by Suzanne Snow
‘That’s a lovely copy you’ve got there,’ he remarked. ‘I have an illustrated 1989 one at home from my grandchildren but yours is a first edition from 1966. Is it for sale, I couldn’t see a price?’
Olivia hadn’t read the Capote book for years, remembering the joy and spirit she’d found in it, the age difference between a boy and an elderly woman somehow enhancing the feeling layered in the words, the fun and festivity, and their mutual love finding a home one with the other. It was a book that she’d always found charming, full of pathos as the two characters stuck together to create their own Christmas traditions, reminding her of doing something similar in different circumstances.
‘Of course.’ She brushed away a spark of unease. Much as she loved books and had spent a fair bit of time in her dad’s shop over the years, she didn’t have any real idea of their value if there was no price. She’d have to hope for the best, fairly sure it couldn’t be worth hundreds of pounds if it weren’t in the cabinet with the more expensive editions. She did know that anything of great worth was already in the library in the house.
She left the desk to pick up the book, making sure there was no signature or handwritten detail to increase its value. There wasn’t and she breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It’s sixty pounds.’
It was a stab in the dark but her customer was already nodding, reaching for his wallet to pay for his purchases. Olivia was struck now by the terror of having sold it too cheaply. Too late if she had. He had a final look around as he and his companion prepared to leave, winding scarves back around necks against the chill outdoors.
‘You have a lovely shop here, even if it is a little small. I remember Bradshaw’s from its days on the high street. A loss to the town now it’s closed.’
She thanked them, pleased that there were now a few less books to rehome. A quick stab of guilt followed as she realised there were also fewer for Tom to take on, given the gift of her dad’s library. She was busier still as the afternoon wore on. Perhaps today was an unusually good day, with shoppers already in Thorndale for the Christmas market and full of festive cheer.
Mrs Timms made an appearance, asking after Hugh and telling Olivia she was planning to FaceTime him later and visit next Wednesday. A number of people Olivia also knew vaguely from the village popped in too, wanting to know how long the shop was staying open for. She couldn’t reliably answer that one and offered the barest details about the arts consortium planning to take over the house.
There was less time than she’d expected for going through her emails, kept occupied instead working out prices, accepting payment and wrapping up books. She sent her dad a couple of images and he replied with a delight in what she was doing that made her gulp back the emotion his simple message had produced. It had been dark for over an hour by the time she locked up at five p.m. and dragged the sign away from the front of the house.
It was her turn to cook supper and she brought out a ready-made lasagne from the fridge and left it beside the range as she put a salad together. Tom probably wouldn’t be impressed by her lack of proper cooking this evening but it would have to do. Maybe she could wow him with her skills in the kitchen some other time.
But she did make a mean espresso martini cocktail and so Olivia stirred instant coffee with hot water in a jug and left it to cool. Her dad usually kept a well-stocked drinks cupboard, a leftover from his days hosting guests, and she’d improvise if he didn’t have exactly the right ingredients. The door to the library was still closed when she went to look, and she hesitated before knocking.
‘Come in.’
She stuck her head inside the room. Tom was at the desk, still working. ‘Hi. Am I disturbing you?’
‘Yes. No.’ He groaned, reaching a hand to his neck and rubbing as he shoved his chair back. ‘You’re not, I was about to stop. I really need to move and stretch.’
Olivia crossed the room to stand behind him, her hands light on his shoulders. ‘May I?’
There was only the slightest pause until Tom lowered his dark head towards the desk, where a lamp illuminated his laptop screen. ‘Please. Right now I’d stick pins in my neck if I thought it would help.’
‘You’re tense.’ She smoothed her hands across his shoulders with more pressure. It would be better without his sweater in the way and she saw the outline of the T-shirt he wore underneath. ‘It would be easier if you took this off,’ she said casually, tugging gently at the neckline of the sweater. ‘I promise I’m trained; I know what I’m doing.’
‘Here we are again. Clothes coming off.’ His voice was low and amused as he pulled the sweater over his head.
‘Purely medicinal. Again.’ She ignored the spike in her pulse, feeling the tension, the bunching in his muscles, before going to his neck and massaging gently.
‘That feels amazing.’ Tom tilted his head again to make it easier for her. ‘When did you learn to do that?’
‘I did a course about two years ago. One of those things I went along to with a friend but I haven’t used it much since. I’m glad you’re enjoying it because I have a confession to make.’
‘Is it about supper? I knew it, you want me to cook again, don’t you?’
‘No. But I do have a ready-made lasagne and some salad.’
‘Hell, Olivia, right now I’d cook every day for the rest of the month if it meant you could keep on doing this.’ He groaned again and she was loving the new relaxation she could feel in him as she massaged, pressing into his shoulders. It would be better with almond oil to smooth over his skin and no top, but she certainly wasn’t going to suggest that.
‘Time to stop,’ she said briskly. She hadn’t meant to do anything other than soothe the tension he had been feeling but touching him had moved her thoughts elsewhere, to acting on the attraction they both still felt. ‘That lasagne’s not going to put itself in the oven, is it?’ She stepped away, passed his sweater to him. ‘How would you like a cocktail?’
‘Almost as much as I liked you massaging my shoulders.’ Their eyes met and his slid away first as he pulled the sweater back over his head. ‘What are you making?’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve investigated Dad’s drinks cupboard.’
‘I’ll be right with you. Let me just reply to a couple of emails first.’
‘It’s Saturday night,’ she said from the door. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re working.’
‘Pots and kettles come to mind,’ he told her as he turned back to his laptop. ‘Ten minutes, I promise.’
‘Don’t make me come and find you,’ she teased, nearly kicking herself. What would he do if she did? She knew what she wanted to do and told herself firmly that friends was as good as it got, for both of them.
The drinks cupboard offered up all the usual random stuff she had expected, including Angostura bitters and bourbon, giving Olivia another idea. She added the bourbon and bitters with the cooled espresso, sugar syrup and ice in a cocktail shaker and was pouring their drink into two glasses when Tom joined her.
‘Mmm, something smells delicious,’ he said, looking across to the range. ‘Reminds me of ready meals.’
‘Would you like to drink this Old Fashioned or have me tip it over your head?’ she asked him mildly, meeting him halfway.
‘You remembered? From that night?’
She was thrilled that she had surprised him. ‘Of course, I have an excellent memory. It’s even got espresso in it.’ They clinked glasses and she tried hers, liking the different flavours, feeling the bourbon warming her. ‘Not bad.’
‘It’s a lot better than not bad.’ Tom took in the table already set for two, the salad in its bowl. ‘I’d offer to help but it looks like you’ve got everything under control. Piercing the film and all that.’
Chapter Twelve
They had to make more espresso for the martini that came next. Olivia preferred it to the Old Fashioned and then Tom mixed a Black Russian, adding a measure of Cointreau for a festive twist, and she loved that. The lasagne had long sin
ce gone and even she had had to admit that it hadn’t been amazing.
Her phone was busier than normal with notifications, and she saw that a lot of them were from Twitter. She put her glasses on and clicked on the app, startled to see she had over fifty. Assuming it was a mistake, she began going through them and soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Oh, crap.’
‘What is it?’ He was clearing away the remains of their meal. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Sort of.’ She was flicking through some of the notifications. ‘Maybe you should see this.’
Tom came to stand beside her, looking over her shoulder. She liked having him there, his head close, arm brushing hers.
‘Twitter.’ Olivia lifted the phone to show him. ‘Or more specifically, Twitter and one of our customers this afternoon. He bought a few books and he’s tweeted and tagged the shop. Look.’
Tom was staring at her screen and she clicked on the customer’s profile. She soon saw that he was an author of some renown, with a distinguished playwriting career still flourishing and a knack for adapting the right television dramas. He had tweeted about his visit and included an image she had not noticed him taking, remarking that although the space was small, the choice of books was excellent.
The shop looked welcoming and festive, and some of his many followers had already retweeted it, resulting in the jump in interest and new followers. There were a few comments about her dad, some people remembering him from his days on the high street in town, and she sensed Tom stepping back.
‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ Olivia told him quietly. ‘I just logged back in this morning and reactivated Dad’s account before you and I spoke. He was still sending the odd tweet and hadn’t deleted it.’
Tom was leaning against the sink, hands pushed into his jeans pockets, brow creased in a frown.
‘It doesn’t mention you and I’m sorry to have raised the possibility, Tom.’ Olivia put the phone down. ‘I’ll reply to the author, then I’ll deactivate the account in the next day or so and let Dad know. After thirty days it won’t be recoverable and the shop will be closed soon anyway.’
‘What if you don’t? Deactivate the account?’
Tom’s question was a surprise. ‘Then interest in what we’re doing might keep growing and could bring more visitors. You know that.’ She eyed him warily. ‘Some of whom would probably recognise you and might put on social media that you’re here. Wonder why.’
‘I love how you’re saying “we” after precisely one afternoon in the shop.’
‘Hey, I’ve done my share of hours in the shop over the years, thanks very much. Way more than you.’
‘Back to being a bookseller again, I see.’ Tom’s eyes narrowed and she laughed.
‘I’m happy to share my experience of bookselling with you as long as it’s crucial to your research.’
‘Duly noted.’ That low note in his voice was still there and this time it was Olivia who looked away first to fiddle with her phone. ‘I did some thinking, after we spoke this morning.’
Her own smile was wry. ‘“Spoke” is an interesting term. It was more of a “shout” and I think you told me more than you ever meant to.’
‘I’ve shared more with you than I have with anyone other than your dad in years, Olivia.’ Tom shrugged. ‘You Bradshaws seem to have that effect on me. And I’m sorry for shouting, it was crass.’
‘You were upset, I understand. I’m sorry for suggesting something that’s making you uncomfortable. I was just trying to help.’
‘I know that.’ He came to stand beside her again, his back to the table. ‘I’ve already been recognised in the shop so it’s probably on someone’s social media anyway. Most people in the village know I’m here but they’re not that interested, other than to chat. I’m not Colin Firth.’
‘Well, you’re younger than him for a start. I guess you’re lucky that Sarah Holland is still living in Thorndale. Dad always said she was genuinely nice once you got past her trying to put everything she saw on Instagram.’ Olivia was referring to a local resident who also happened to be a rising star in Hollywood and was currently away filming a Netflix series. ‘What’s on your Wikipedia page?’
‘You mean about my background, the end of my acting career?’
Olivia nodded; she knew Tom would understand what she had been alluding to.
‘A brief paragraph about being raised by my dad and getting bitten by the acting bug as a kid. Not too much about my early life, it goes on to my making it to drama school and then a career.’
‘Have you ever spoken about it?’
‘In interviews? Not much, but I’ve never tried to make it a secret, there wasn’t any point.’ Tom was rubbing his jaw distractedly.
‘What about the play, when it closed?’
‘It only happened once, when I couldn’t speak, on what turned out to be the last night. The play wasn’t doing well anyway, and the producers put out a statement saying that I’d been taken ill with a virus, couldn’t continue and decided it was better to close.’
‘How did you feel?’ Olivia leant against him, didn’t want to move away from his body beside hers.
‘Relieved, angry, confused. I hoped to carry on but they weren’t prepared to risk it, no one else involved wanted more failure attached to their names. I convinced myself after that that no one would cast me and I crept away, didn’t want to try again.’
‘So you could if you wanted to? Try again?’
‘It’s been too long.’ Tom’s voice was quiet and he turned to stare at her. ‘I realise it’s probably arrogant of me but I don’t want to try and establish myself again now that I’m older.’ He gave her a smile that was accepting, lifted his hands. ‘Honestly? I just want to write.’
‘What about closure?’
‘You don’t always get it the way you want. I’ve more or less come to terms with what happened, and I’ve tried to move on. Found myself stuck sharing a house with someone who asks more questions than most interviewers I’ve had before.’
‘Only because I care.’ Olivia was glad she’d admitted it when she saw the happiness her words brought to his face. How his eyes crinkled in just the way she had teased him about earlier and his lips were pursed in a smile that was slightly rueful.
‘That makes two of us, then.’
Her gaze was holding Tom’s, an unspoken acknowledgement of the looks she noticed him giving her, how she loved watching him bring a meal together, the laughter they shared, the drinks they made for two. She knew he liked his coffee strong with a dash of milk, and when she drank tea he made it just the way she preferred, fit for the burliest of builders. How had they come to this in barely a week?
‘If you want to tweet about the shop, Olivia, then I’m okay with that. I know you’re right, what you said before about reaching people, if I have a book once I leave here. And it’s your dad’s shop and yours, not mine. Your decision to make.’
‘Thank you for saying so but I’m not going to do anything that makes it difficult for you by bringing attention you don’t want.’
‘It’s not like I’ve never been noticed before.’ Tom raised a shoulder in a slight shrug. ‘And there are worse places than a bookshop for a writer to be spending time. I can always say it’s research and your dad’s already known for running a retreat.’
‘Tell me tomorrow just in case you change your mind. I’m not suggesting we tweet a picture of you in the shop in breeches and boots. That really would be taking it too far and dragging it all back to Harrington. Although,’ Olivia mused with a smirk. ‘Just imagine how it would look, all snowy and festive, and there you were, leaning against the wall, shirt half—’
She caught sight of Tom’s own look of horror and stopped. She’d been getting far too carried away at the thought.
‘I’m not doing that.’ He pushed himself away from the table. ‘Those days are definitely over, I had my share of photo shoots when I did the series.’
‘I was kidding, you’re so easy to tease
.’
‘I’m careful not to use Harrington as a means to everything else. It was good for a time and I’ve moved on.’
‘I know that.’ Her voice was softer. ‘But there are moments when it won’t do you any harm to have people remember. Like this morning, with the selfie and then mentioning your book.’
‘Good, because if I ever wear breeches and boots again it won’t be on camera.’
‘Oh? Did you keep everything, then? Is that a promise, to wear them again?’
‘Olivia, you’ve got to be one of the most persistent people I’ve ever met, and I know a few.’
‘Probably not a bad trait for your publicist to have,’ she said merrily. She glanced through the window into the night. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Now? It’s nearly eleven o’clock.’
‘Worried you’ll turn into a pumpkin?’
‘No,’ Tom muttered, giving her a sharp glare belied by the twinkle she could see in his eye. ‘More likely an ugly sister.’
‘I think you’d make a lovely dame,’ she said dreamily. ‘Maybe you could write a new version of Cinderella. I haven’t been to a pantomime in years.’
‘Only if you promise to play the Fairy Godmother. It would suit you perfectly, flying around with a wand telling everyone what to do.’
‘Can I choose my own costume? I’m thinking black.’
They were still laughing as he pulled her coat down from the stand and shrugged into his. They’d need scarves and hats too – it might not be snowing but Olivia had seen frost forming when she’d closed up the shop and the night was icy.
‘We used to do this when Ellie was small and we came to spend Christmas here with my dad, go walking at night and look at all the lights. I haven’t done it for years. I’m thinking it just might be time to start a new old tradition.’
‘Let’s go, then. I like the sound of a new old tradition.’
Thorndale late at night seemed to be shimmering in an extra layer of silence as they left the house and set off along the high street, walking slowly. The huge tree on the green glittered white, dropping shadows around it. Lights were draped outside houses and Christmas trees were blinking in windows with curtains not yet drawn; Olivia realised how magical it all seemed.
