And then she sauntered over to Marlowe and slid a hand around his neck, stroking the back of it with her thumb. Marlowe was busy tightening his bow and didn’t react, but it was such a familiar gesture, Emilia felt a little ripple of envy inside her. She could imagine them having sex. French sex. French sex where Delphine was on top with her head thrown back and her eyes half shut but her lipstick still perfect. Delphine was Juliette Binoche, Béatrice Dalle, and Audrey Tatou rolled into one, and a musical prodigy to boot.
Why did she feel so disgruntled? She opened the lid on her cello case.
She was surprised at how unsettled she felt.
Marlowe came over as she took out her cello and pulled out the spike.
“I hope you’re not too nervous.”
“No! Well, yes.”
“You’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Did you hear the news about Alice Basildon?”
Emilia looked up from rosining her bow. “No?” Alice and Emilia had both been at Peasebrook Infants. Alice was a few years below her, but Emilia remembered her well. Emilia had gone on to the high school, and Alice went off to boarding school somewhere, so they’d drifted apart, but Emilia was looking forward to playing at her wedding.
“She was in a car crash last weekend. She’s okay . . . but she’s still in the hospital.”
“Oh my God—that’s terrible. What happened?”
“Her boyfriend lost the car on black ice and drove into a tree.”
“Was she badly hurt?”
Marlowe made a face. “I think her leg got pretty mangled. She’s got to have a couple of operations.”
“Poor Alice. What about the wedding?”
“I’ve spoken to Sarah—she says they’re still going ahead. For the time being, anyway. So I’ve told her we’ll carry on rehearsing. We’ll concentrate on the wedding music for the first half, then we’ll move on to the carols.”
“I should know most of them.” Emilia suddenly felt less daunted. She had spent her school years in the orchestra, after all. She was shocked about Alice Basildon, though—she remembered her mother at the memorial. She’d been very kind. Poor Sarah. She made a mental note to get in touch, perhaps drop her a note. She was sure her father would have.
She took her seat and began to tune her cello, pulling the bow across the A string. It sounded discordant and ugly, badly out of tune. It sounded how she felt. Swiftly, she adjusted the pegs until the note rang true.
And then they were off. They were starting with “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,” the music Alice Basildon had chosen for her wedding entrance. It was a joyous and upbeat piece of music that Emilia loved, but it was extremely fast and extremely fiddly.
She played atrociously. Her fingers felt stiff and unyielding. Her mind couldn’t concentrate. She missed the dynamics. She lost her place. She forgot what key signature they were in and played several wrong notes. And because there were only four of them playing, she couldn’t hide behind the others. It made the piece sound dreadful.
Eventually Marlowe stopped.
“Shall we go back to bar twenty-four?” he asked. He didn’t look at her or say anything else, which made it worse.
Red with humiliation, Emilia took in a deep breath and studied the sheet music again. Petra gave her an encouraging smile and she felt as if she had one ally, at least. Marlowe raised his eyebrows and gave the signal to start again. She concentrated with all her might, but it was a huge effort. Nothing came naturally. She was playing like a robot, programmed to follow the black marks on the page, not feeling it with her heart or in her soul.
All the time, she was keenly aware of Delphine taking note of every tiny mistake she made. She wanted to throw down her cello and tell her to bugger off. She had never felt so threatened, and it was a horrible feeling.
At last, thank goodness, they got to the end.
“Well done, everybody” was all Marlowe said.
Emilia kept her head low. She felt as if she had let everyone down. Her eyes felt peppery with unshed tears, but she wasn’t going to let them out. Not with Delphine gloating in the corner. There was no point in apologizing or drawing attention to herself. They all knew. She would just have to do better next time.
“Let’s try the Pachelbel,” Marlowe said, and they shuffled through their sheet music until they found the right piece and put it on their respective stands. Emilia felt relieved. She knew this piece well and could play it blindfolded; she could make up for her earlier debacle and prove herself to Delphine.
—
Afterward Marlowe gave her a nod and a smile that said she had redeemed herself. Just.
“Are you coming to the Cardamom Pod?” asked Marlowe. “It’s where we always go after Sunday rehearsals.”
Emilia wasn’t sure if she could face it. Having to be polite to Delphine, and feeling self-conscious about her lackluster performance.
“I’ve got paperwork,” she lied. “Mounds of it. The accountant will shoot me if I don’t get it in to her tomorrow.”
There was a flurry of protest, but Emilia didn’t miss the flash of triumph in Delphine’s eyes. And suddenly she wondered why she should be made to feel bad when she had done her best, and been thrown in at the deep end.
“But why not?” she said. “I’ve got to eat, after all.” She lifted up her cello and hoisted it onto her back with a bright smile.
“Excellent,” said Marlowe.
—
The Cardamom Pod was housed in one of Peasebrook’s oldest buildings, with wonky floors and low ceilings, but it felt funky and modern, with the walls painted a hot dusty pink and the beams whitewashed. It smelled exotic, of warm spices, and Emilia swooned as her mouth began to water, realizing that she had been existing on sandwiches and muffins from Icing on the Cake. She was too tired to cook properly for herself. They ordered bottles of Indian lager and dunked popadams into the Cardamom Pod’s homemade mango chutney while they chose their food.
“Your father always ordered for us,” said Marlowe. “He made us be adventurous. And he always had the hottest dish he could stand.”
“He loved Indian food,” said Emilia, gazing at the menu.
“I think we should propose a toast.” Marlowe raised his glass. “To welcome you to the Peasebrook Quartet. I know how proud Julius would be.”
Even though she’d played abysmally, thought Emilia, but she didn’t say it, because it was ungracious.
“I hope I can live up to him,” she said, raising her glass, too. “I don’t think I made a very good start.”
“Two hours’ practice a day, remember.” Marlowe gave her a playful, stern stare. “I’ll be onto you.”
“Marlowe is terribly strict,” murmured Delphine, ladling as much innuendo into the statement as she could.
Inwardly, Emilia rolled her eyes—she’d got the message—but smiled as brightly as she could as she raised her glass and clinked it against the others’.
12
On Monday morning, when Bill had safely gone off to work and before she could think twice, Bea stuffed Maud into her stroller and walked into Peasebrook, marching up the high street until she reached the bridge by Nightingale Books. The sign outside was swinging gently in the autumn breeze. Through the bay window, she could see Emilia talking to a customer.
A sign on the door, written in beautiful copperplate writing, read: “Open Monday till Saturday 10ish until the last customer goes.” Bea smiled, pushed open the door with her bum, dragging the stroller inside, then waited until the shop was empty. The great thing about a bookshop was nobody thought it was odd if you lingered for ages. That was what you were supposed to do, after all. So she hovered between the cookery and art sections, all the while keeping an eye on the other customers, until the last one drifted out of the door, and there was her opportunity.
She walked up to the till before she could change her mind,
and laid the book on the counter.
“I need to bring this back to you.”
Emilia looked up and recognized her.
“Oh! You bought To the Moon and Back.” She frowned. “I didn’t realize you’d bought a Riley.”
Bea looked down at the floor.
“I didn’t.” She paused. “I nicked it.”
Emilia looked from the book to Bea and back.
“Nicked it?”
Bea nodded. She took in a deep breath.
“I don’t know why. I had a really weird moment. I don’t know what came over me. It’s not even as if I couldn’t afford it. Not really. Not if I’d really wanted it.” She looked at Emilia, bewildered. “I’m so, so sorry. I had to tell you. To stop myself from ever doing anything like that again.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Emilia managed an uncertain laugh. “Except I probably wouldn’t have noticed. You could have got away with it.”
“But I didn’t want to get away with it. I had to bring it back. To scare myself. I sort of wonder if I might be going mad. It’s such a stupid thing to do.” She gave Emilia a smile, half rueful, half scared. “If you want to have me arrested, then so be it. I deserve it.”
“Of course I won’t. You brought it back. That’s not the behavior of a seasoned shoplifter.”
“It’s the behavior of someone who needs help. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you for being so understanding.” Bea thought she might cry. “I just don’t feel like myself anymore. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m going to cry. No, I’m not.”
She gave a snort and a gulp, a half laugh, half sob, then pulled herself together.
“Are you okay?” Emilia was intrigued, but concerned.
Bea gripped the handles of the stroller. She was struggling to speak.
“I thought I was. But maybe I’m not. It’s been tough. This whole . . . motherhood thing. This whole . . . not having a job thing. This whole moving to the countryside to live the dream.” She was getting more worked up. “This whole . . . not-having-anything-to-do-all-day thing. Except, you know, mash up carrots and change nappies.” She looked down at Maud in her stroller. Maud beamed up at her. “Not that I don’t utterly adore Maud. Of course I do.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” said Emilia. “I suppose one day I’ll find out.”
“It’s lovely. But it’s . . .” Bea took in a gulp of air. “I’m not allowed to say it.”
“Boring?” offered Emilia.
“Yes! And of course, it’s the most important job in the world blah, blah, blah, and I should be grateful, because I’ve got friends—more than one—who’ve been trying for ages and had no luck. But—” She stared at Emilia. She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh my God. I didn’t come in here to dump on you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t really know anyone in this town. And you look . . . nice. Like you might get it.”
Emilia didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. I think.” She put her hands on the book. “I’ll put this back on the pile and we won’t say anything more about it.”
“Who nicks stuff from a bookshop? That is just so wrong.”
Emilia pointed a warning finger at her. “We’re not saying anything more about it. Remember?”
Bea stood up straight and nodded obediently. “Thank you. For being so understanding. How’s it all going, anyway?”
“I’m panicking a bit, to be honest.”
“Why? I’d have thought this would be the least stressful job in the world.” Bea looked around the shop. “I’d love to spend every day here.”
“Yeah, but it’s losing money hand over fist.”
“What with people nicking stuff and all. That can’t help.”
The two girls laughed.
“So what did you used to do? Before the little one?” asked Emilia.
“I was an art director. For Hearth magazine?”
“Oh wow. I love Hearth. It’s how I want my life to be.”
“That’s exactly why they sell so many copies.”
Looking at Bea, Emilia thought she looked just like the poster girl for Hearth. Beautiful and on trend with all the latest accessories and the perfect baby. And she must be smart. Hearth was one of the bestselling women’s lifestyle magazines, dictating what any modern woman with even a hint of style should be putting on her wall or on her plate or in her plant pots, leading the zeitgeist in interior design and food and gardening. But clearly something was not right.
Bea shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, I’ve brought the book back and I promise I won’t darken your doors again.”
“Don’t be silly.” Emilia felt drawn to Bea and her self-deprecating honesty. “And actually, you might be able to help me.”
“Help you?”
Emilia grinned. “Yes. It could be your punishment. You can give me some advice.”
“Advice on what?”
“I need to turn this place round. Make it appeal to a wider customer base. But I haven’t a clue where to start. Oh, and the kicker is—I don’t really have any money to do it. Maybe you could give me some ideas?”
Bea put one hand on her hip. She grinned.
“And in return you won’t have me locked up?”
“Something like that.”
Bea looked around her, thoughtful. “I love it in here. The shop’s got great atmosphere. It’s really warm and welcoming. But it is kind of . . .”
She screwed up her face.
“Dickensian? Out of the ark?” offered Emilia.
“Not out of the ark. I like that it’s old-fashioned. But you could make more of it. Keep the spirit, but open it up a bit. Lighten it. Create some little sets, maybe—you know, dress it up? And that mezzanine?” She pointed upward. “That is totally wasted on boring old history and maps. Does anyone ever really go up there?”
Emilia looked up. “Sometimes. My father used to. He kept his special editions locked in a glass case. But you’re right. It’s wasted space, really.”
“Maud goes to nursery two mornings. What if I come back and measure up. Take some photos. Then draw you out some ideas.” She frowned. “What is your budget, exactly?”
Emilia made a face. “Um—I don’t really have one. But I suppose it will be an investment. I can use my credit card.”
Bea put her hands over her ears. “Don’t let me hear the words credit card. Don’t worry—I’m used to creating magic on the cheap. The great thing is you have lovely architectural features. You can’t go too far wrong.” She smiled. “I know all the tricks. And I’ve got great contacts. I can get you all sorts of things at trade prices. Lighting.” She looked up at the ceiling. The red velvet lampshades were dusty, and she could definitely see cobwebs. “And paint.” She looked at the floor, at the old red carpet, almost worn through in places. “And carpets.”
Emilia looked amazed. Bea seemed to have blossomed and flourished right in front of her eyes.
Bea stopped midflow.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You’re not! It’s good to have an objective eye. I’ve lived with this shop for so long I don’t notice that it’s a bit old and tired.”
“We won’t throw away the spirit of the place. That’s vital. The ambience in here is what makes it special. But look—the old fireplace, for example. You should be using that as a feature. It would be wonderful opened up, with a squashy armchair next to it so people could read.”
Emilia stared at the fireplace, which had been bricked up.
“If you get cold feet, and start thinking what on earth am I doing asking that crazy girl to help me, just say. I won’t be offended. Or surprised.”
“No. Weirdly, I feel as if this could really work.”
“Window displays,” said Bea with a sigh, loo
king over at the windows on either side of the door. “Those windows are just waiting for stories to be told! Can you imagine? Valentine’s Day, filled with love stories? Or ghost stories, at Halloween? As for Christmas . . .”
Bea clapped her hands in excitement.
Emilia thought Bea was possibly a little bit mad. But she didn’t care. Bea’s enthusiasm had lifted the fug of the past few weeks. She had felt weighed down since her meeting with Andrea, not sure what to address first. It was exciting to hear someone brimming with enthusiasm. For the first time since her father had died, she felt a glimmer of hope.
—
She told June about her encounter with Bea later that afternoon.
“I feel as if things are falling into place. I’ve got a vision of what the shop could be like. I know I mustn’t get carried away because I can’t afford to wave a magic wand and have it how I want it, but at least I don’t feel so overwhelmed.”
“I think once you start making changes, things will fall into place,” agreed June. “In the meantime, what do you think about this?”
Emilia looked at the press release June handed her.
There were months of them, piled up under the counter. Endless missives from publicists wanting their book to be given pride of place. Julius never read them, because he wanted to make up his own mind about which books to give preference. He had a brilliant instinct for what would sell well, and he hated gimmicks and hype.
Emilia knew, however, that if she was going to increase Nightingale Books’ profit by any significant margin that she had to raise her game. She needed publicity and a raise in profile as much as the authors and publishers of the books she was selling. So why not use them?
Two blue eyes were staring at her from the middle of the blurb. Mick Gillespie. Even a photocopy of him at seventy years old still had it. His expression made you feel as if you were the center of his universe. Emilia wondered what it was like to be under his gaze in real life.
He was doing a pre-Christmas book tour to promote his no-holds-barred autobiography, which promised any number of secrets and scandals and behind-the-scenes indiscretions. He would give a talk, answer questions, sign books. Not that he needed to do anything, Emilia thought. He just needed to breathe.
How to Find Love in a Bookshop Page 17
