By the time she arrived home, the rather bleak morning had brightened and Mark was beavering away in the back garden. There was a small patio with an oak table and chairs, plus a neat rectangular lawn edged with herbaceous borders. Della unloaded her shopping in the kitchen and took a mug of tea out to him. ‘Thanks,’ he said, placing his shears at his feet.
‘Think we’ve got everything for the party,’ she remarked, noting that he’d been cutting back the summer growth. Her beloved stocks, lupins and alliums had all been hacked almost to the ground.
‘Great,’ he said without conviction. He formed a tight smile. ‘Look, Dell, I wanted to say, about the bookshop—’
‘It’s okay,’ she said quickly. ‘Let’s talk about it another time.’
‘It’s just, I know I came across as negative but you sprung it in me, it was a bit of a shock …’
‘Yes, well, I sort of sprung it on myself really,’ she said with a smile. ‘I mean, it just came to me, it seemed so right.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay, fine, if you want to do something different …’
‘Yes, I do.’ She glanced at the stubbly borders and wished, as she did every year, that he would just leave them be. However, while Della loved the twiggy stems and seed heads, Mark preferred everything chopped down to size. ‘I’d like to do something for myself,’ she added, ‘especially with Soph about to leave home.’
‘Of course. That’s totally understandable.’
He turned and resumed snipping away, and she headed back to the kitchen where, once the puff pastry had defrosted, she rolled it out – such a soothing process – and cut neat circular shapes with her frilly-edged cutter, just as she had as a child at Rosemary Cottage. When they had baked and cooled, she filled them with mascarpone and sautéed mushrooms; then, with Sophie’s help, she spruced up the house, setting out plates and glasses.
With everything ready for the party, Della showered quickly and tried on the clingy blue dress again, taking in the sight of her squishy tummy and ample hips: areas she rarely regarded as problematic until she saw herself encased in unforgiving jersey fabric. If anything, she had gained weight since her fiftieth birthday, back in June, probably due to the stress of caring for her mother, driving to Rosemary Cottage – and latterly the hospice – every day after work. She would arrive home shattered, after Mark and Sophie had eaten, and tear ravenously into any odd bits of pie and creamy dips and whatever else she found lurking in the fridge, all washed down with a large glass of wine, which was basically sugar in liquid form. As a regime, it certainly wasn’t recommended in Roxanne’s glossy fashion magazine. Occasionally, she packaged some up and sent them to Della, who found it unsettling, being faced with all those clearly airbrushed pictures of Hollywood actresses whose bodies had ‘snapped back’ to perfection – breasts pert, tummies taut – seemingly hours after childbirth.
Her daughter was eighteen now and Della’s body still hadn’t snapped back. It was soft around the edges, pillowy and comfy, and she really should do something to try and get herself on track.
She pulled off the dress, threw it onto the bed and selected a plain black shift instead, plus low heels. She blow-dried her abundant dark hair so it fell in soft, bouncy waves, and by the time she had applied her make-up – eyeliner and customary Impassioned lips – her spirits had risen. As her friends began to arrive – cheerful women who tied back their hair with Scrunchies, and who wouldn’t dream of denying themselves carbs – Della had forgotten about the man in the supermarket failing to recognise her, or Mark’s lack of enthusiasm over her probably utterly bonkers project.
Freda had brought her a bunch of pale lemon roses, and Charlotte and Tricia were laden with edible gifts. Liam ambled in – Sophie hugged him, briefly, although she soon drifted out to the garden to join her girlfriends – and Della found him a little later, hovering uncertainly by the fridge. ‘How are things, Liam?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, all right, thanks.’ He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot.
She looked at him, wondering whether she should try and make him feel more at home or just leave well alone. It was hard to know how to handle a morose teenager who wasn’t hers. Sophie had seemed super-keen on Liam until a few months ago, when she’d left school and the summer, then art college, hovered in front of her like a gift she couldn’t wait to take in her hands. Liam had finished school the previous year to work with his carpenter father. Sophie wouldn’t be drawn on the subject; in fact, Della detected distinct ‘I don’t want to talk about Liam’ vibes.
‘So,’ she ventured, feeling obliged to chat as there were only the two of them in the kitchen, ‘Sophie’s off on Tuesday.’
‘Um, yeah,’ he muttered.
‘But Leeds isn’t that far away.’
He looked down at his battered trainers. Was that patronising? Della wondered. The boy was nineteen, of course he knew where Leeds was. ‘What are you up to these days – still working with your dad?’
He nodded, and Della understood how Sophie viewed him: as the boy who had no intention of leaving Heathfield, while she was embarking on a thrilling new stage in her life. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back home a lot,’ added Della, feeling desperately sorry for him now. After all, he had dutifully visited Kitty, both at home and at the hospice. He had taken her After Eights, a bunch of carnations from the garage and a Get Well card; perhaps that wasn’t quite right, as by that stage Kitty clearly wouldn’t be getting well at all. But at least he had tried to do the right thing.
Sophie appeared, grabbed a plate of samosas and swished off out to the garden again, with Liam following limply behind. Della arranged Freda’s impressive home-made cupcakes and truffles on the table next to her own savoury creations. Mark busied himself with serving drinks – Della was relieved by this, that he was joining in, but then why wouldn’t he? He wasn’t an awkward thirteen year old at a school dance.
‘All those books in the hallway!’ Tricia exclaimed, when Della joined her friends in the living room. ‘Thinking of opening a library, Dell?’
‘No, a bookshop,’ Mark cut in quickly. ‘A bookshop that only sells … cookbooks.’
‘Really?’ Charlotte gasped. ‘That’s amazing! When did this happen?’
‘I, um, only decided a few days ago.’ She caught Mark giving her a resigned look. ‘They’re Mum’s cookbooks,’ she added, willing him not to start carping on about viability and the fact that she had officially lost her mind. ‘I’m going to view an empty shop in Burley Bridge.’
‘You’re actually going to look at it?’ Mark gasped.
She threw him a sharp look. ‘Well, yes, if it’s still available.’ Della and Freda exchanged a quick glance.
‘No harm in looking, is there?’ remarked Charlotte, a brisk and infinitely capable woman, who ran her own marketing consultancy. ‘I’ve always loved Burley Bridge but, I hope you don’t mind me saying, Dell, it does need an injection of life.’
‘Yes, I realise that.’
‘Something to put it on the map,’ agreed Tricia.
‘That’s the problem,’ Mark pointed out. ‘The place is dead half the year. On a wet winter’s afternoon there’s hardly a soul on the streets, so there’d be no passing trade …’ Della clamped her back teeth together, willing him to stop. She felt oddly possessive about Burley Bridge, and it irked her to hear it described in this way. Yes, she had yearned to escape as a young woman, but now it felt like the perfect home for the books. Perhaps a shop like hers could breathe some new life into the place, and make it more like the vibrant village she remembered as a child.
‘D’you have any retail experience, Mark?’ Charlotte asked, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. No, he bloody doesn’t! Della wanted to shout.
‘Er, no, not exactly.’
Charlotte’s mouth twitched. ‘Well, with a specialist business like Della’s – ’ Della loved it that she was describing it as an actual thing, as if it already existed ‘ – you don’t get much custom through passing trade. Let’s face it, the average person wandering along Burley Bridge High Street probably isn’t looking for a cookbook.’
‘That’s my point precisely!’ Mark cut in, and Della was seized by an urge to stuff a gruyère and broccoli tart into his mouth.
Charlotte frowned and turned back to Della. ‘Yes, so with a shop like this it’s all about word of mouth, reputation, and building a story around your business that’ll capture people’s imaginations. That’s how it happens. You could be halfway up a mountain and people would still come.’
‘You really think so?’ Della was trying to suppress a huge grin.
‘Yes, absolutely. So long as they know you’re there – through social media, PR …’
‘I’ll need to do some PR?’ Della cut in.
‘Yes, but it’s not difficult with something so unique. You’re bound to be featured in the Heathfield Gazette and on local radio, maybe even national press, specialist food magazines …’
‘Maybe Roxanne could help,’ Freda suggested.
‘She works on a fashion magazine,’ Mark pointed out.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ declared Charlotte. ‘She’ll know people. She’ll have contacts. I’d imagine that’s not the only magazine her company publishes?’
Della sipped her wine, her heart racing now, not with nerves but the thrill of it all. ‘Yes, there are lots, I’m not exactly sure what kind …’
‘They’ll be falling over themselves to feature you,’ Charlotte said with a grin. ‘I mean, how often d’you hear of something so unique, so niche?’
‘It’s too niche!’ Mark exclaimed, rather too loudly. Freda shot him a quick look.
‘What I’m saying,’ Charlotte continued with exaggerated patience, ‘is that your customers will make the effort to come to you. It’ll be like a day out for them – to visit this amazing shop in a little tucked-away Yorkshire village, spend an hour or two there, then a wander around, stop off for … um, what else is there in Burley Bridge?’
‘Nothing,’ Mark said witheringly, and now Della was seized by an urge to pelt him with chipolatas.
‘Sorry, Mark, but I do think it’s a brilliant idea,’ Tricia said firmly. He gave her a resigned look as if to say,You would, wouldn’t you? Being Della’s friend …
Della stood up to refill glasses, keen now to veer the conversation away from the bookshop, at least while Mark was around. The day had turned into one of those golden September afternoons with an unblemished blue sky. They all drifted outside where the teenagers had gathered on a rug on the lawn, and Freda and Della ferried out more food and drinks to set out on the table. ‘These vol au vents are amazing,’ exclaimed Tricia, biting into her third.
‘Don’t think I’ve had one since 1979!’ Freda quipped.
‘It’s all completely delicious, Dell,’ Charlotte agreed, and even Mark murmured his appreciation. Della glanced at Sophie and her friends, who were all huddled together and laughing hysterically, and started to feel a little better about her leaving home in two days’ time – because she wasn’t the only one. All of these bright, sparky kids – that is, all apart from Liam – would be heading off for college or university this week. And so the afternoon turned to evening, with no one seeming in any hurry to rush off home. The sky darkened, and Della brought out speakers so Sophie could play music. ‘Would you like to join us, Norma?’ Della asked, when their next-door neighbour appeared and glanced over the fence.
‘No, thank you, I’m a little tired,’ she remarked.
Della smiled, pleasantly fuzzy with wine now, as Norma – a short, sturdy woman in her sixties, who seemed to be on an unfeasible amount of committees – peered at Sophie and her friends. ‘We’ll try not to disturb you then,’ Della added.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Norma said, clearly meaning,Yes, please don’t. But it didn’t irk Della, and nor did her husband being so negative earlier because Mark was just being Mark: cynical, yes, but sensible too. Perhaps it was just as well she had someone around to bring her back down to earth.
At around ten, she and Mark said their goodbyes to the adults and, leaving Sophie and her friends in the garden – with strict instructions not to annoy Norma – they started to clear up. Della was gathering empty wine bottles in the kitchen when her husband took her hand. With a jolt, she looked round at him.
‘Have fun today?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it was lovely, wasn’t it?’ She was still clutching a smeared bottle with her free hand.
Mark smiled. ‘It really was. You did everyone proud, as usual.’ He paused. ‘You know, I really think you should set up your own catering business. You’d be perfect for it, Dell. You’re such a grafter, you really get things done. Wasn’t that what your mum always said about you?’
‘Hmmm,’ Della said wryly. ‘She also said I wasn’t the brightest button in the box.’
He chuckled. ‘Well, she was wrong about that. Would you just think about it, at least? There’d be none of the risk of taking on premises, paying rent, business rates and all that.’
‘It’s a good idea,’ she cut in, ‘but it’s not what I want.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘You know, Mark. A cookbook shop.’
He shook his head and let her hand go. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, please think about it carefully. It’s a huge decision to make.’
She nodded. Buoyed up by the company of friends, and no longer feeling like an invisible woman lurking by the fish counter, she stretched up and kissed her husband on the lips. ‘Yes, I know that,’ she said.
‘You won’t rush in?’
‘Of course I won’t, this is far too big a thing to just dive into.’
He gave her a dubious look, as a headmaster might when not completely convinced by a promise of further good behaviour. ‘You really mean that, Dell? Because I’d hate to see you make a terrible mistake.’