Emilia had laughed. “Just don’t criticize her,” she advised. “Or you’ll only make her more attractive to him.”
Now Emilia swirled her wine round in her glass. “Actually, can I ask you a favor?” she asked Marlowe.
“Anything. It goes without saying.”
“I know it’s a cliché, but I really want to play ‘The Swan’ at Dad’s memorial. And although I know it back to front, I’m so out of practice. I could really do with someone to knock me into shape.”
“The Saint-Saëns? It’s not a cliché. It’s a beautiful piece. And of course I’ll help you. I guess you’ve got your dad’s cello?”
She stood up and ushered him through into the living room, where the cello was standing in the corner.
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course—go ahead.”
Marlowe strode across the room and lifted the cello off its stand. He ran his long, slender fingers over the strings, expertly listening to see if it was in tune, adjusting the pegs until the notes were just as he wanted them. Emilia felt a pang, wondering about the last time Julius had played it: what had he played on it? He had played every day. It was his way of switching off. He never considered it a chore.
She watched Marlowe tune up, fascinated, always intrigued by the way a true musician handled an instrument with absolute confidence and mastery. She could never take her playing to the next level because she was always slightly afraid the instrument was in charge, rather than the other way around.
He picked up Julius’s bow and ran it over a small block of resin until the fine hairs were as smooth as silk. Then he sat down and let the bow dance over each string, and the notes rang out loud and true in the stillness of the living room. He began playing a tune, short sharp staccato notes, and Emilia smiled in delight as she recognized it. “Smooth Criminal.” Not what she’d expected.
Then he segued into something sweeter, something she didn’t recognize. He finished with a flourish, stood up, and pointed her to the seat.
“Let’s see how you are.”
“I haven’t played for years. I keep meaning to practice—”
“Ah. The fatal words. I keep meaning to practice. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”
Emilia blushed. Now that he had pointed it out, it did sound lame. Brilliant musicians were brilliant because they practiced, not just because they had talent.
She warmed up, playing a few scales. It was surprising how well she could remember. It was almost instinctive as she moved her fingers up and down the strings, stretching and curling them to capture just the right note, then moving on to arpeggios to reignite the muscle memory.
“There you are, you see?” Marlowe looked delighted. “It doesn’t go away. It’s like riding a bicycle. You just need to put the time in now.”
She took out the sheet music for “The Swan” from the pile on the piano. She began to play. She had done it years ago for one of her grades. She couldn’t remember which—six, she thought. She had been note perfect then, and had got a distinction. But after all this time, her playing was dreadful. She scraped and scratched her way through it, determined not to stop until she got to the end.
“It’s awful,” she said. “I can’t do it. I’ll do something else. I’ll read a poem.”
“No,” said Marlowe. “This is perfect for your father. And yes, it was bloody awful. But you can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you. If you practice two hours a day between now and the memorial, it will be the perfect tribute.”
He started breaking the music down for her, picking out the fiddly bits and getting her to master them before putting them back in, marking up the score with his pencil. After an hour and a half of painstaking analysis, he asked her to play it through again.
This time it sounded almost like the tune it was. Not perfect, far from perfect, but at least recognizable. She laughed in delight, and he joined in.
“Brava,” he said.
“I’m exhausted,” she told him.
“You’ve worked hard. We better stop now. There’s only so much you can take in.”
“Another glass of wine before you go?” she asked, hoping he’d say yes.
Marlowe hesitated for a moment. “Go on, then. Just a glass. I mustn’t be too late.”
She couldn’t help wondering if it was Delphine he mustn’t be late for, but she couldn’t really ask.
They went back into the kitchen and she flicked on the sound system. Some Paris jazz sessions flooded the room: cool, smooth sax and piano with an infectious beat. It took her breath suddenly. It must have been the last thing Julius listened to. She found her eyes filling with tears.
“Hey,” said Marlowe, reaching across the table to touch her hand.
“I’m sorry.” She laughed shakily. “You just don’t know when it’s going to get you. And it’s always music that does it.”
“Tell me about it,” said Marlowe. “But it’s okay to cry, you know.”
Emilia managed to compose herself. She wanted to relax, not grieve. As they drank the rest of the wine, Emilia managed to unwind properly for the first time since she’d come home. The kitchen felt alive again, with the music and the company, and she found herself laughing when Marlowe told her about the disastrous impromptu poker school he and Julius had set up the winter before last.
“We were rubbish,” he told her. “Luckily the maximum stake was only a fiver, or you probably wouldn’t have a roof over your head.”
Emilia didn’t mention that she was slightly worried she might not anyway.
When he left, the flat seemed a slightly dimmer place. He ruffled her hair affectionately as he left, and she smiled as she turned and shut the door. People were kind; people were loving. At least, the people her father had attracted were.
When Emilia went to bed, her head was spinning with accidentals and spreadsheets and pizzicato and bank loans and opening hours and crescendos. And the running order for Julius’s memorial—everyone in Peasebrook wanted to do something, it seemed. But despite all the things whirling around in her brain, she thought how lucky she was to have the support of such wonderful people—June and Mel and Dave, and Andrea.
And Marlowe. As she fell asleep, she realized she could smell his aftershave on her, from when he’d hugged her tight as he left. Its spicy warmth stayed with her all night.
7
On the morning of Julius’s memorial, the staff gathered in the middle of the bookshop just before it was time to set off. Emilia felt filled with pride. June, who still insisted on coming in every day to help out, was in a deep pink wool dress with a matching wrap. Dave, as a Goth, always wore black anyway, but he had on a splendid velvet frock coat and a black ribbon in his ponytail. Mel had changed three times but settled on a purple satin Stevie Nicks skirt and a plunging top that showed off her impressive cleavage. Emilia had gone for traditional black, in a vintage dress she used to wear for concerts: it was high-necked with lace sleeves and a full skirt that fell almost to her ankles but would enable her to play. Her dark red hair was tied in a chignon.
“We look like something out of Dickens.” June smiled. “He’d be very proud.”
They’d decided to shut the shop, as a mark of respect, but Dave and Mel were coming straight back to open up. Emilia wasn’t providing refreshments afterward. She felt as if she had already made everyone in Peasebrook tea over the past few weeks, and she didn’t have the emotional energy left to host any sort of wake. The memorial would be uplifting and that, she hoped, would be it. She could start looking ahead to the future.
“I just want to say, before we go, how grateful I am. You’ve been diamonds, all of you. I wouldn’t have got this far without your support. I’d have fallen apart.”
June put her arm round her. “Rubbish. You’re made of stern stuff. And you know how much we all thought of your father.”
“Com
e on, then,” said Emilia. “Let’s go and see him off. Give him the send-off he deserves.”
She was trying to be brave, but inside she felt small, and really all she wanted was her father here to tell her it was going to be all right, but he was never going to do that again. It was up to her to make everything all right. And not just for herself, she was starting to realize. For everyone. Julius had left behind so much: so many friendships, so much loyalty.
She shut the door of the shop with a ceremonial flourish and set off down the high street with her little entourage. Marlowe had taken Julius’s cello to the church and was going to tune it so it was ready for her. The quartet was going to play, too—Elgar, one of Julius’s great loves. Marlowe had arranged the Chanson de Nuit especially for the four of them.
St. Nick’s was at the other end of the high street, fronted by an ancient graveyard. It was a bright autumn day, the sky a brisk blue, the sharpness of the air cutting through the smell of fallen leaves. Emilia arrived at the church door and stepped inside. She gasped. The service wouldn’t start for half an hour but already the pews were full to bursting.
“Oh,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth. “Look how many people there are.”
June touched her shoulder gently. “Of course, my darling girl,” she told her. “Of course.”
—
Sarah loved her kitchen in the mornings. There was an estate office, but she liked to hold her briefings round the table in here: run over any problems they’d had with visitors, talk about upcoming events, discuss any ideas the staff had. The kettle was on the Aga top nonstop, and there was always a tray of brownies or flapjacks or date slices sent over from the tearoom. This time of year was their quietest, so they took some time to take a breath after the furor of summer and before the mayhem of Christmas.
Sarah had been auditioning Father Christmases for the grotto all week. It was more difficult than she had anticipated. Their old Father Christmas had finally decided to hang up his boots, but finding someone good-natured and jolly and bearded (she had no truck with false beards: Peasebrook Manor was all about authenticity) was a challenge. Still, it had taken her mind off the impending memorial service.
But now the day had come. The service was at twelve o’clock. No one ever questioned what Sarah was doing or where she was—she knew that from years of discreet vanishing—but today she felt self-conscious, exposed, and slightly vulnerable, as if today was the day she was finally going to get caught for her transgressions, because of her emotions.
Of course, the safest thing to do would be not to go. To take herself off somewhere and have her own private memorial. But she wanted to be there for him. He would want her there, she was sure. She wished she had a friend, a stalwart who could come with her, but she had never confided in anyone. It was the only way to be sure.
If she could get through today, she would have got away with it.
She felt slightly giddy with the risk. Perhaps it was better to focus on that than her grief, a little black bundle she opened only when she knew no one was around.
She also knew it was easier to get away with things if you were open. She had never pretended not to know Julius. If she was with Ralph and they bumped into each other in Peasebrook at a social function or in the supermarket or simply in the street, she always made a point of talking to him. So it wasn’t in the least odd that she was going to pay her respects.
Ralph was reading the paper, and the two girls who worked in the office were comparing text messages.
“Right—I’m off into Peasebrook. I’m going to Julius Nightingale’s memorial.” Sarah said it as casually as she could. Never had three words struck such coldness into her heart.
Ralph didn’t flicker. He didn’t take his eyes away from the paper.
“Sure. See you later.”
Sometimes, she had wondered if he knew, or suspected, but judging by his reaction, he hadn’t a clue. And now he never would know.
Sarah had never set out to be an adulteress. But like all adulteresses, she had found a way to justify her infidelity. The one thing she was glad of was that at least Julius wasn’t married, so she was only causing potential harm to her own marriage, not her lover’s. The only person who ever gave her grief about her infidelity was herself, because no one else knew. And when she backed herself into a corner over it, Wicked Sarah told Pious Sarah that Ralph was lucky she hadn’t left him. He should be grateful that the only knock-on effect of his behavior was her affair.
It was fifteen years ago now, but she could remember the shock as if it were yesterday.
—
In retrospect, Sarah supposed that it was a testament to the strength of her marriage that Ralph was able to confess the extent of his debt to her. A lesser man might have driven them to the brink of ruin. Ralph stopped short of that. Just. And for that Sarah was, if not grateful, then thankful. For she would never have forgiven him if it had meant selling Peasebrook Manor. Never.
It was unusual for such a house to be passed down the distaff side, but Sarah’s parents handed it over to her when she turned thirty and scarpered off to live in the Scilly Isles, and she took on the responsibility with gusto. Ralph was working in the city as a financial analyst and making plenty of money for them to maintain the house and have a good life. But when the pressure of that became too much, he took early retirement. He assured her there was enough in the coffers to keep them in Hunter wellies and replace the roof tiles when necessary. He had the rent from his bachelor flat in Kensington and he still played the stock market.
“We’ll never be helicopter rich,” he told her, but he knew helicopter rich wasn’t Sarah’s bag. And it meant for a much more relaxed life, having him around instead of up in London during the week, and he was there for Alice—whom they both adored—and somehow it was as it should be. They both did their own thing, and agreed it had been the right thing to do when they met in the kitchen for coffee or were able to turn up as a couple to Alice’s nativity play or when they went off to the White Horse for lunch just because they could. When Ralph had worked, they barely saw each other, and that was no way to run a marriage.
It was the horses that were Ralph’s downfall. He couldn’t resist them. He was used to taking risks with money and missed the adrenaline. Sarah knew he had a flutter every now and again. It was important for men to have an interest, and if that meant Ralph poring over the Racing Post at breakfast and trotting off to the races with his cronies, she didn’t mind—she liked the occasional trip to Cheltenham or Newbury herself if there was an exciting race or a horse they knew running.
Until one day she came into the kitchen and saw Ralph sitting at the table. In front of him were a bottle of Laphroaig and a set of keys. With a lurch, Sarah recognized them as the keys to the gun cabinet.
“What’s going on?” Her heart was hammering as she picked them up. “You’re drunk.” Ralph wasn’t the type to get drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning.
He rubbed his face in his hands and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to have to spell it out.” Sarah was crisp.
“I should have quit while I was ahead. I was at one point. But I couldn’t resist, could I? And I should know, better than anyone. The only one that wins is the bookie.”
Sarah sat down at the table opposite him.
“You’ve lost money?”
He nodded.
“Well, at least you’ve told me. We can deal with it. Can’t we?”
“I don’t think you understand.”
Ralph put his hand on the neck of the bottle to pour another drink, but Sarah stopped him.
“That’s not going to help. Come on. Tell me.”
“I’ve lost the lot,” he said.
“What lot?” Sarah felt fear.
“All my money. Everything I had.”
Sarah swallowe
d. All his money? She had no idea how much that was. Not that Ralph would have hidden it from her, but his assets went up and down every day. Sarah had her own bank account, with her own family money, and they had a joint account for bills and housekeeping, but they didn’t really get involved in each other’s financial matters.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s all on my account on the computer if you want to look at it.” There was a bleakness in his eyes Sarah found harrowing. “I broke all my own rules, didn’t I? I let emotion get in the way.”
“How much?”
He turned the laptop screen toward her. She thought she might be sick.
“What do we do?”
He could only manage a shrug.
She tried to think. Her brain couldn’t take it in: the staggering sum, or how she could have missed what he was doing. She’d been too engrossed in Alice and Peasebrook to notice.
“It was going to be all right.” His voice cracked. “I would have stopped.”
“Ralph. You know better than anyone . . .”
“That’s why I thought I was being clever.”
Sarah’s mind raced. It settled on the most logical conclusion.
“You’ll have to sell the flat.”
The flat was their safety net.
He looked at her. His eyes said it all.
“Oh God!”
—
She stood by him, of course she did. She still loved him, and she didn’t want to destroy their little family, or what they had together. Her support of him was unstinting: practical and no-nonsense. She made him face up to the fact he had an addiction. She cut up his credit cards, took away his laptop, made him give her access to his online bank accounts—all with his permission; she wasn’t trying to emasculate him. They needed a strategy to stop him being tempted, ever again, and if that meant she had to police him, then so be it.
And it was then she decided to make Peasebrook work for them and open it to the public. It was the best chance they had of a steady income. It would be hard work, but Sarah certainly wasn’t afraid of that. After all, Peasebrook was her life already, so it might as well be her living, too.
How to Find Love in a Bookshop Page 11
