How to Find Love in a Bookshop

by Veronica Henry

And she remembered holding the camera at arm’s length, back to front, and the pair of them lying on their backs, smiling, as she took what would now be called a “selfie,” his dark hair tangled up in her platinum blond.

  They had been so beautiful, she thought. There was a purity to the photographs that you never got today. It was the real them, no filter, no adjusting, and she’d worn no makeup, yet their beauty shone through nevertheless.

  She laid everything out on the bed. It was all there, their story, in the few artifacts. All the proof she needed.

  That had been another her. She’d stopped bleaching her hair, going back to her natural brown, and had put on some weight. No one would ever have known she was Juno.

  She suddenly felt angry. He had ruined her for anyone else. She had loved her two husbands in a low-key way, and the divorces had been amicable rather than acrimonious. But she’d never felt the same way about anyone as she had Mick Gillespie.

  There was a large brown envelope, too, that she hadn’t opened yet. She lifted it; it was heavy with paper. She opened the flap and pulled out a manuscript: pages and pages typed onto cheap, flimsy paper.

  In 1967, Michael Gillespie ripped out my heart and dashed it onto the rocks at Coumeenole Beach. To my amazement, I managed to live without it. And I’m here, living, breathing, and able to tell you the story of what happened when an innocent young girl fell in love with the world’s greatest star. It’s a fable, really. A warning.

  It was her story, of what had happened to her. She remembered writing it, two years after she had come back from Ireland. She’d sat at her typewriter and written, long into the night, the words tumbling out at a breakneck pace, so fast she couldn’t keep up with them.

  June smiled as she remembered the sound of a real typewriter. Somehow the gentle tip tap of the computer keyboard didn’t have the same satisfaction. She began to read the words, the words of a wounded young girl.

  Halfway through, she stopped reading. She found it too sad, the memories. She wasn’t that girl anymore. It was a part of whom she had become, but she didn’t need to go back and revisit the pain. She knew now that everyone had heartbreak in their life at some point. What had happened didn’t make her special or unusual. It was part of being human. A broken heart was, after all, the source material of myriad books. Some of those books had become her comfort, and had made her realize she was not alone.

  She slid the papers back into the envelope and sealed it up again.

  —

  Mick and Marlowe were in full swing. Mick had produced a bottle of Paddy whiskey and was topping up the audience’s cocktail glasses in an expansive “one for you, one for me” gesture, then calling up ballads for Marlowe to play: “The Irish Rover,” “Molly Malone,” “The Rising of the Moon” . . . The atmosphere was bordering on riotous.

  Eventually Emilia had to call a halt to the proceedings. She could sense Mick getting slightly out of hand, and she wasn’t sure about the legality of getting all her customers insensible at this hour of the day. So she gestured discreetly to Marlowe to wind things up, and despite Mick’s protests—he would have gone on all night given the chance—the shop gradually emptied, and after much effusive hugging and kissing, Mick headed off to the Peasebrook Arms. Emilia had no doubt he would waste no time making friends in the bar, but she was too exhausted to accompany him herself.

  She was cross when Marlowe refused to let her pay him for playing.

  “It’s the best fun I’ve had for weeks. Playing the fiddle for Mick Gillespie? I’d have given my right arm for that. I don’t want payment.”

  “But I wouldn’t have asked you if I thought you wouldn’t let me pay.” Emilia hated the thought of exploiting anyone’s better nature.

  “I know. Which is why it’s okay.”

  “But I won’t ask you again.”

  “You can pay me next time. But this time: gratis. It was a pleasure. And I did it for your dad.” Marlowe smiled. “You have his magic, you know. People want to do things for you, like they did for him. You’re going to be all right.”

  It was just the two of them left in the shop. He put a hand on her shoulder. They were standing very close together. She breathed in the heat from his body mixed with a trace of the whiskey he’d drunk and that bewitching Tobacco Vanille; combined with two Silver Moons, it made her head swim. She swayed for a moment and suddenly he stepped away.

  “I must go,” he said, picking up his violin case. “I’m on a flight to Zurich in the morning for an important meeting—I don’t want to breathe Paddys all over them.”

  Emilia tried to gather herself. “Well, thank you for playing. People won’t forget this evening in a hurry. They’ll be talking about it for weeks.” She laughed. “I thought things were going to get out of hand. Mick’s a handful even at his age.”

  “He’s a legend all right,” said Marlowe in a mock-Kerry accent, buttoning up his coat. He leaned in to kiss her, only just brushing her cheek, and then he was gone.

  —

  Bea went home after the event feeling slightly high on the buzz. Everyone had raved about her windows; she’d had her photo taken in front of them with her arm linked in Mick Gillespie’s, and she felt like her old self. She hadn’t felt like Bea since the day she’d left Hearth. Mummy Bea was a slightly alien creature she still didn’t feel comfortable with.

  So she was full of it when she got back home, babbling on to Bill, who had got home from work early for once in order to babysit. But he just seemed grumpy and disinterested.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Bill. “Stop wittering on about that bloody shop, will you?”

  Bea’s mouth dropped open.

  “Wittering?” she said. “I try very hard not to witter, thank you very much.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s not as if you’re even being paid. And I don’t think I can listen to another word.”

  “Well, in that case, you can listen to me witter about what Maud ate for lunch. And what shape or consistency her poo is. Because that’s what most new mothers talk about. I’m not as lucky as you. I don’t have reams of people to talk to about interesting things. So I’m sorry if I seem a bit obsessed, but Nightingale Books is the most exciting thing in my life right now—”

  She hadn’t realized her voice was getting higher and higher with indignation. Bill put up a hand to stop the flow.

  “I’m off to bed. It’s nearly midnight. And I have to be up at six. Sorry.”

  And he walked out of the room.

  Bea was astonished. She crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to let Bill get away with this. She wouldn’t tackle him now, but she was going to call Thomasina in the morning. Book them dinner at A Deux, and have it out once and for all, on neutral territory, in private. She was not going to stand here and watch her marriage go down the tubes.

  —

  Mia and Jackson walked back from Nightingale Books in the lamplight.

  Mia had drunk three cocktails and was quite garrulous. Jackson supposed that as she barely ate anything these days, they must have gone straight to her head. She was a little unsteady on her feet as well, and as they reached the edge of the town he took her arm. She didn’t seem to mind. She leaned on him as they walked up to the house. He thought it felt a bit like the old days. She’d never been great at holding her drink—unless she was dancing. He always used to bring her orange juice and headache tablets in bed the next morning if they’d overdone it. He had looked after her, he thought. He hadn’t been all bad.

  “You’re going to have a head tomorrow,” he teased her. “Your patients better watch out.”

  She giggled and snuggled in closer to him, and he put his arm round her. It felt good to have her there. He realized he hadn’t hugged anyone except Finn for a long time. She probably thought he was playing the field, out with a different girl every night, but he wasn’t. Far from it.

  But th
e minute they got inside the door of the house, Mia went quiet and cold.

  “Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said, but it sounded automatic rather than genuine. “I’m off to bed. Thank you for sitting, Cilla.”

  And she was gone.

  Jackson was flummoxed. He looked to his mother for an explanation.

  “Ten minutes ago she was babbling about what an amazing evening she’d had. Suddenly she’s like an ice queen.”

  Cilla looked knowing.

  “She’s scared.”

  “Of what? Not me, surely.”

  “She feels a fool,” said Cilla. “She knows she was wrong to kick you out, but she doesn’t know what to do about it.”

  “Why can’t she just say she was wrong?” Jackson was puzzled.

  Cilla sighed. “You don’t understand women, do you?”

  “No,” said Jackson. “But if that’s what she feels, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Woo her back.”

  “That’s what I thought I was doing.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think I didn’t get the instruction manual.”

  “You’ll be all right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Jackson hugged his mum. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll just go up and give Finn a good-night kiss, then let’s get home.”

  Ten minutes later he bundled his mum into his Jeep, popped Wolfie in the back, and walked round to the driver’s door. At the last moment, he looked out and saw Mia peering out of her bedroom window. As soon as she saw him looking, she dropped the curtain and was gone.

  —

  In the quiet of the empty shop, Emilia gathered up the last of the cocktail glasses that were scattered around and took them upstairs to wash them and put them back in the box to be returned to the wine merchant.

  It had been a wonderful evening. It had lifted her heart. So many people had turned up to see Mick Gillespie, old customers and new. There had been a real buzz in the air.

  Of course, Emilia knew that she wouldn’t get a star like him to come along to the shop every week. And the novelty would probably wear off. But it had given her a glimpse of what could be done, and they had rung more through the till that evening than they did in a week because people had bought other books as well as Mick’s. Dave and Mel had worked hard to make the display tables as enticing as possible so people would make impulse purchases, and they had.

  Of course, there had been one thing missing. Her father would have loved it. But she was determined not to think like that anymore. Julius was gone, and she was clomping about in his shoes, trying them on for size. Sometimes they felt either too small or too big as she stumbled around.

  Nights like this, though, made her feel as if his shoes fitted perfectly.

  She was about to switch off the lights, when she saw a jumper on the back of a chair. She went to pick it up, and as the soft wool slithered through her fingers, she knew immediately whom it belonged to. She pressed it to her face and breathed him in and felt her tummy flip.

  She folded it up hastily and put it behind the counter, firmly resisting the temptation to take it to bed with her.

  —

  Just before midnight, June heard the wind pick up and the rain begin. It was wild; she shut the curtains tight, grateful that she’d had her little cottage double-glazed when she moved in full-time. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea, then heard a mighty rapping on the stable door. She froze, wondering who on earth it was at this time. It wasn’t as if she was on the way to anywhere. She decided she would ignore it.

  Then she heard shouting. An indignant roar that carried through the gale. A roar she would have recognized anywhere.

  “For the love of God, would you open the door?”

  She marched across, slid back the bolts, and turned the lock. She opened only the top half, in case. And there, framed in the doorway, was Mick Gillespie, soaked to the skin.

  “Thank Christ for that. Will you let me in?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should?” She put her hands on her hips.

  “Because it’s pissing with rain and I’m soaked through and I’ll get pneumonia. They told me at the hotel it was only ten minutes’ walk,” he grumbled.

  “How did you find me?”

  “You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes. And the people in this town aren’t very discreet.”

  “You recognized me, then?”

  “Of course I did,” he said. “But I didn’t know what to say. You didn’t say anything, so I thought it was best left, maybe. But then I thought you wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t wanted to see me.”

  “You’re a better actor than I thought. I didn’t think you had a clue.”

  “I’m trained, remember.” His smile was teasing. Those bloody crinkly eyes . . .

  “Come on, Juno. Let me in, will you? I’m frozen.”

  She was just about to open the door and stand aside. Take his wet coat, hand him a towel, and pour him a glass of wine. Then she remembered a young girl standing in the rain, all those years ago, soaked to the skin, distraught and shivering. He was going to have to try harder than that.

  “Sorry, but it’s late. I was just off to bed.”

  He looked taken aback. “But I’m soaking. I can’t walk back to the hotel in this state.”

  “Sure you can.” She pulled an umbrella out of the stand by the door and handed it to him. “There you go. You can bring it back to me in the morning.”

  And she shut the door. As she walked up the stairs to her bedroom, she realized that the spell she had been under for so many years was broken. He no longer had a hold over her. How many times had she dreamed of this moment over the years? She couldn’t begin to count. And now there he was, Mick Gillespie, walking back to his hotel in the rain. She threw back her head and began to laugh.

  —

  She was astonished at midday the next day when a taxi drew up outside her cottage. Mick emerged, bone-dry and dressed in what looked to be his Sunday best—cream cords, a tattersall check shirt, a silk cravat, and a pair of shining brogues. He walked up the path and knocked again on her door.

  She opened it, one eyebrow raised, her lips twitching with amusement.

  “No one’s ever done anything like that to me before,” he told her. “I could have got pneumonia.”

  “Well, you didn’t. So that’s all right.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, appraising her. She stood tall. She wasn’t going to let him get the better of her ever again.

  “I’ve talked the girl who did the food last night into cooking us lunch,” he said. “Roast lamb. And rhubarb crumble. She took a bit of persuading because it’s her day off, but you know how persuasive I can be . . .” He gave a self-deprecating grin.

  June rolled her eyes. “You’re very presumptuous. I might have plans.”

  “You don’t, though, do you?”

  He was still impossibly handsome. He was still irresistibly charming. He was still overwhelmingly charismatic. June felt herself drawn to him, although this time she was ready for him. This time she was a match. Besides, what else was she going to do today? Go into Peasebrook for the Sunday papers and take something out of the freezer? There was nothing wrong with that, of course. But lunch with Mick? Now that she’d taken control and shown him she was in charge, she couldn’t say no.

  “Give me five minutes to get changed,” she said.

  “Ah, there’s no need. You look grand.”

  She was in a sloppy jumper and leggings and Uggs with her hair in a scrunchie. No way was she going out to lunch in that.

  “Come in for a minute,” she said.

  He came in and looked around the cottage in approval. June knew it looked good. She’d spent a lot of time making it comfortable and stylish, and she had a gre
at eye for art and antiques. She’d perfected the designer farmhouse look: the gleaming pink Aga, the flagstones warmed by underfloor heating, the French kitchen table, the chunky wineglasses stamped with a bee.

  “You’ve done well,” he said.

  “I have,” she said, not ashamed to be proud of her achievements. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  And in ten minutes, she came down in a silk tunic dress and high-heeled suede boots, her hair down and just a touch of makeup. He reached out a hand and held hers.

  “Jesus, you always were a fox,” he said, and she laughed.

  —

  Even with short notice Thomasina had worked her magic. Her cottage was small—just one main room, which you walked straight into from the front door, and where the table was laid. She had bought the best cutlery and china she could afford: knives and forks with mother-of-pearl handles, and pale cream china with an ornate French pattern. The snowy white linen tablecloth and napkins gave an air of formality, but other than that, the room had a warmth that wrapped you up, with its dark red walls and the rich Egyptian-style carpet. Clusters of candles gave a rosy glow.

  She served June and Mick champagne with a splash of her homemade blackberry liqueur, and they settled down to melting roast lamb with creamy onion sauce and the crunchiest roast potatoes either of them had ever eaten. Mick produced a bottle of Gigondas with a flourish—June suspected he probably traveled with his own private wine cellar, but she didn’t complain. She could feel herself go woozy with the pleasure of it all: the cozy room, the wonderful food, and, not least, Mick’s attention. It was just as she remembered, a hazy golden cloak spun from his honeyed words, only this time she wouldn’t allow herself to be completely taken in.

  Of course, he apologized for what he’d done, and she couldn’t help but be disarmed.

  “I was a shite,” he told her. “But it was the best thing for you. I’d have played merry hell with you and you’d have ended up hating me. Or killing me. I really wasn’t a very nice person in those days.”

  “And are you now?”

  He tipped his head to one side to consider her question. “I don’t think I’m all bad.”