Della virtually skipped to the high street with her Beer World carrier bag. She had a shop, an actual shop. It was hers to do whatever she wanted with. No trying – and failing – to negotiate over paint colours. Now all she had to do was scrub it out, fit shelves, paint the place, install some decent lighting and fill it with the books … which now, actually, felt like rather a lot. But she was a capable woman, adept at juggling tasks. It was how she had managed to cook for her mother and rather ungrateful siblings from the age of ten; how she’d managed being pretty much in charge of anything Sophie-related – homework, dentist’s appointments, the organising of her myriad of activities – plus the funerals of both of her parents. She strode home in the weak afternoon sunshine, formulating how she’d tell Mark when he returned from golf.
Ravenous now, Della fixed herself a late lunch from odds and ends in the fridge and called Freda. ‘You’ve done it?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s fantastic! What did Mark say?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s at golf.
‘Really? But it’s not Saturday,’ Freda chuckled.
‘No, but he had the day off, we took Sophie to college …’
‘How did that go?’
‘Fine, sort of. Weird, you know. How was Evie?’
Freda laughed. ‘Oh, fine. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me, virtually marched me off the premises …’ Della perched on the kitchen table, grateful to have Freda as a friend. ‘I’d thought she might like us to spend the day together,’ she added. ‘Get to know the delights of Hull with me.’
‘Not a chance,’ Della empathised.
‘So, your first day as empty nesters … and Mark’s at golf?’
‘That’s right,’ Della replied dryly.
‘Hmm. And you went and signed the lease on a shop?’
Della glanced down at the remains of the cheese, coleslaw and crackers she’d assembled for herself. ‘I know how it sounds – that I only did it because I was annoyed.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Freda exclaimed. ‘I’m only teasing.’
‘But, you know, there’s probably some truth in that. I just thought, oh, stuff it then, which perhaps isn’t the best way to go about setting up a business.’
‘It’s probably as good as any. So, when can I see it?’
‘How about now,’ Della suggested, ‘if you’re not busy?’
‘Great, I’ll come over right away.’
Half an hour later they were driving along the back road – the prettier route, past the golf course – on a golden September afternoon. ‘I’ve figured out the golf thing,’ Della remarked.
‘What d’you mean, you’ve figured it out? You want to start playing?’
‘God, no. No, what I mean is … why it’s so appealing to Mark.’
‘Dell, it’s a bloke thing. It’s what they do when they hang out together. There has to be a thing.’
Della smiled briefly. ‘Well, maybe that’s true, but mainly I think … it’s his way of getting away from me.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘No idea,’ Della said with a dry laugh. ‘But when you think about it, it’s ideal. Takes hours and hours, and there’s not the slightest chance I’d ever want to try it, to join in, be a member of the ladies’ section …’
Freda chuckled. ‘You could, you know. You could give it a go.’
‘Not me. I’m not the sporting type.’
‘But you could be,’ her friend teased. ‘You could buy all the kit in secret and turn up, surprise him.’
‘He’d have a heart attack,’ snorted Della as the road dipped down towards the village. ‘Anyway, never mind that. Here we are. You don’t think the shop, this thing of mine, is just a reaction to Sophie leaving, do you?’
Freda frowned. ‘No, I don’t actually, but what would it matter if it was? It doesn’t matter why you’re doing it. The fact is, you want to, you’re passionate about it and you’re going to make it work.’
‘Well, if it doesn’t, it’s not as if I’m tied to the lease for a hundred years.’
‘Don’t think that way,’ Freda chastised her. ‘You’re not going to fail.’
Della held this thought in her mind as Burley Bridge came into view, looking pretty in the late-afternoon sun. She parked outside the shop, and kept checking Freda’s reaction as she climbed out and surveyed the rather faded exterior.
‘Oh, I love this place,’ she exclaimed as Della let them in. ‘It’s perfect!’
‘Well, it does need a heck of a lot of work,’ Della remarked.
‘Yes, of course it does, but that’s what makes it so great. You can make it whatever you want it to be.’
Della looked at the friend who had been by her side throughout all the years of mothering, when the tiniest thing – the baby running a temperature, or throwing up her lunch during the music and movement class – seemed like a disaster of epic proportions. Freda’s gung-ho attitude shrank worries down to a manageable size, and made anything seem possible. ‘So when are you going to start?’ she asked.
‘This weekend, I think. I don’t see why not.’
‘Need some help?’
‘That would be fantastic, thank you.’
Freda grinned, looking as excited as Della felt. ‘And you’re definitely going to give up your job?’
‘Yep, it’s time I left anyway. I’m on a month’s notice. If I get the chance, I’ll tell them tomorrow.’ She glanced around the empty shop again. What had seemed rather dreary in the company of Nathan now felt full of possibilities. ‘Oh, you’re right, it is perfect,’ she added. ‘It’s just the right size for plenty of stock, but small enough to feel intimate and cosy.’
‘It really is. So, what are you going to call it?’
‘You know,’ Della said, laughing, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
They stood outside, looking up at the old, weather-worn sign: Sew ’n’ Sew’s, whose proprietors were now – Della liked to think – enjoying a gin and tonic in their rosemary-filled garden in the Majorcan hills. ‘The Delicious Bookshop?’ she ventured.
‘Hmmm … The Scrumptious Bookshop?’
‘Yes, that’s better.’ Della paused, her attention caught momentarily by Len who was locking up the garage over the road. He waved, and she waved back. His shop was terribly basic: no filter coffee, no sandwiches or array of glossy magazines, just a few cartons of oil and screen-wash and some out-of-date Mars Bars, everything rung up on an antiquated till.
‘The Burley Bookshop?’ Freda suggested.
‘Um, maybe …’ Della glanced down the lane where she just could make out the outline of her mother’s house. She didn’t plan to pop into Rosemary Cottage today; it was a day for looking forward, not back. But the cottage – or, rather, Kitty – was the sole reason this was happening. Without her love of bustling around in her kitchen when Della was a little girl – and possibly the Recipe Sharing Society – there would be no bookshop at all. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I’m going to keep it simple. I’ll call it The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane.’
A grin spread across Freda’s face. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Della said, and she knew it was right: it was simple. It just fitted. Oh, she’d probably have to add another line, to make it clear that this wasn’t any old bookshop: An Emporium of Books for Cooks, or something along those lines. She could fix that later. They climbed into her car, and Della’s heart quickened with excitement as the miles flew by, because Mark would be home now, and she could talk him round into believing in the shop – and believing in her. Not even he could play golf in the dusk.
However, when she unlocked the front door, having dropped Freda at home, there was no sign of her husband. ‘Mark?’ she called out from the hallway. No reply. Just to make sure, Della checked their bedroom, in case he’d sloped off for an early-evening nap. When she’d once had the audacity to suggest that golf wasn’t that strenuous – how could it be when it amounted to strolling slowly, whist chatting to friends? – he’d protested that it was exhausting, actually, all that marching up and down hills and vigorous swinging of clubs, not to mention the fierce concentration required. ‘It’s the only sport that offers a full cardiovascular and mental workout,’ he’d said tersely.
Hmm, maybe that’s why he always seemed to retreat into himself after a game – because his brain was tired?
No Mark in the bedroom. She tried his mobile, which was either out of charge or switched off. Pacing the living room now, Della willed him to come home. He would be pleased, when she told him. He’d admire her courage and vision and perhaps even apologise for being so grumpy and negative about it. She cleared her throat anxiously and turned on the TV, flicking between a documentary about compulsive hoarders, and a gritty thriller in which a severed human ear had been found sitting on the bonnet of a car.
She turned off the TV and tried Sophie’s mobile. ‘Hey, Mum,’ her daughter squawked amidst pounding music and people shouting. What kind of place was this noisy on a Tuesday night at 7.20 p.m.?
‘Hi, darling. Just wanted to make sure you’re all settled into your room.’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s great.’
‘Did you unpack your desk lamp?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Did you make up your bed? I wish you’d let me stay and help you.’
‘Mum, I am capable of putting a duvet cover on!’
Della felt as if she had been delivered a small punch to the ribs. Clearly, now wasn’t the right moment to ask if her daughter had managed to hang up her mirror without severing an electrical cable. ’I know you are, love. I was only wondering—’
‘Sorry, signal’s breaking up …’ No, it wasn’t. This was what Sophie said when she didn’t want to talk – the signal never broke up whenever she called to ask for a lift home from a party – but then, of course, she didn’t want to be fussed over by her mother on her first night out with her new friends.
The call ended abruptly. Della glared at her phone, as if the device itself were to blame for Sophie’s brusqueness and the fact that Mark’s game seemed to have somehow drifted well into the evening. She tried him again, to no avail, and reassured herself that he’d be having a perfectly pleasant time in the clubhouse with Peter and ‘the guys’, on the very day that their only child had left home. Well, fine! She stomped through to the hallway and crouched down by her mother’s books, hoping that browsing through them might soothe her.
Whereas Kitty’s collection had seemed vast when she and Freda had unpacked it, Della wondered now if there were enough books here to stock an entire shop. Without seeing them there, neatly arranged and categorised on the shelves – shelves which did not, as yet, exist – it was impossible to tell. And what if there was a stampede when she opened, with all the best ones snatched, leaving gaping holes of nothingness? This thought cheered her immensely. She must source some more, even if only to have some stock in reserve. Della fetched her laptop, curled up on the stone-coloured sofa and Googled ‘cookbooks for sale’.
This led her to mostly bookstores and antiquarian shops. She tried eBay, where numerous individual books were up for auction – but where were the people like Tamsin, her sister-in-law, who believed cookbooks to be unhygienic and passé, and were selling off entire collections for next to nothing?
She moved over to Gumtree, momentarily distracted by alluring lamps, sixties and seventies style with elegant opaque glass shades, and then rugs and throws – deep reds, burnt oranges and turquoises, just asking to be scattered about in the shop … Hauling herself back to the matter in hand, she entered ‘cookbooks’ into Gumtree’s search box, selecting a ten-mile radius. And up it popped:
Cookbooks for free. Three large boxes full. Many used but all good condition. Must collect.
Her heart racing now, she tried the mobile number – it went straight to voicemail, must be the day for it – and, rather than leaving a message, she tapped out an email: Really interested in your cookbooks, could I come over and look at them, please? Thanks, Della. She paused, added her mobile number, and pressed send.
At a loss for what to do now, she closed her laptop and delved into the cupboard under the stairs, starting to pull out the boxes she’d flattened after unpacking Kitty’s collection. She found brown tape in Mark’s Drawer of Important Things – he excelled at that, putting stuff where you could find it – and made the boxes up, before starting to fill them with books.
He’d be pleased by this, she decided, wondering not for the first time why it seemed so important to get on the good side of the man she was married to. Into the box they went: Suet Cookery For Girls – she could imagine what Sophie would make of that – and an intimidating six-volume Encyclopaedia of Culinary Matters, which was so dense with text, she wondered if her mother had ever read a word of it.
With one box filled, Della pulled her phone from her pocket to check that she hadn’t missed a call from Mark, just to see if she was okay, and to ask whether she felt sad about Sophie, and to ruddy well tell her where he was. Oh, he was probably holed up in the Cragham clubhouse for the evening now, maybe for some impromptu celebration. While she wanted him here, urgently – she was desperate now to show him the contract for the shop – she refused to be the kind of woman who demanded that her husband came home.
She fetched a large glass of wine and continued to pack up the books, still discovering volumes she barely remembered from childhood. Now, this one wasn’t a cookbook, nestling beneath 101 Freeze-Ahead Meals. It was a slim ring-bound notebook: Kitty’s address book, Della remembered it well, with its Monet water lilies cover. Kitty had never made the leap to storing contacts on a mobile phone (although she had finally given in and acquired one, in a small act of defiance she had refused ever to switch it on). Perhaps the other members of the Recipe Sharing Society were listed in here, and Della could contact them to find out what it was all about? Picking up Sugarcraft Delights from its pile, she extracted the neatly folded memo:
Della leafed through the address book, skimming her mother’s handwriting. She had favoured cheap biros – pages were dotted with inky blobs and smears – and there were many scribblings out: either a single line or, in several cases, furious scrawlings, as if the very presence of a seemingly benign name – Maisie Waters – had enraged her to the point at which it must be almost obliterated. What had Maisie Waters done? Della wondered. She hadn’t died – at least, not at the time of the scribbling. Della noticed that her mother had written DECEASED beside the names of friends lost.
None of the names from the memo appeared to feature in Kitty’s address book. Della turned the piece of paper over and studied the neatly written note. Such a delightful evening, Kitty. Yours affectionately, R.
Probably just a passing acquaintance, she decided, and no big deal at all. Just as it was no big deal that Mark seemed to have gone AWOL, and that by 10.20 p.m., with her mother’s collection neatly boxed up, she still hadn’t received so much as a text.
A golfing injury? she pondered half an hour later, as she sank into a deep, sudsy bath. What could possibly go wrong during golf? It was hardly rugby. But perhaps he’d been whacked in the head with a club when one of his friends had taken a swing? Or he’d tumbled into a bunker and sprained an ankle, or been savaged by a rabid mole … she wallowed in the bath until it started to cool, then pulled on her cosiest pyjamas and tried to banish all visions of Mark lying bleeding and broken, surrounded by concerned-looking men in diamond-patterned sweaters, as she settled into bed to read.
Della must have dozed off with the book in her hand because when she woke, at 2.09 a.m., her bedside lamp was on and the book had tumbled to the floor. She looked at the space in the bed where her husband should have been and, registering it vacant, wandered blearily downstairs. And there he was, splayed out on the pale grey sofa, fully clothed as far as she could make out, with the Norman-style hairy grey blanket – a range which hadn’t sold at the gift shop, and were given away to staff – strewn over his lower half. He was snoring throatily, and his brown brogues had been kicked off haphazardly on the living-room floor.
So this was what it had come to. On the day their daughter had left home Mark had chosen to spend the night on their wildly expensive but not particularly comfortable sofa. She supposed she could wake him and try to coax him upstairs but, in a surge of annoyance, decided to leave him be and talk about it in the morning. His switched-off phone, the shop lease, his decision to spend the night downstairs … There was a lot to discuss, and Della wasn’t sure she felt good about any of it.