by Lucy Dillon
Four things that set her teeth on edge.
‘Hello,’ he said, backing off a bit to extend a hand. His strawberry-blond fringe fell into his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘Rory Stirling.’
The handshake was firm and the accent was Scottish, which created two positives, but then Michelle spotted crumbs on his jumper, which knocked him down again. She couldn’t stand food debris. Beards made her want to heave.
‘Michelle Nightingale,’ she said. And, she added to herself, in semi-wonderment, how could a man reach the age of thirtysomething and not know that you wore a V-neck with a tie? ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair opposite as he sat down at his cluttered desk. ‘It makes a change from drunk and disorderlies. And the usual rash of post-Christmas divorce consultations.’
‘Good to be busy,’ she said.
‘Oh, it gets busier after New Year,’ Rory replied darkly. ‘That’s when the real effects of a week with the in-laws kick in. Nearly always get a couple of wills rewritten, or people sneaking in to ask about conveyancing. And naturally it’s the people who don’t have happy families who get dragged in to deal with everyone else’s fall-outs. Anyway, enough of my festive joys . . .’
Normally Michelle would have sympathised with that sentiment, being used to staffing her shop single-handed while her assistants went off to parents’ meetings and birthday parties, but she was cold, and impatient.
‘I understand that you’re acting for Cyril Quentin,’ she said. ‘The bookshop on the high street?’
‘We are indeed.’
Rory moved some papers from one messy pile to another. Michelle hated a messy desk.
Rory caught her eyeing a dead plant on the top of his in-tray, and pointedly moved it, dropping it in the bin behind him without looking. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Quentin?’ he went on.
‘No, I noticed it was closed. I have the shop next door. Home Sweet Home, the interiors and homeware shop.’
‘Ah! Yes, of course. The knick-knack shop. So how can I help you, Ms . . . ?’ He patted the notes on his desk as if he were playing an invisible set of drums, then gave up when her details failed to spring up of their own accord.
With a tight smile, Michelle leaned over and moved the perfectly legible Post-it note with her name and details on from the top of his old-fashioned phone to the small clear space in front of him. ‘Miss Nightingale. Michelle Nightingale. As in Florence.’
She made a mental note never to use Flint and Cook if they charged by the hour, and decided to take the meeting by the horns, as Rory Stirling clearly wasn’t going to. ‘I understand Mr Quentin’s retiring, and I’d be very keen to lease the premises,’ she said. ‘Or, even buy them outright, if he’s interested in selling?’
At the mention of selling, a light seemed to come on in the solicitor’s eyes and he pushed his glasses up his nose with renewed focus.
At bloody last, thought Michelle.
‘He owns the shop, yes, but I don’t think he’s intending to sell at the moment,’ said Rory. ‘He’s instructed us quite specifically about finding a tenant.’
‘In that case, I’d be very interesting in taking it on. I can give references, advance rent, whatever you need.’ Michelle’s smile became wider and warmer. ‘I’ve been trading next door for nearly three years now.’
‘People always need knick-knacks,’ he said.
Was that supposed to be a joke? Michelle stared across the desk. Rory’s long face didn’t offer any clues, but then, going by his desk, he looked as if he was a stranger to storage solutions. And elegant stationery. And organic cleaning products – most of her range, in fact.
‘They do if they’re the right knick-knacks,’ she said, lifting her sharp chin. ‘I’ve got several exclusive deals with international suppliers, and I’m hoping to expand further this year.’
‘Well, that’s very commendable,’ he said Scottishly. ‘The high street needs some invigorating.’
‘Best Neighbourhood Shop, 2010 and 2011,’ she replied smartly. ‘Did you see our hanging baskets this summer? We’ve won prizes for our window displays. I could do the same for next door.’
Rory leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk. He had to move a file slightly to do it, which spoiled the casual effect, but he didn’t take his eyes off Michelle’s face. If she hadn’t been struggling with her rising annoyance, she’d have taken more notice of their unusual grey colour. ‘But – hanging baskets aside – what would you be bringing to the world of bookselling?’
‘Bookselling?’
‘Mmm.’ He looked straight at her in a cool, assessing way and Michelle suddenly had the unsettling impression that Rory Stirling’s brain wasn’t as messy as his desk suggested. ‘Bookselling.’
‘But I wouldn’t be . . .’ Michelle stopped and readjusted her line of attack, seeing his eyebrows shift upwards as she spoke.
Oh, for God’s sake, she thought crossly. He was obviously one of those ‘books are the lifeblood of our civilisation’ types, like Anna. Much as she liked Anna, she could be evangelical about the importance of literary heritage, and never seemed to notice how glazed Michelle’s eyes went whenever she started raving on about how some television adaptation had missed the point of the novel. Rory Stirling had probably gone to protest at the library cuts – now that she looked at it, his was exactly the sort of jumper that library-goers wore. The two book group sessions she’d gone to with Anna, even the women had worn jumpers like that.
‘It’s a very difficult climate nationally for bookselling right now,’ she said. ‘As Mr Quentin himself must have realised. I think it would be tough for anyone to make books work on their own.’
‘But not knick-knacks.’ His face was straight, but his eyes were glinting with amusement. ‘The knick-knack market is buoyant.’
Michelle clenched the hand he couldn’t see until the nails dug into her palm. She could handle tough negotiators, but one thing she couldn’t stand was having the mickey taken out of her. It had taken a long time to rebuild her confidence, after Harvey’s subtle chipping away. ‘I’m committed to keeping a local shop open, to be run by local people, selling useful things that people want, instead of letting another of our high street outlets be swallowed up by a phone company, or a coffee chain.’
Rory leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers like a lanky Bond villain. ‘Well, don’t we all, but Mr Quentin wants it run as a bookshop for at least a year. He dedicated his whole life to bookselling in Longhampton, and he’s adamant that he’d rather see the place empty than let Longhampton lose such a vital cultural resource.’
‘He’d rather see it empty?’ Michelle couldn’t stop her disbelief bursting out.
Rory actually looked proud of the old man’s mad stance. ‘As it happens, I fully agree with him. A town without a bookshop is a town without a soul.’
‘Is that Shakespeare?’ she enquired, more sarcastically than she meant to.
‘Sir Walter Scott,’ replied Rory, deadpan. ‘No, of course not. It’s just common sense.’
‘I see.’ She folded her arms, annoyed by his attitude. ‘And have you had much interest so far, in running it as a bookshop?’
Rory Stirling paused, then twisted up the corner of his wide mouth. ‘So far I haven’t even advertised it as being available for rent. In fact, apart from me and Mr Quentin, I think you’re the only person who’s even noticed that it’s closed. I’m impressed with your speed off the blocks, Miss Nightingale. No wonder your shop’s such a success if you monitor the rest of the high street so carefully. Or do you have more time on your hands than you’re letting on?’
Michelle kicked herself inwardly. She’d wanted to get in straight away, having thought of nothing else since Anna had mentioned it, and now she looked far too keen. Still, if old Mr Quentin was going to make a big stand about only letting it to another bookseller, it wasn’t as though he’d be inundated with offers.
Ror
y Stirling was still leaning back in his leather chair, watching her reaction in an annoyingly smug way. Was he teasing her, or was he serious? If Michelle hadn’t wanted the shop so much, she’d have told him where to stick it.
Maybe if I talk to Mr Quentin, she thought. This guy’s never going to put my case properly. Maybe I can persuade him. That nursing home can’t be cheap. He’s going to need all the income he can get.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ she said, gathering her things together to leave before her face could give her away. ‘I don’t believe it’s viable as a bookshop, and to be honest with you, I doubt anyone with any retail experience will either. But I hope you find someone.’
She stood up, waiting for him to stand up to show her out. After a rude pause, he seemed to register what she was expecting and shoved his chair back, knocking over a stack of files.
‘We’ll find someone,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely old shop, lots of character. Lots of atmosphere. I’d hate to see Longhampton lose a gem like that. It’s bad enough that the library’s having to cut back.’
Ha, thought Michelle. I was right. Library protester. ‘I suppose if more people had gone to Mr Quentin’s and bought books instead of taking them out of the library, he’d still be open,’ she said airily.
‘That’s not quite the same as . . .’ Rory began, then realised she was joking, sort of. ‘Oh. Touché.’
They stared over the desk, weighing each other up, and Michelle enjoyed a brief moment of triumph, which was lost as soon as she got outside and realised dust from Rory’s filthy office was smeared over her freshly dry-cleaned suit.
The landline rang in the McQueen house just as the film – and Anna and Phil – were reaching an interesting part.
Phil’s lips were nuzzling into the hollow of her neck, the exact spot that melted her insides to liquid, and Anna thought about ignoring the phone, but then she remembered the time she’d done just that and Chloe had spent ten minutes waiting at the bus stop with no bus money. The blame cloud had nearly engulfed the sun.
With a groan, she stretched out a bare arm behind her head and picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ she said, in a tone that she could turn into a recorded message if needed.
‘Hi, Anna, it’s Michelle.’
Anna struggled into an upright position on the sofa and pulled the throw around herself. On top of her, Phil groaned and sank his forehead onto her bare shoulder.
‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ Michelle enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Phil. ‘Tell her, yes, she is interrupting our very rare mummy and daddy time.’
Anna covered the receiver and gave him her ‘She’s on her own, cut her some slack’ glower.
‘Phil and I were just . . . watching a film,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have been the girls phoning home.’
Although it was gone ten o’clock on the McQueen sofa, it was late afternoon in New York state – peak time for a call home. Chloe, Becca and Lily had only been gone two days – two heady, schedule-free days in which she and Phil had barely been out of bed, except to walk Pongo – but they still called the house at least once a day to make sure Dad was OK. Or, as Chloe put it, ‘to make sure he was missing them properly’.
Anna wondered if there was a time difference with Michelle too, because she sounded far too focused for a post-Christmas weeknight.
‘Listen, when are you next going to see Phil’s mum? At Butterfields?’
‘What? I don’t know. To be honest with you, Michelle, I’m not really thinking about Evelyn right now.’
‘Tell Michelle to call you back in the morning.’ Phil slipped his hand around her waist. ‘Whatever it is can wait, and I can’t.’
‘I heard that,’ said Michelle. ‘Tell him I won’t be long.’
‘Neither will I.’
Anna glared at Phil to stop him, but couldn’t prevent a laugh from curling around her mouth at the tragic face he pulled.
The first time Anna had seen Phil, he’d been wearing that same expression, and it had made her want to pull him into her arms. Ironically, he’d been with Pongo and all three girls – so she could hardly be accused of not knowing what she was taking on – being dragged unwillingly around Longhampton Town Fete on the hottest day of the year. It was difficult to tell who was enjoying it least, since Phil, Becca and Lily all had their faces painted as tigers. Chloe was a butterfly, with twice as much glitter as anyone else.
Anna had been running a cake stall for the library, and had watched the dark-haired, harassed man with the three young girls as they bickered their way over. While she was helping Becca choose the cookie with the most chocolate on, Lily plunged her baby hands right into the giant cupcakes, smearing pink buttercream icing over Pongo, who reared up in shock and knocked the whole table over, scattering cakes everywhere and indirectly adding an extra 2 kg to the Guess the Weight of the Labrador stand next door as Coco took advantage of the early tea.
Phil had looked so helpless and horrified at the mess, and even guiltier at the wailing that ensued, that she’d found herself apologising to him as they tried to clear things up. It was hard to be cross with a single father with a melty tiger face, especially when his eyes were so dark and beautiful she almost forgot he had whiskers. The next lunchtime he appeared in the library, looking grown-up and sexy in a suit and no face paint, bearing flowers and a cash donation ‘for the cakes we squashed’, and asked if he could buy her a coffee to say sorry.
She still saw the hangdog face now and again. Usually when Michelle came round.
Anna pressed the mute button on the phone. ‘Two seconds. She doesn’t have the same clocking on and off function as normal people. She’s spent all her holiday in the shop as it is.’
‘Then she needs to get her love life sorted out.’ Phil raised an eyebrow. ‘Just because she couldn’t find a man tidy enough to live with . . .’
Anna pointed a finger. ‘That’s not how it was.’
‘No? You’re her best friend and even you don’t know why she left.’
‘Go and make us a cup of tea or something.’
With a grumble, Phil rolled off the sofa and padded away to the kitchen.
Anna turned back to the phone. ‘I’m going up there to do the Reading Aloud group tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Eleven o’clock, before they all nod off after lunch.’
‘Can I come?’
Anna tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice and failed. ‘You want to volunteer to read Jean Plaidy to a room full of oldies? Is this about getting your Christmas alibi straight for your mum?’
‘No! It’s my New Year’s resolution, to put something back into the community. I thought I’d start with your volunteer Reading Aloud to grannies group.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, I’d love it if you read – they really get so much out of it – but if you want to put something back you could donate some scented candles, or some flowers for the day room. A bit of Home Sweet Home would go a long way up there.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Michelle. ‘Come round to the shop at quarter to. I’ll give you a lift.’
‘OK,’ said Anna. Phil had appeared in the doorway with a bottle of champagne left over from Christmas and a couple of glasses. ‘I have to—’
He crossed the room in a couple of strides and took the phone from her. ‘She has to go now. Bye, Michelle.’
While Anna was still laughing, he took the phone off the hook again and shoved it behind a sofa cushion.
‘You,’ he said, pushing the bottle and the glasses into her hands,‘are coming with me. To bed.’
And with a groan, Phil picked Anna up, staggered slightly, then heaved her over his shoulder and carried her upstairs.
4
‘I still remember the goosebumps I felt when I read the beautifully melancholy Tom’s Midnight Garden, and how sad I was that our newbuild house wasn’t old enough to have proper ghosts.’
Becca McQueen
Anna knew it was a mistake, agreeing to meet
Michelle at Home Sweet Home instead of at her house. It was tempting enough browsing there at the best of times, but with a hand-printed ‘Special Customer Sale Preview’ postcard burning a hole in her bag, she and her post-Christmas pull-our-belts-in budget were doomed.
She pushed her purse firmly to the bottom of her handbag as she approached the shop; it probably wouldn’t stop her wanting to buy everything in sight, but it might delay her for a few vital, credit-card-saving seconds.
Home Sweet Home was generally agreed to be the reason that Longhampton High Street was starting to pick up, a strong green shoot of good times amidst the charity shops and pound stores. The first thing Michelle had done was to rip off the plastic fishmonger’s signage and paint the neglected exterior a soft honey-cream, picking out the carved stone roses along the shop window in gold and crimson paint. No one had noticed the stone roses for decades. Within a month, three shops on the same side had refurbished.
Anna put her hand on the door handle, steeled herself by visualising the epic phone bill she’d got that morning and went in. Immediately her eye lit on a delicious pile of glass baubles in a basket, and her resistance melted like a chocolate Santa.
The shop was already packed out with shoppers carrying baskets loaded with filigree tree decorations and gingerbread hearts. Phil joked that Michelle pumped some kind of shopping nerve gas into the shop, but the truth was that she just had the knack of stocking what women wanted – the most beautiful, useful, unusual, pretty things; some expensive, some cheap, all presented as if they were precious, and just what you needed to make your home as welcoming as the shop. It didn’t matter whether you were eight and obsessed with ribbons like Lily, or thirty-one and unable to resist an organic beeswax lip balm like Anna – there was something on every table that whispered, ‘Buy me’.
She picked up the glass ball, imagining a cluster of them in Becca’s room, hanging on gold ribbons around her window maybe, then put it down. They were on one income now, and the girls would be shopping it up in New York. But at half price they were such a bargain, and she’d seen Becca admiring them.
