How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

  “Can we afford it?” she asked.

  “We’ll use it every day, for the next ten years at least, so it’s worth spending money on it.”

  He didn’t tell her Debra had given him five hundred pounds to make their lives more comfortable. He didn’t want to get into comparing parents. He didn’t consider taking her money to be sponging, either: Debra had offered it happily. Debra was infuriating in her own way, but she had a generous streak, and she hadn’t said I told you so. Just knowing she was there made him feel secure, so he understood that Rebecca must find it difficult, being semi-estranged. He wondered how her parents would react once the baby was born. He suspected they were just playing a waiting game, hoping she would crack. Hoping, no doubt, that perhaps he would abandon her when the going got tough.

  Which it did.

  By her third trimester, Rebecca changed in front of his eyes. She swelled up. Not just her tummy, but everything: her fingers, her ankles, her face. She was miserable. Fretful. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t get comfortable. She stopped working at the shop and lay in bed all day.

  “You have to keep active,” Julius told her, worried sick. She no longer seemed enchanted by the idea of a baby, as she had been at first. She was frightened, and fearful.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t feel like I’m me anymore. I guess I’ll be better when the baby gets here,” she told him one night, and he rubbed her back until she fell asleep.

  She woke one night, three weeks before the baby was due, writhing in pain. The bedsheets were soaked.

  “My waters broke,” she sobbed.

  Julius phoned for an ambulance, telling himself that women went into labor early all the time and that it would be fine. Giving birth was the most natural thing in the world. The staff at the hospital reassured him of the same thing. Rebecca was put in a delivery room and examined.

  “You’ve got an impatient baby there,” said the midwife, smiling, not looking in the least perturbed. “It’ll be a little preemie, but don’t worry. We have a great track record.”

  “Preemie?”

  “Premature.” She put a hand on his arm. “You’re in safe hands.”

  For eighteen agonizing hours, Rebecca rode the waves of her pain. Julius was privately horrified that anyone should have to go through this, but if the noises coming from adjoining suites were anything to go by, it was the norm. None of the staff seemed disconcerted by Rebecca’s howls as the contractions peaked. Julius did his best to keep her distress at bay.

  “Does she really have to go through this?” he asked the midwife at one point, who looked at him, slightly pitying, as if he knew nothing. Which was true—until now, he had never been in close contact with anyone pregnant, let alone watched them give birth.

  Then suddenly, as if it couldn’t get any worse, the complacency of the staff turned to urgency. Julius felt cold panic as the nurses compared notes and a consultant was ushered in. It was almost as if he and Rebecca didn’t exist as the three of them conferred and a decision was made.

  “The baby’s distressed. We’re taking her into surgery,” the midwife told him, with a look that said Don’t ask any more.

  The system swooped in. Within minutes, Rebecca was wheeled out of the delivery room and off down the corridor. Julius ran to keep up with the orderlies as they reached the double doors of the operating room.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “There’s no time to gown you up,” someone replied, and suddenly there he was, alone in the corridor.

  “Please don’t let the baby die; please don’t let the baby die,” Julius repeated, over and over, unable to imagine what was going on inside. He imagined carnage: blood and knives. At least, he thought, Rebecca’s screams had stopped.

  And then a nurse emerged with something tiny in her arms and handed it to him.

  “A little girl,” she said.

  He looked down at the baby’s head, her shrimp of a mouth. She fitted into the crook of his arm perfectly: a warm bundle.

  He knew her. He knew her already. And he laughed with relief. For a while there he had really thought she was in danger.

  “Hello,” he said. “Hello, little one.”

  And then he looked up and the surgeon was standing in the doorway with a solemn expression, and he realized that he had been praying for the wrong person all along.

  —

  They kept the baby in the special-care baby unit, because she was early and because of what happened.

  They left the hospital two weeks later, the smallest family in the world. The baby was in a white velour Babygro, warm and soft and pliant. Julius picked up a pale yellow cellular blanket and wrapped her in it. The nurses looked on and clucked over them, as they always did when sending a new family out into the world.

  There was still a plastic bracelet on her wrist. Baby Nightingale, it read.

  He really hoped that this was as complicated as his life was ever going to get as he stepped out of the hospital doors and into the world outside.

  The baby snuffled and burrowed into his chest. She’d been fed before they left the ward, but maybe she was hungry again. Should he try another bottle before getting in the taxi? Or would that overfeed her? He had so many questions. This was how life would be from now on.

  He put the tip of his finger to her mouth. Her tiny lips puckered round it experimentally. It seemed to placate her.

  She still hadn’t got a name. She needed a name more than she needed milk. He had two favorites: Emily and Amelia. He couldn’t decide between the two. And so he decided to amalgamate them.

  Emilia.

  Emilia Rebecca.

  Emilia Rebecca Nightingale.

  “Hello, Emilia,” he said, and at the sound of his voice, her little head turned and her eyes widened in surprise as she looked for whoever had spoken.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Dad. Daddy. I’m up here, little one. Come on, let’s take you home.”

  “Where’s the missis, then?” the taxi driver asked him. “Still a bit poorly? Aren’t they letting her out?”

  “It’s just me, actually,” said Julius. He couldn’t face telling him the whole story. He didn’t want to upset the driver. He didn’t want his sympathy.

  “What—she’s left you holding the baby?”

  The driver looked over at him in surprise. Julius would have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.

  “Yes.” In a way, she had.

  “Bloody hell. I’ve never heard of that. Picked up plenty of new mums whose blokes have done a runner. But never the other way round.”

  “Oh,” said Julius. “Well, I suppose it is unusual. But I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “You’re not very old yourself, are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Bloody hell,” repeated the driver.

  Julius sat in the back as the taxi made its way through the outskirts of Oxford, and he wondered why on earth he didn’t feel more scared. But he didn’t. He just didn’t.

  He had met with Thomas Quinn very briefly a few days after Rebecca’s death. The Quinns were flying her body home, and Julius didn’t argue with their wishes. She had been their daughter, and he felt it was right for her to be buried in her homeland.

  Their meeting was bleak and stiff, both men shocked by the situation. Julius was surprised that Thomas didn’t blame him for his daughter’s death. There was some humanity in him that made him realize anger and resentment and blame would be pointless.

  Instead, he gave Julius a check.

  “You might want to throw this back in my face, but it’s for the baby. I handled everything wrong. I should have given you both my support. Please put it to good use.”

  Julius put it in his pocket. Protest and refusal would be as pointless as blame.

  “Should I keep you informed of her progress . . . ? A
photo on her birthday?”

  Thomas Quinn shook his head. “There’s no need. Rebecca’s mother would find it too distressing. We really just need to move on.”

  Julius didn’t protest. Though he was surprised anyone could turn their back on their own flesh and blood, it would be easier for him, too. To have no interference.

  “If you change your mind, just get in touch.”

  Thomas Quinn gave a half nod, half shake of his head that indicated they probably wouldn’t, but that he was grateful for the offer.

  Julius walked away knowing that he had made the final transition from boy to man.

  —

  He got back to the house. It was midafternoon. It felt like the quietest time of day. He made himself a cup of tea, then made up a fresh bottle of baby milk and left it to cool. He put Nina Simone on the record player.

  Then he lay on his bed with his knees crooked up and put Emilia on his lap so her back was resting against his thighs. He held her in place carefully and smiled. He picked up his camera and took a photo.

  His baby girl, only two weeks old.

  He put the camera down.

  As the piano played out he pretended to make Emilia dance as he sang along.

  He’d never really met a baby before, he realized. Not to pick up. How funny, he thought, for the first baby he’d ever held to be his own.

  3

  It was a delicate balance, trying to hit the right note between a tribute and a shrine. The last thing she wanted to be was mawkish, yet she couldn’t think of a nicer memorial than filling the bookshop window with all of Julius’s favorite books. But at the rate she was going, thought Emilia, every book in the shop would be in here.

  Amis (father and son), Bellow, Bulgakov, Christie, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hardy, Hemingway—she was going to run out of space long before she got to Wodehouse.

  She had resisted the temptation to use a black backdrop, instead opting for a stately burgundy. Nor had she put up a photo or his name or any kind of pronouncement. It was just something she wanted to do: capture his spirit, his memory.

  And it took her mind off the fact that she missed him.

  The shop had been busy over the past week, busier than usual, with people dropping by. Every time the bell tinged, she looked up expecting it to be him, walking in with a takeaway coffee and the day’s newspaper. But it never was.

  A large car parking on the double yellow lines outside the shop caught her eye. She raised her eyebrow: the driver was taking a risk. The traffic warden in Peasebrook was notoriously draconian. No one usually dared flout the rules. When she looked closer, however, she realized this particular driver had no regard for the rules. It was an Aston Martin, with a personal plate.

  Ian Mendip. Her stomach curdled as he got out of his car. He was tall, shaven-headed, tanned, in jeans and a leather jacket. She could smell his aftershave already. He stood for a moment looking up at the shop, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. She could imagine him calculating the price per square foot.

  It was ironic he had chosen not to use the bookshop car park, as Emilia knew that was what he was after. Nightingale Books fronted onto the high street next to the bridge over the brook. Behind it was a large parking area owned by the shop, with room for at least ten cars. And adjacent to the bookshop, behind the high street and backing onto the brook, was the old glove factory, disused and run-down, which Ian Mendip had snapped up for his portfolio a few years ago. He wanted to turn it into luxury apartments. If he had the bookshop car park, he could increase the number of units; without the extra allocated parking, his hands were tied, as the council wouldn’t grant him permission without it. Parking was enough of an issue in the small town without extra stress being put on it.

  Emilia knew Ian had approached Julius, who had quietly shown him the door. So she wasn’t surprised to see him, though it was a bit soon, even for someone as hard-bitten as Ian, who had been a few years above her at Peasebrook High. He’d never looked at her twice then. He’d been a player, a chancer; there’d been an air of mystique about him that Emilia had never bought into. She wasn’t taken in by him at all.

  She clambered out of the window so as to be ready for him. The bell tinged as he came into the shop.

  “Can I help?” She smiled her widest smile.

  “Emilia.” He held out his hand and she had no choice but to shake it. “I’ve come to give you my condolences. I’m really sorry about your dad.”

  “Thank you,” she said, wary.

  “I know it might seem a bit soon,” he went on. “But I like to strike while the iron’s hot. You probably know your dad and I were having chats about an offer I’d made him. And I thought it was more polite to come and see you in person to talk it over. I like to do business out in the open. Face-to-face. I hope you’re not offended.”

  He gave what he thought was a charming smile.

  “Mmm,” said Emilia, noncommittal, not giving him an inch.

  “I just want you to know the same offer I gave your dad is open to you. In case you’re wondering what to do.”

  “Not really,” said Emilia. “I’m going to be running the shop from now on. And trust me—no amount of money will change my mind.”

  “It’s the best offer you’ll get. This building’s worth more to me than anyone else.”

  Emilia frowned. “I don’t understand what you don’t understand: I’m not selling.”

  Ian gave a smug shrug, as if to say he knew she would come round in the end.

  “I just want you to know the offer is still on the table. You might change your mind when things have settled down. I think it’s great that you want to carry on, but if you find it’s a bit tougher than you first thought . . .” He spread his hands to either side of him.

  “Thank you,” said Emilia. “But don’t hold your breath. As they say.”

  She was proud to stand her ground. Proud that her father had taught her there was more to life than money. The air felt tainted with the scent of Mendip’s wealth: the expensive aftershave he wore that was cloying and overpowering.

  Seemingly unruffled, he held out his card.

  “You know where to find me. Call me anytime.”

  She watched as he left the shop and climbed back into his car. She rolled her eyes as it glided off down the high street. Dave loped over to her.

  “Was he after the shop?”

  “Yep,” she replied.

  “I hope you told him where to get off.”

  “I did.”

  Dave nodded solemnly. “Your dad thought he was a cock.”

  With his dyed black hair tied back in a ponytail, his pale skin, and his myriad tattoos, Dave wasn’t what you’d expect to find in a bookshop. All she really knew about him was he still lived with his mum and had a bearded dragon called Bilbo. But his knowledge of literature was encyclopedic, and the customers loved him. And Emilia felt a surge of fondness for him, too—for his loyalty and his kindness.

  “I just want you to know, Dave, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing with the shop yet. Everything’s a bit upside down. But I don’t want you to worry. You’re really valued here. Dad thought the world of you . . .”

  “He was a legend,” said Dave. “Don’t worry. I understand. It’s tough for you.”

  He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was heavy with skull rings.

  Emilia gave him a playful punch. “Don’t. You’ll make me cry again.”

  She walked away to the shelves, to choose another selection of books. She hoped desperately that things could stay the same, but it was all rather a muddle of probate and red tape. She had gone through her father’s paperwork and bank statements and handed them all over to Andrea with a sinking heart. She wished she’d discussed things with Julius in greater depth, but when someone was on their deathbed, the last thing you wanted to talk about was balance sheets. The proble
m was it didn’t look as if they were balancing.

  It couldn’t be all bad, she thought. She had the shop itself, loyal staff, hundreds of books, and lovely customers. She’d find a way to keep it afloat. Perhaps she should have come back earlier, instead of mucking about traveling the world and trying to find herself. She didn’t need to find herself. This was her—Nightingale Books. But Julius had insisted. He had as good as kicked her out of the nest after she’d had a disastrous fling with a man from Oxford. Robert’s ex-wife turned out not to be so very ex after all when he realized how much the divorce was going to cost him. She’d been in no way responsible for his marriage breakup and thought she was doing a good job of getting him over it, but it seemed she was not sufficient compensation. Emilia had thought herself heartbroken. Julius had refused to let her mope and bought her a round-the-world ticket for her birthday.

  “Is it one way?” she’d joked.

  He was right to make her widen her horizons, of course he was, because she’d realized very quickly that her heart wasn’t broken at all, and it had been good to put some distance between herself and her erstwhile lover. And she’d seen amazing things, watched the sun rise and set over a hundred different landmarks. She would never forget feeling as if she was right among the clouds on the eighteenth floor of her Hong Kong apartment block, overlooking the harbor.

  Yet despite all her adventures and the friends she had made, she knew she wasn’t a free spirit. Peasebrook was home and always would be.

  —

  Once a month, Thomasina Matthews would go into Nightingale Books on a Tuesday afternoon—her one afternoon off a week—and chose a new cookery book. It was her treat to herself. The shelves of her cottage were already laden, but in her mind there was no limit to the amount of cookery books you could have. Reading them was her way of relaxing and switching off from the world, curling up in bed at night and leafing through recipes, learning about the food from another culture and devouring the mouthwatering descriptions.