Bea took Emilia out for breakfast to tell her what she and Bill had decided.
Emilia was feeling terrible. She hadn’t felt right since her wild swim with Marlowe. She was coming down with something—a cold or the flu. Every step was an effort and her limbs felt heavy; her head was muzzy and she couldn’t think straight. She ordered eggy sourdough with roasted vine-ripened tomatoes to give her some strength. Bea was feeding Maud discs of banana.
Emilia scooped the froth off her cappuccino. The café roasted its own coffee, and she always swore never to drink instant again when she came in here.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Bea finished her granola. “I didn’t want to say until it was definite, but I’m going back to work. In London. I got the official offer through this morning.”
“Oh.” Emilia tried to look happy for her. “That’s a bit of a life change.”
“Bill’s going to work from home and have Maud when I’m in London. We both realized we’d got our lives the wrong way round.”
“But I need you!” Emilia was joking, but she realized she had become increasingly dependent on Bea’s vision and advice. She really valued their friendship. The thought of forging on ahead without her was suddenly daunting. She’d wanted to talk to her about Marlowe, too—about the feelings she was starting to have for him. He kept creeping into her mind: that flash of skin with the tattoo, his laughing eyes. The heat of his fingers when he touched her . . . She scolded herself. It was simply that Marlowe was undeniably hot, and she had been single for too long. She needed to get out more.
No. Not just hot, but smart and funny and he made her laugh. And think.
“I can still help you with the shop,” Bea was insisting. “It was getting involved with you that made me realize how much I miss work.” Emilia pulled her attention back to her friend.
“If I stay open,” she said gloomily.
“What do you mean?”
“It all seems like a bit too much effort at the moment.”
Bea punched her arm. “Shut up! I won’t listen to that negativity. You’ve got plans, Emilia!” Emilia couldn’t be bothered to argue. Her throat was on fire and her head throbbed. So she just smiled. She was happy for her friend. Of course she was.
—
By the following Sunday, Emilia felt like the walking dead. She wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, but she was scheduled to spend the day rehearsing with the quartet. The wedding was getting closer and closer. She stayed under the duvet as long as she could get away with, then scrambled into her clothes without having a shower and rushed to the village hall.
She knew she looked rough in her jogging bottoms and hoodie. To add to her malaise, Delphine was looking particularly stunning in an electric-blue silk blouse with a pussycat bow, which she wore with a tiny leather miniskirt.
Marlowe went to give her a hug, but she dodged out of his way.
“Don’t come anywhere near me. I’m full of germs.” She thrust his hand-washed cashmere sweater back at him.
Usually, playing the cello took Emilia out of herself and soothed her soul. They were rehearsing Salut d’Amour by Elgar, the background music they would use while waiting for the ceremony to start. It reminded Emilia of the Elgar piece at her father’s memorial service: Chanson de Nuit.
She couldn’t keep up. Her fingers were all over the place, her bow kept slipping, and she lost her place.
Marlowe stopped them all and looked at her.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You did know we were doing this?”
His tone was even, but she sensed he was hiding his annoyance. The unspoken accusation was that she hadn’t practiced. She had. But she was a human being. Not a bloody robot.
She put down her bow on the music stand.
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on. And I don’t feel well . . .”
Everyone was looking at her. Only Petra looked sympathetic. Delphine looked inscrutable.
Marlowe just looked exasperated.
“If you’re feeling that bad you should have canceled. We’re just wasting time.”
Emilia got up and headed for the door. Marlowe followed her outside.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I always get stressed before events. I just want us to get it right and I know you can do it. You were amazing when you came to my house. You’d cracked it. What’s going on?”
“It’s my father’s birthday today.” Emilia looked down at the ground.
“Oh shit, you poor baby.” Marlowe softened immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come here.”
He was about to pull her into his arms when Delphine appeared by the door.
“We’ve only got the hall till four,” she told him.
Marlowe backed away from Emilia as if she had the plague. Which she felt as if she did.
“I can’t do this anymore,” said Emilia. “I thought I was good enough but I’m not. You’ll have to get Felicity back.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Marlowe.
“Honestly. It’s much better that I pull out now than mess it up on the day. Felicity knows all the music, I know she does. I’m sorry.”
She hurried back in and packed up her cello. She didn’t want to talk about it. Nor, it seemed, did the others, which confirmed she was doing the right thing. No one tried to stop her leaving. They’d obviously been longing for her to pack it in but hadn’t had the heart to tell her. She left the hall as quickly as she could so they could get on with their rehearsal. Without her messing it all up for them.
She walked past Delphine. Delphine tried her best to give her a smile of sympathy, but she really wasn’t that good an actress.
—
When she got home, she didn’t even stop to go into the shop and see how Dave was getting on. She didn’t feel like pretending she was all right. He’d be closing up any minute—they shut at four on a Sunday.
Instead, she went upstairs to the flat and felt plunged into stifling gloom. She decided to phone Sarah Basildon. Maybe they could have a glass of wine, share some memories of Julius, and raise a glass to him. Sarah had said to call her anytime. And no doubt she would be thinking about Julius, too.
“I’m really sorry,” said Sarah. “Any other time, but Alice is coming home from the hospital today. Ralph and I are just going to collect her. You’re welcome to come here, of course. We’re doing a celebration tea to welcome her back.”
Emilia lay on her bed. Even Sarah Basildon had moved on. She hadn’t even mentioned his birthday. She stared at the ceiling. She missed her dad more than ever.
Maybe staying in Peasebrook was the wrong thing to do? Maybe keeping the shop open was a romantic gesture, but a foolish one? She shouldn’t be trying to live her father’s life. She should be living her own.
She decided to run a bath, warm up, and put clean sheets on the bed and fresh pajamas and have an early night. She poured half a bottle of Badedas into the bath and turned the taps on, then went into the kitchen to make a Lemsip, adding two spoons of honey to soothe her throat. She sat on the sofa while she sipped at it. It was scalding hot, but she knew it would do her good. By the time she reached the honey at the bottom of the cup, her eyes felt heavy and were closing. She curled up in the corner of the sofa and let sleep take over.
—
Alice was packing up the last of her things before going home. She couldn’t wait.
Her room at the hospital was starting to drive her mad. Although all the staff had been wonderful, she’d had enough. The last operation on her leg had been deemed a success, and it was up to her now to build up her strength. It still hurt horribly, and she got very tired, but she longed to be at home, at Peasebrook, and felt sure she would heal more quickly there.
She shut her case and looked around the room to see if there was anything else. Her book, Riders. She picked it up. It reminded her of Dillon. She had loved him reading to her. It had been so comforting, lying there listening to him, and if she drifted off it didn’t matter, because she knew the book so well. He hadn’t been in to see her recently and she wasn’t sure why. She supposed he was busy putting the garden to bed for the winter.
Hugh wouldn’t read to her. It wasn’t his thing, reading. He was always on edge when he came to visit. He hated hospitals, he told her. Alice wasn’t sure anyone liked hospitals all that much, but she didn’t say so. She chatted to him and he pretended to listen and spent most of the time on his BlackBerry. He was doing a few deals he wanted to get out of the way before the wedding.
“You don’t have to come and see me every night if you don’t want to,” she told him, but he insisted. He brought her super-kind presents, too. Perfume and a silk pillow and a pair of pajamas covered in owls, because he knew she loved owls. It was lovely of him to be so thoughtful when he was obviously under a lot of pressure.
She tucked the book into her case and zipped it up. She couldn’t wait to get back to Peasebrook. There was so much to do. Not just for the wedding, but to get things ready for Christmas. There was the Christmas garland to make: a sixty-foot rope of flowers from the gardens at Peasebrook. Dillon had been cutting and drying them in one of the potting sheds all year. It was going to be a labor of love to assemble it, but Alice was determined. It was going to be a celebration of everything that had grown at Peasebrook over the year. She was itching to get it done.
Her door opened, and there were her parents, beaming with excitement. She felt a lurch of love for them. They had been so caring over the past few weeks.
“Come on, then,” said Ralph, picking up her case. “The car’s waiting.”
—
As they drove up the drive to Peasebrook, Alice could see all the staff gathered outside the front door waiting for her return—not just the ones who worked there on a Sunday, but the girls from the office as well.
“Oh God,” she said. “Everyone’s here.”
“Of course, darling,” said Sarah. “They’ve all missed you.”
She got out of the car and made her way up the steps to the front door. Everyone was clapping and cheering. Alice felt a mixture of delight and embarrassment—surely she didn’t deserve this attention?
In the hall, Ralph opened champagne and everyone was given a glass.
“To a speedy recovery,” said her father, and everyone echoed his wishes.
Alice went and stood three steps up on the staircase, so everyone could see her.
“I just want to thank everyone for holding down the fort while I’ve been away,” she said. “I know all of you have gone the extra mile to keep things together. And I expect you’ve enjoyed not having me breathing down your necks!”
Everyone laughed. Alice wasn’t a neck breather at all.
“But now that I’m back, I want to make sure that this Christmas is the best one ever. So if you’ve got any ideas about how to make it even better, please come and see me. If you’ve got any problems, please come and see me. Peasebrook is what it is because we all work together. So I just want to say thank you for being the best team ever.”
She raised her glass with a smile, and everyone joined in the toast.
As she sipped at the bubbles, Alice looked around the hall and thought how lucky she was.
The front door opened and she turned eagerly.
It was Hugh.
“Darling.” He pulled her into an embrace. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” said Alice.
It was only then that she realized there was one other person missing.
Dillon. Where was Dillon? Suddenly she wanted to see him more than anyone.
—
Emilia started awake a while later. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, or why she had a horrible feeling of unease, a sensation that there was something wrong. She tried to gather her thoughts through the fuzziness in her head.
And then she remembered. She’d been running a bath. She shut her eyes, praying that she had turned off the taps before she fell asleep. Maybe she had forgotten she’d done it? She couldn’t remember doing so. She got up off the sofa and walked with dread toward the bathroom, where she was greeted with the sight of the bath overflowing, oceans of water surging over the sides and onto the wooden floorboards.
She flew across the bathroom and turned off the taps, then grabbed her keys from her coat pocket and ran down the stairs, opening the door that led into the shop as quickly as she could. An unexpected burst of common sense told her not to turn the lights on, but the glow from the lamplight outside told her all she needed to know.
Water was pouring through the light fixture above the mezzanine in a merry torrent, all over the books below. And as she watched in horror, the ceiling collapsed slowly, leaving a gaping, jagged hole.
She’d better phone the fire service. All that water over the electrics—it must be dangerous. With a shaking hand she dialed 999 on her mobile—she shouldn’t use the shop phone. She felt sick. She felt as if her whole world was caving in.
—
She was glad it had happened on a Sunday night. There were no passersby, no customers, no staff to gawp at what had happened. The firemen turned up; they wouldn’t normally come out to an incident like this, they told her, but it was a quiet evening, so they made sure everything was safe and turned off the electricity.
Afterward she lay on her bed. She was freezing because the electricity was off so there was no heating. She was burning up and shivering at the same time. Her teeth chattered. She was pouring with sweat.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t deal with this disaster on top of everything else. She ran through everything in her mind. How hard it was to try to keep the shop going against the odds. Her humiliation in the quartet. Bea leaving—they had become quite close. How very much she missed Julius—every day in the shop was a reminder that he wasn’t there anymore.
And the fact that she was—she could admit it to herself now—falling ever so slightly in love with a man she could never have.
She almost felt grateful that the flood had happened, for at least she didn’t have to try anymore.
She had a built-in excuse and could give up, and no one would think any the worse of her: they couldn’t expect her to come back from this. Everything was ruined. The shop itself, the stock, the fixtures and fittings. Maybe it was meant to be?
She went back down to the gloom of the shop, fished behind the counter for the card Ian Mendip had given her, and looked for his address. She picked up her car keys and went out to the car, not looking back. If she stopped to think, or spoke to anyone else, things would become muddled. At this moment in time, despite the fact that she felt so ill, she had absolute clarity.
—
She drove to Mendip’s house, two miles outside the town down narrow lanes. She swished in through an impressive set of gates and up the drive to his swanky new build, lights automatically illuminating her way.
She banged on the door. Ian Mendip answered, frowning, not recognizing her. She probably didn’t look her best, and it was pretty late.
“Emilia Nightingale,” she told him. “Can we talk?”
“Emilia. Of course. Come in.”
He stood aside to let her in. She stepped into a cavernous hallway, hung with an over-the-top chandelier, and a sweeping staircase rising up carpeted in dark purple tartan. Normally she would have enjoyed inspecting his lack of taste, but tonight she was on business.
“I’ve just come to say: the shop is yours if you still want it.”
A smile spread across his face.
“Well, that is good news.”
“Yes. I’ve decided to sell, and I want to exchange contracts as soon as possible.” She wanted to be out of Peasebrook by Christmas. She wanted to be on the other side of the world. Christmas was going to be unbearable. Without Julius. Without . . . She shook her head. She wasn’t going to dwell on what she didn’t have. This was going to be her new start.
“I’ll get my people onto it.” He stood to one side and gestured she should come into the kitchen. “Do you want to have a drink on it? I always keep some Bollinger in the fridge for occasions like this.”
“No, thank you,” she said, recoiling at the thought of celebrating with a man she couldn’t stand.
“Well, at least shake hands on it.”
He was the traditional type. A deal wasn’t a deal unless you’d shaken hands.
Emilia hesitated for a moment. She didn’t really want to touch him. It felt as if she was doing a deal with the devil. But she had to look after her own interests and get the best price, so she braced herself.
She tried not to wonder if she was betraying Julius’s memory: what would he do if he knew she was selling to Mendip? She told herself she had done her best and it was not to be. There was no point in her trying to carry on with Nightingale Books as some sort of infinite tribute. He had loved the shop, but it was time for her to move on. And it was silly not to get the best price possible.
“Let me have your solicitor’s details,” she said, “and I’ll get mine to draw up the contracts.”
Mendip saw her out and she went and sat in her car. She wanted to feel victorious, as if she’d achieved something by letting go of the past. Instead, she just felt incredibly sad.
And alone. She rammed the key in the ignition, not sure where to go.
She had no job, no commitments, no ties to anyone or anything, and she’d just done a deal that would see her pretty well off. She slammed the car into reverse.
Cuba, she thought. She’d book a month’s holiday in Cuba and go and find herself. Drown herself in rum daiquiris and dance till dawn, feel the sun on her face and the music in her soul. Havana would be crazy and dirty and noisy, about as far away from Peasebrook as you could get. And she would be about as far away from herself as she could get. In fact, she could leave Emilia Nightingale at home and come back as someone else. She imagined a girl with a tan and a red ruffled dress and a flower in her hair. That’s who she was going to be for now.
—
Jackson’s phone rang. It was Mendip. His heart sank.
He was going to badger him about Nightingale Books. Jackson steeled himself. He was going to tell him where to get off. He didn’t want any part in the duplicity any longer. If that meant he lost his job, so be it.
He answered, cautious. “Hello?”
“Well done, my son.”
“What?”
“You could make a good living with your powers of persuasion. It’s a skill.” Mendip laughed a horrible laugh.
“What are you on about?” Jackson asked.
“Miss Nightingale is selling me the shop. Contracts are being drawn up as we speak. Soon as we’ve all signed on the dotted line, you’re in charge at the glove factory. We should be in there by the new year. Good work, Jackson!”
He hung up.
“What was that all about?” asked Cilla.
“Nothing,” said Jackson. “Just Mendip’s usual bollocks.”
He felt sick. He should feel happy that Emilia had decided to sell up without him putting any pressure on her. After all, he was going to have a plum job as a result. Head gaffer at the glove factory—that was something to get excited about.
But Jackson didn’t feel excited at all.