hari and jumps forward, then freezes at the sight of the older people. He knows, thinks Zoe. He knows. He just can’t quite square it in his little head.
So she steps forward, takes his hand in hers – and takes Patrick’s hand in her other hand – because families come in all shapes and sizes – and steps forward, and says hello.
Acknowledgements
Thanks: Jo Unwin at JULA; Maddie West and Rachel Kahan at Sphere and William Morrow; Milly Reilly, Joanna Kramer, Charlie King, David Shelley, Stephie Melrose, Gemma Shelley, Liz Hatherell, Hannah Wood and all at Little, Brown; Jake Smith-Bosanquet, Alexander Cochran and the brilliant team at CW.
Also: Rona Monroe for gently suggesting something very important; Shirley Manson for backing me up on the whole Loch Ness Monster thing; the beautiful Betsy hotel in Miami (www.thebetsyhotel.com) who lent me their Writer’s Room to finish it; Muriel Gray for flower names and generally being awesome; Agnieszka Ford, who bid for her name to be included in this book at a charity auction – thank you so much, Agnieszka, and hi, Sophia!
Plus: the Board, Lit Mix, Laraine, and my lovely Beatons.
About the Author
JENNY COLGAN is the author of numerous bestselling novels, including The Little Shop of Happy Ever After and Summer at the Little Beach Street Bakery, which are also published by Sphere. Meet Me at the Cupcake Café won the 2012 Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance and was a Sunday Times top ten bestseller, as was Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams, which won the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year Award 2013. Jenny was born in Scotland and has lived in London, the Netherlands, the US and France. She eventually settled on the wettest of all of these places, and currently lives just north of Edinburgh with her husband Andrew, her dog Nevil Shute and her three children: Wallace, who is twelve and likes pretending to be nineteen and not knowing what this embarrassing ‘family’ thing is that keeps following him about; Michael-Francis, who is ten and likes making new friends on aeroplanes; and Delphine who is eight and is mostly raccoon as far as we can tell so far.
Things Jenny likes include: cakes; far too much Doctor Who; wearing Converse trainers every day so her feet are now just gigantic big flat pans; baths only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun; and very, very long books, the longer the better. For more about Jenny, visit her website and her Facebook page, or follow her on Twitter @jennycolgan.
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Praise for Jenny Colgan
‘A good-hearted and humorous slice of Cornish life’
Sunday Mirror
‘This funny, sweet story is Jenny Colgan at her absolute best’
Heat
‘A delicious comedy’
Red
‘Fast-paced, funny, poignant and well observed’
Daily Mail
‘Sweeter than a bag of jelly beans . . . had us eating up every page’
Cosmopolitan
‘Will make you feel warm inside – it makes a fab Mother’s Day gift’
Closer
‘Chick-lit with an ethical kick’
Mirror
‘A quirky tale of love, work and the meaning of life’
Company
‘A smart, witty love story’
Observer
‘Full of laugh-out-loud observations . . . utterly unputdownable’
Woman
‘A chick-lit writer with a difference . . . never scared to try something different, Colgan always pulls it off’
Image
‘A Colgan novel is like listening to your best pal, souped up on vino, spilling the latest gossip – entertaining, dramatic and frequently hilarious’
Daily Record
‘An entertaining read’
Sunday Express
‘Part chick lit, part food porn . . . this is full-on fun for foodies’
Bella
Also by Jenny Colgan
The Endless Beach
My Very ’90s Romance
Amanda’s Wedding
Looking for Andrew McCarthy
Working Wonders
Do You Remember the First Time?
Where Have All the Boys Gone?
West End Girls
Operation Sunshine
Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend
The Good, the Bad and the Dumped
Meet Me at the Cupcake Café
Christmas at the Cupcake Café
Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop of Dreams
Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweetshop
The Christmas Surprise
The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris
Little Beach Street Bakery
Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery
The Little Shop of Happy Ever After
Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery
The Bookshop on the Corner
The Café by the Sea
A Very Distant Shore
By Jenny T. Colgan
Resistance Is Futile
Spandex and the City
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE BOOKSHOP ON THE SHORE. Copyright © 2019 by Jenny Colgan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published as The Bookshop on the Shore in UK in 2019 by Sphere.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Cover design by Yeon Kim
Cover photograph © Richard Cummins / Getty Images; © Africa Studio / Shutterstock (hat); © Vladimir Trynkalo / Shutterstock (sunglasses)
Digital Edition JUNE 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-285019-5
Version 05032019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-285018-8
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