‘Can I help?’ I ask.
‘Of course not.’ He looks up and grins at me. ‘I invited you. Besides, how can I be sure that you haven’t inherited your mum’s cooking skills?’
‘Oh, I assure you, my cooking skills make my mum look like kitchen queen. A smaller-boobed Nigella if ever there was one.’
The laugh echoes around the kitchen, tinkling into every corner before fading away, forgotten into the darkened corners.
I look up at the high ceiling, a cobwebbed hollow affair with two starkly bright bar lights hanging down, giving it the appearance of a hospital room, and I’ve never been so grateful for my tiny kitchen that’s so small you trip over the living-room sofa if you take a step too many.
While he puts a pot on the stove, I wander over to the window, but we’re on a slightly lower level now and the overgrown blackberry bushes outside have crept right up the bottom half of the window and their prickly branches are scratching against the glass.
Eventually I’m sitting at a table on the other side of the kitchen, sipping wine from Dimitri’s father’s abandoned collection, when he puts down the most delicious-looking spaghetti bolognese in front of me and sits down opposite.
‘Cheers.’ He leans across the table and we clink glasses and tuck in.
I thought I was so full of nerves that I’d never be hungry, but one mouthful of Dimitri’s amazing food is enough to kick-start anyone’s appetite. ‘So your talent for cooking doesn’t end at baked goods then?’
He blushes and mumbles something incoherent that’s obviously a rebuttal of some kind, and all I wish about this meal is that it was something easier to eat as I splash the fifth tomato pip down the front of Nicole’s dress and try to wipe it off without him noticing.
‘So you and your brother both own this place?’
‘Yeah. Mum left the house to me, Dani, and him in a three-way split. Now she’s gone, my brother and I own it fifty-fifty. He wants to sell and I don’t. We’re in battle about it. The even split means neither of us can do anything without the other’s agreement, and neither of us will give in. It’s been in our family for nearly a century. My great-great grandparents lived here. I don’t think it’s right to wipe out so much history like that. I always thought I’d be passing it on to my future kids one day, not rattling around in it alone and having petty arguments with my brother that neither of us will back down from.’
‘It must cost a fortune to run …’ If he notices I’m wheedling for more information, he doesn’t say anything.
‘And that’s exactly why I haven’t offered you a grand tour. I can’t afford to keep up more rooms than I use. The kitchen and living room, and upstairs there’s a bedroom and bathroom. The Aga heats this room, the fire heats the water as well as the living room, and the heat from that rises to the bedroom above it.’
I once again think about my tiny flat. It’s been warm enough that I haven’t put the heating on since I moved in above the bookshop, but no flat I’ve ever lived in has had more than a couple of electric radiators or been big enough that they weren’t sufficient. This answers a lot about the financial situation he’s mentioned a couple of times. I don’t know anything about property, but even my untrained eye can tell that this house needs a lot of repairs, and it looks like the sort of place you could funnel money into for years and there would still be more to do.
‘Everything else is closed off. I keep the doors shut to try to stem the draughts howling through, and as you’ve probably noticed, I spend most of my time taking advantage of your cosy bookshop rather than dealing with the problems here.’
I’d always thought there was a reason that he was never keen to go home, but I didn’t realise it was because home was a crumbling, draughty, empty old mansion. He must be so lonely here. Living between only a couple of rooms, the rest of the vast building left to gather dust and conceal ghosts and belongings of people long gone. That feeling of sadness presses down on me again, and he must sense it too, because he reaches across the table and touches my hand.
‘Enough about my woes. I’ve got some greeting card mock-ups to show you later, and I had an idea about your open day and how we can display these messages …’
I want to know everything there is to know about his woes, but there’s something vulnerable in his eyes, something that’s begging me not to push it, so I squeeze his hand and let him change the subject. ‘Go on …’
‘You’ve got a printer in the office, right?’
I nod, thinking about the clunky thing at the corner of the desk that I haven’t had a chance to use yet. Robert must’ve replaced it fairly recently because it’s modern by the other electronic items’ standard.
‘What if we scan them in and print them out – book cover on the front, message on the back, and display them somehow. It would save the books themselves being ruined by constant handling, and people could ask for them only if they want to buy them.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ I grin at him. ‘I feel like they should be hung up somehow, like a mobile or something …’ A blackberry bush blows in the breeze and scratches along the window with an ominous creak which draws my attention outside. ‘Leaves!’
Dimitri turns around to look out the window behind him at my sudden outburst, but I grab his hand again. ‘What if we print them out as leaf shapes and hang them up like leaves on a tree? It would be a nod towards paper origins, and it couldn’t be that difficult to cut a trunk and some branches out of cardboard … I could leave it up all the time then. Rather than one big exhibit on open day, it could be like an opening day, and the messages could stay on display always … Why are you smiling like that?’
‘Because you have no idea how radiant you are. And Robert has no idea how lucky Once Upon A Page got on the day he picked your ticket. That’s brilliant, Hal. Both the tree and the opening day. I was thinking of a big one-day exhibit, but an opening day is so much better. Anyone can come and see the messages at any time then, and when you get in touch with local press and stuff to cover it, you can sell the “under new management” angle too.’
If I lay down on this tiled floor, my cheeks are so red that I’d be completely camouflaged.
‘What about a real tree? I’ve got an old birch round the back that’s as dead as a doornail. About six foot high, in a fancy pot. It didn’t survive the winter a couple of years ago, so now it’s just bare branches that I haven’t got round to throwing away yet. If you tie each leaf onto it, it could look pretty spectacular …’
‘Much better than what I was thinking of: cutting two trunks from cardboard and slotting them together so they stand upright akin to a primary school project. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘My mum planted it. It was a little seedling growing in the middle of something else and she rescued it and planted it up on its own, and it took years to be able to identify it. I’ve always felt awful that it died on my watch, but this would be a fantastic way of repurposing it. She’d like that.’
‘She wrote the note that started all this … It seems right, somehow.’
‘Like some sort of weird fate that we were meant to be here, and we were meant to pick up that book on that day …’
I nod because it’s exactly what I’ve felt since the moment I saw that email from Robert. For the first time in my life, I’ve felt like things were going right – like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, like I’ve got the job I was supposed to have, and most of all, like Dimitri was meant to fall through my door when he did.
***
‘Thank you for an amazing evening.’ Our joined hands swing between us, the tiles click under my feet and my voice echoes in the hollowness of the grand hallway. He’s giving me a tour of the house, but there isn’t much to see. Endless wide hallways, empty and dusty, the only surprise about them is that there aren’t suits of armour that move of their own accord as soon as your back is turned.
He leads me up a staircase that looks like it should have Leonardo DiCaprio waiting under
a clock at the top of it.
‘Wow,’ I say as he creaks open a huge double door, letting us in to a circular ballroom. ‘This is where you work.’
I can’t help letting out a breath as I look around the wide-open room. The faded walls were once red with gold accents, the scuffed floor must’ve been polished once, and a cobwebbed chandelier hangs from a ceiling so high that it must surely go all the way from the second floor to the very top of the house. But best of all are the array of easels that are stood around the edges of the room. An oak table in the corner bears sketchbooks and a display of cards in pastel-coloured mounts that I hope are what he’s been making for the shop.
‘Only in the spring and summer. I can’t afford to heat it so it’s too cold by the time autumn comes.’ He walks across to open one of the lattice windows and let a breeze in, and I follow him so I can look out. The view from up here looks down on the overgrown mangle of a garden and the harsh-looking railings beyond. ‘But if you’re going to draw, you may as well do it in a ballroom, right?’
I can’t argue with him there, and this is a seriously impressive room, but it shares the feeling of emptiness that the rest of the house has got. I close my eyes and try to imagine being here alone. What’s a ballroom without a ball? Nothing more than an empty room whose sheer size only serves to make it feel emptier, and I have to shake myself to clear the feeling of hollowness that’s settled over me. ‘This even looks like the palace in Anastasia.’
‘You know what that means, right?’ He stands in a waltz position, one hand up and one hand out, and smiles that mischievous smile at me. ‘Dance with me?’
After two glasses of wine, dancing doesn’t seem like as bad an idea as it usually would, and to be honest, Dimitri could suggest going on a tour of a wasp farm with that smile and I’d probably agree.
I slip my right hand into his, and put the other one on his shoulder while his curls around my hip, and I let him lead us in whirling circles around the room, twirling me under his arm and spinning me away and pulling me back, and he’s a couple of wine glasses down too because he sings ‘Once Upon A December’ quietly all the while, not seeming self-conscious at all, and it feels so much like the scene where the Dimitri in the film teaches Anastasia to dance on the boat that I almost start giggling. ‘You can dance.’
‘I can. I can’t carry a cup of tea without spilling it, and I definitely can’t sing, but I can waltz. My housemaster at school insisted on dance lessons. He thought it might improve my diabolical sense of coordination. You can guess how well it worked.’
It makes me giggle again because he’s constantly full of surprises, and I love finding out all these little things I didn’t know about him. He goes back to singing ‘Once Upon a December’ and I love that he trusts me enough to bring me here, to tell me about the life that he’s clearly not shared with anyone for a long time. I love how he makes me feel like a princess as we dance around the room. The gold-leaf pattern running through the flooring twinkles when it catches the light from the chandelier as our feet move across it, and none of it matters because this is like something from a fairy tale. All that’s missing is a yellow Belle dress and a teapot singing ‘Tale As Old As Time’.
His eyes don’t leave mine as we spin around, and I’m vaguely sure one or both of us should be getting dizzy by now, but everything has faded away except for the burning spots of sensation where his hands are touching me and that dazed, happy look in his eyes.
‘Thank you for making new memories in this old house.’
‘Thank you for letting me in.’ I take the hand that’s on his shoulder and pat it over his heart in case he thinks I’m literally thanking him for letting me in the door.
His arms slide around my waist and he pulls me closer until we’re pressed against each other. I lean my head on his chest and his chin rests in my hair, and we’re still moving around the room but it’s more of a hug than a dance now.
‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ he murmurs.
‘I think you’re many things, Dimitri. Kind, talented, brave, beautiful, and the loveliest person I’ve ever met, with an interesting taste in socks, waistcoats, and braces, but you’ll have to elaborate on the mad part.’
‘To stay here. I can see it in your face. You think I’m mad to keep this house.’
I suck in a breath. ‘It isn’t my place to judge anyone for how they handle grief. When my dad died, I became a teenage rebel and made my mum’s life a misery for a few years. You can ask her, she’ll be more than happy to tell you. This is your home. You grew up here. I can see why you don’t want to give it up.’
‘And now the honest, non-diplomatic answer?’
I smile against his chest because he already knows me well enough to hear the restraint in my voice. ‘You’re different here. I can see the weight of this place physically dragging you down,’ I say in a rush. ‘It’s a beautiful house, but there are reminders at every turn. You can’t get on with your own life because you’re still living theirs. It’s so sad here, and you’re not. It’s hollow and empty and isolated, and you’re the opposite of all of those things. You’re bright, and happy, and positive, and obviously I now know how much pain you’ve been hiding behind that sunny smile, but every inch of this place is shrouded in ghosts. You need …’ I cut myself off because I’m out of breath from rambling, but everything I’ve thought since he opened that gate comes pouring out.
He’s stopped dancing now but he hasn’t pushed me away, and I press the side of my head closer to his chest. ‘It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life but if you ever want to spend the night in a bookshop instead of coming back here, I know one where you’d always be welcome.’
‘It’s that Waterstones in Cirencester, isn’t it?’
We both burst out laughing at the exact same moment, and the tension that had shot through the room at my honesty dissipates instantly.
We pull apart and his hair has flopped over again and I can’t resist reaching up to tuck it back, and even though I half-expect him to back away and tell me to mind my own business, he closes his eyes and turns into the touch, letting me cradle the side of his face and run my fingers through his hair.
When he opens his eyes, he leans down to kiss me, and far from the chaste nervousness of earlier, it’s a very ungentlemanly kiss this time, and I melt into his embrace. In fact, kissing Dimitri is enough to knock anyone off their feet, and I don’t realise how much I’ve melted into him until his knees start to buckle and we go crashing to the floor, hitting an easel on the way down. He lands squarely on a tube of yellow acrylic paint, which promptly explodes, sending out a huge splurt of paint straight onto Nicole’s dress, his trousers, and the floor. I’ve bitten my tongue and Dimitri’s got a hand to his lip and a pained expression on his face.
‘And this is exactly why I don’t buy nice dresses,’ I gasp between fits of laughter. Nicole is going to kill me. I doubt even the winner of Dry Cleaner of the Year award could sort this mess out.
‘Blame me for being a clumsy oaf. I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill.’ He holds his hand out and lets me pull him into a sitting position.
I won’t let him, but I think he’s such a gent to offer. He laughs, looking tousled and uninhibited and … yellow. In trying to get the paint off us both, he’s only managed to spread it further, and it sets me off giggling again. It takes everything I have not to dive on him, knock him onto his back and snog him senseless. I feel dizzy and it’s not just from the wine or the dancing or possibly the paint fumes. I feel dizzy because I didn’t think storybook romances like this happened in real life.
Chapter 16
The leaf idea was amazing. Over the past couple of weeks, Dimitri and I have worked every hour of the day and most of the nights to find as many messages as we can – between us, we’ve gone through a good fifty per cent of the shop, checking for messages and reorganising the shelves into proper order, and now it’s the morning of the opening day. It’s a sunny Saturday in late June, nearl
y two months since I got here, and for the past few nights, I’ve left Dimitri message hunting while I’ve been in the office, scanning book covers and messages, printing them double-sided, and cutting them into leaf shapes.
Della’s tree has been installed on a platform in the prime position between the door and the stairs, and each leaf has been tied to its array of branches with green string. The door’s open most of the time now it’s summer, and the leaves rustle every time there’s a breeze, gaining interest from people walking by.
Our online followers have gone up to a few thousand, and I keep getting messages asking when our online shop will be ready, and others have been messaging me and asking to buy a book with a message inside – any book, my choice. I’m getting messages of encouragement from people who love bookshops and don’t want to see any more close down, and people like me who love the idea of the hidden love stories that can exist inside the cover long before the story starts. I’ve had people checking their own bookcases and sending me photographs of words scribbled inside their own books that they’d never noticed before.
Three local Cotswolds newspapers have done an article about the shop and the messages, and another one who ran a story about Robert’s raffle has followed up with how the new owner’s getting on. One of the viral news sites has got an article about the hidden inscriptions that’s updated every time I post a new picture.
There’s been an increase of customers coming into the shop too. Locals want to come in and chat about the books, and people have stopped by to look for inscriptions we haven’t found yet and left with arms full of books, and there’s been a few people saying they saw us online and a couple of selfies taken outside. We’ve turned the front window into a shrine to the messages too. Dimitri’s chalked a tree at each side with heart-shaped green leaves, and pink hearts falling from their boughs to collect along the bottom of the glass, and the display is scattered with confetti and full of the books with the most romantic messages.
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 27
