The to-do list was done. Paint shop, order cash register, have sign painted, fix lighting, clear out Rosemary Cottage, pick up Gumtree sofa, meet my real father. She had ticked off the lot and although the last task had felt less than satisfactory, Della felt ready to move on. There would be other, equally difficult things to do – how to disentangle her life from Mark’s, all the legal gubbins – but that would come later. Right now, more pressingly, The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane was ready to open for business and Della had her lipstick on.
‘Sophie, where are you, love?’ She had been up and pacing around since 7 a.m. and now, at almost 11, she had been unable to resist calling her daughter.
‘Stop worrying,’ Sophie said cheerfully. ‘We’ll be there in plenty of time.’
‘We? Are you bringing a friend?’ There was much chatter and laughter in the background.
‘Yeah, hope that’s okay?’
‘Yes, of course it is, darling, the more the merrier. Uncle Jeff said I’ll be lucky if a handful of people turn up.’
‘That was nice of him!’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’ Della chuckled. ‘So, when are you due at the station?’
‘Oh, we’re not getting the train. We’re getting a lift so we’ll see you at the shop, okay? Is everything all right? Are you nervous?’
‘No. Well, yes, of course I am. I’m completely petrified …’
‘You’ll be fine, Mum. You’ll be great! Phone’s almost out of charge, see you soon, okay?’ And with that, she rang off.
Della would have preferred to pick up Sophie from Heathfield station, and to have her comforting presence – in lieu of a husband’s – before setting off for Burley Bridge. She wanted someone sitting in the passenger seat with her, but Freda had arranged to head over with Angie and Meg from the castle, bringing with them a great pile of cakes, sandwiches and vol au vents that the tearoom staff had prepared for the party. So Della set off alone, her hair freshly blow dried, wearing the dazzling cobalt blue dress that had been tossed aside in a fit of annoyance prior to her fiftieth birthday. It now fitted her perfectly. Just for the hell of it, she was wearing the siren slip underneath; no one else would know, of course, but she would. And as the road dipped down to Burley Bridge Della’s nervousness ebbed into a kind of anticipation, and she decided that yesterday didn’t matter; she had tried, at least. She had managed perfectly well for fifty years without having Rafael Avina in her life, and now she had a shop to open up to the general public.
She lifted the case of wine from the back seat and let herself in, clicked on the lights and took a moment to absorb the transformation that had taken place. The lamps cast a honeyed glow over the shop, and the shelves, crammed with treasures, looked perfect. She straightened books’ spines unnecessarily and made herself a coffee from the percolator that sat on a shelf behind the counter. She fiddled with the till and stacked the wine in the small fridge, wondering now whether Jeff had been right that few people would deign to visit a bookshop – especially a specialist bookshop – on what had turned into a rather damp and drizzly October afternoon. But suddenly she didn’t have time to fret any more because Freda and Angie and Meg had swept in, laden with trays of party food, followed by Sophie together with an incredibly tall girl with choppy bleached hair.
‘Mum, this is Becca! The one I told you about? She lives across the hall …’
‘Hi, Becca, lovely to meet you. How did you two get here?’
‘My dad gave us a lift,’ Becca explained.
Della’s attention was caught by the painting, which Sophie must have brought with her, the stunning picture of a bookshop in dazzling colours and flecked with gold.
‘It’s incredible! We must put it up right now. Where d’you want it to go, Dell?’ asked Freda, already grappling with it.
‘Er … there, please.’ Della indicated the bare cerise wall.
‘D’you have a hammer?’
‘Not here, no.’ As they ummed and ahhed over how to hang the painting, Liam arrived and gave Sophie a brief, rather awkward hug, and everyone else started setting out food and unpacking boxes of glasses and plumping up cushions in readiness for the shop’s very first customers.
‘You did this place?’ Della heard Sophie exclaim. ‘You mean, you built the shelves?’
‘Yeah, ’course,’ Liam replied. ‘Told you I was working here.’
‘But I never thought, you know … you’d really manage to do it. And it’s actually quite good!’
‘Thanks,’ he said with a snigger.
‘No, I mean it. It’s amazing. So, um … have you been all right?’
While Della was trying not to eavesdrop, she couldn’t help hearing snatches of conversation. ‘Yeah, I’ve been fine. Busy, y’know, with this place.’
‘Yeah. So, um … we’re okay, then? We’re friends?’
‘’Course we are,’ Liam blustered, before scuttling out of the shop to fetch a hammer from his father’s van. Just as the painting had been hung the villagers began to arrive: Len from the garage and Irene Bagshott, laden with a tray of tiny pies. ‘Is this okay, Della? Just a small contribution. Your mum said how much she enjoyed hers, how crisp my pastry was …’
‘Of course it’s okay, it’s wonderful,’ Della said, hugging her.
Nicola Crowther the hairdresser strode in, with a startling new blonde do, followed by Nathan, who swooped on her immediately. ‘Hi, I’m Nathan Sanderson, I let Della this place. And you are …?’
‘Er … Nicola.’
‘She wasn’t sure, you know, but I always reckoned it had huge potential …’ Nathan grabbed two glasses of wine from the tray that Angie was offering around and handed one to Nicola. And now here was Georgia, who manned the castle ticket office, and Harry who tended the grounds, plus Charlotte, accompanied by a woman Della had never met. ‘This is Jessie from the Heathfield Gazette.’
‘From the paper?’ Della exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ Jessie said – she looked barely old enough to have a job at all – ‘we received your press release.’ Amidst all the activity Della had forgotten she had sent it out. ‘I‘d like to do a feature on you, just a quick interview, the photographer should be here any minute …’
‘Yes, of course,’ Della said, her attention caught now by Roxanne, who flew in apologising volubly. ‘Sorry I’m late, Dell. Traffic was awful, totally jammed up on the M1. I wanted to come early, help you get ready …’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry, I’m so thrilled you’re here.’ Roxanne caught Sophie’s eye and kissed her, and Della glanced at her sister as she greeted everyone else. This time, though, it was the books that entranced them, rather than the glamorous fashion journalist from London. ‘Look at this,’ Nicola marvelled, selecting Fear of Frying from a shelf. ‘These are amazing. I don’t cook, you know. D’you have any books for people like me?’
Della laughed and handed her What to Cook Today and was just about to select other possibilities when she was whisked off to a corner by Jessie from the Gazette, to be interviewed about how the shop came to be.
‘Why did your mum collect so many books?’ Jessie wanted to know.
The Recipe Sharing Society – Kitty’s alibi – flickered into Della’s mind. ‘I’m not sure how it started but once it had, it sort of kept going, you know? She just kept buying more and more until they took over the whole house.’
‘This is when you were a little girl?’
Della smiled. ‘Oh, yes, she already had a pretty serious habit by then. She never stopped. It’s as if she was looking for, you know, the one …’
The shop door opened again and Della’s stomach lurched. Val, her mother-in-law, had wandered in, wearing that frozen expression that usually suggests a horror of walking into a party alone.
‘I wonder if she ever found it,’ Jessie mused. ‘The one, I mean.’
But Val wasn’t alone because Terry had shuffled in behind her, reminding Della of the teenagers who would sometimes be hauled along by a parent on a tour of Heathfield Castle when they would dearly have loved to have been anywhere else. And then Della was no long registering Jessie’s questions because Mark had just walked in.
‘Della?’ Jessie prompted her.
‘Oh, sorry, it’s just, I should really chat to everyone. ’
‘Yes, I realise this isn’t the best time. Could I possibly email you some questions?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled apologetically, her heart thudding as she made her way through the crowd. ‘Cooking With Crisps!’ someone exclaimed, waving a faded old book in the air. ‘Did anyone actually ever do that?’ Della flashed a quick smile but it felt tight and awkward. She caught Sophie throwing her an anxious look as she strode towards Mark and his parents.
‘Hi,’ Della said flatly.
Mark formed a pained little smile and swept back his hair. ‘Hi, Dell. Er, hope you don’t mind us gatecrashing your party?’
‘No, of course not.’ No, I’m delighted to see my cheating husband making a surprise appearance just as I’m being interviewed for a newspaper. She turned to Val and smiled rigidly. ‘I’m really glad you’re here, Val. I did want to invite you personally, but—’
‘Oh, no, I understand,’ her mother-in-law whispered, as if cancer was being discussed.
‘It’s just, er, you know – things are a bit tricky right now.’ Della was aware of a twitching sensation beneath her left eye.
‘Yes,’ Val whispered, ‘we’re terribly sad about the whole situation.’ She threw Terry an imploring look. He just stared ahead as if watching an uneventful football game.
‘So,’ Mark boomed, far too loudly, ‘shall we just have a look around, Mum? Oh, Dad, look – there’s Sophie.’ And the three of them beetled off, leaving Della wondering what had possessed her husband to think it might be a good idea to show up.
Freda hurried over to her, clutching a glass of wine. ‘Here, you look like you need this.’
‘No, it’s fine, I’m driving home later.’
Freda sipped from the glass and threw Mark a sour look. ‘What are they doing here anyway?’
‘Honestly, I haven’t a clue.’ She watched him, chatting awkwardly to Sophie while Liam and Becca hovered close by, helping themselves to Meg’s cakes with the enthusiasm of children at a birthday party.
‘He just couldn’t keep away, could he?’ Freda went on. ‘This is your day, you’ve worked so hard for this.’
‘It’s okay, Della said quickly. ‘I’m not going to let him spoil it.’ And she fixed on a smile as the photographer from the Gazette arrived, introducing himself as Darren and taking her photo while she still looked a little shell-shocked after Mark’s appearance. Her husband had likened Kitty’s legacy to scurvy and smallpox. So was he just here to gloat, to remind her that a cookbook shop wasn’t viable?
Della kept glancing at him as she went around topping up glasses and managing to enthuse over various books her guests had plucked from the shelves. Cooking with Lard, yes, amazing! Oh, yes, that fondue guide is one of my favourites too … Over by the counter, which was being manned by Freda, Nathan seemed to have cornered Nicola Crowther. ‘Look, if you’re interested in a new heating system for your salon, electric radiators are the way forward now. Zero maintenance, no fiddly bleeding to do, instant heat whenever and wherever you want it, I can do you a special deal …’
She noticed Mark and his parents standing together, looking a little isolated amidst the throng. The teenagers had moved over to a small table bearing an opened bottle of wine and were casually topping up their glasses. Sophie looked beautiful, Della thought, in a simple vintage black lace dress and Kitty’s delicate gold chain. The three of them were locked in intense conversation, and she saw Liam burst out laughing at something Becca had said. How relaxed they seemed, Sophie and Liam and Becca, who was now waving towards the door.
Della followed her gaze as a man walked in, tall and brown-haired and casually dressed in a white shirt and dark jeans. ‘We’re here!’ Becca called out with a wave, and his face broke into a grin. Della looked at the man again. It was him: Eddie’s dad, whom she’d left standing on the pavement when she ran off in pursuit of Mark. He made his way towards her. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Hope it’s okay to just drop in like this …’
‘Yes, of course it is. What a lovely surprise. It was an open invitation, you know.’
‘I hoped it was. I was intrigued, you see, when Becca mentioned your shop. I mean, I knew it had to be yours.’
Della smiled. ‘Yes, there’s only one bookshop in Burley Bridge. So … you’re Becca’s dad?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. There’s quite a gap between her and Eddie. Ten years, in fact.’
‘That is quite a gap.’
‘Keeps me on my toes.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, I saw you that day they moved into halls. I hope that doesn’t sound stalkery …’
‘Of course not,’ Della laughed. ‘You should have come over and said hi.’ She took in his wide smile and kind blue eyes, and willed Mark and his parents to tire of browsing the books and leave. This felt better: getting to know the parent of one of Sophie’s new friends, the two of them in the same boat. She wanted to ask how he had felt that day, and how it was now with Becca gone. Plus, he was attractive, she happened to note – and there was no wedding ring. While she wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready to meet anyone else, she wasn’t entirely against the idea of befriending the handsome father of one of Sophie’s new college mates.
‘… Oh, I wasn’t terribly together that day,’ he said. ‘You know, I’d hoped we might might spend some time together, Becca and me. But she virtually marched me off the premises …’
Della laughed. ‘So much for the tearful parting. So, um, you drove the girls over today? That was good of you.’
‘Ah, I had an ulterior motive,’ he explained. ‘You see, I’m a bit of a keen amateur cook …’ His voice tailed off as Mark appeared at his side, clearly curious as to who this stranger might be.
Della cleared her throat. ‘Mark, this, is, er … I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’
‘Frank,’ the man said.
‘This is Mark, Sophie’s dad …’ Who really should be thinking about leaving now.
‘Good to meet you, Mark.’ Frank smiled brightly. ‘Anyway, I’m just going to have a browse, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ Della told him. Frank wandered off to the baking section, leaving Della and Mark hovering in awkward silence. ‘Can I just ask what you’re doing here?’ she muttered.
‘Nothing! I just wanted to show my support.’
She stared at the man who had wooed her, she supposed, in the old-fashioned way, all those years ago by festooning her with gifts and dinners and attention. How she had loved him, and how she wanted him to be very far away now. ‘I don’t need your support, Mark.’
His face – which she’d once thought the most handsome she had ever seen – seemed to crumple. ‘I can understand why you’d feel that way. Look, I’m sorry, Dell. Maybe I should have called you first instead of just bowling up like this …’
‘With your mum and dad,’ she cut in.
‘Okay, okay. It was a mistake, I can see that now. But I just, well …’ He raked back his hair again. ‘Can we talk somewhere private, just for a moment?’
‘Do we have to? This is my party, you know. I’m kind of busy.’
He gave her a pained look. ‘I’d really appreciate it if we could, Dell.’
‘Oh, come on then.’ She pursed her lips and led him through the throng to the tiny store room at the back. ‘What’s this about?’
He looked around distractedly, not that there was much to see: just an old Belfast sink, plus boxes of overspill books that hadn’t fitted onto the shelves and a wicker basket of light bulbs. Mark cleared his throat. ‘It’s true, I wanted to support you, but more than that …’ He tailed off.
‘You wanted to unnerve me on my opening day?’
‘No! Honestly, of course I didn’t, what kind of monster do you think I am?’
She glowered at him. ‘It’s a wonder you didn’t bring Polly. Would she have enjoyed this? A free glass of wine and some cake?’
‘Della, please …’
‘I mean,’ she snapped, ‘if you were planning to shake me up on a day I’ve worked so hard towards, then that would have been a good way to—’
‘It’s over!’ he barked.
Della stared at him. ‘I know. You’ve made that pretty clear.’
‘No, no, not us. I mean Polly and me.’
‘What d’you mean, it’s over?’
He groaned, as if in actual pain, and rubbed at his face with his hands. ‘It was a total mess-up, Dell. I think I went slightly mad. Well, not slightly. Completely, really. I don’t know what happened. It just kind of started up, and then sort of escalated and ran completely out of control …’
She regarded him coolly. ‘You’re making it sound like a train.’
‘Yes, well, it sort of was.’
‘As if you had nothing to do with it at all?’
‘Exactly!’ Relief was flickering in Mark’s greeny-blue eyes as if he was off the hook, having merely lost control of his faculties temporarily and been unable to prevent the marital catastrophe that had ensued. ‘Honestly,’ he ploughed on, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you and upset Sophie and mess up our whole family like that. D’you believe me, darling? We have a life together, a family and a house, and I think you’re incredible. I suppose I’d started to take all of that for granted …’ Della stared at the face she had once thought she would never tire of looking at. Sometimes, in their early months together, she had lain awake in the bed they shared and simply watched him sleep. ‘… what you’ve done here is amazing,’ he added, a crack in his voice now as if he might actually cry. ‘I know I was against you opening a shop and, to be honest, I probably felt a bit threatened …’
‘Threatened, by cookbooks?’
‘Yes … no – I mean, by you moving on, being so determined to do your own thing and make it work. Imagine what your mum would think, Dell. She’d be so proud.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said tartly.
‘And you … look at you now, in your stunning dress. You look sensational. Have you lost weight?’
Della’s mouth was hanging open. Not an attractive look, she was aware of that, but she didn’t care. She stared at her husband, realising she no longer felt angry or bitter towards him; in fact, she felt nothing at all. ‘Mark,’ she started, ‘I have to say, all those lies you told – well, they were just incredible.’
His face sagged. ‘What d’you—’
‘The golf clubs, for one thing,’ she cut in sharply. ‘Going to the lengths of buying them and setting out cheerfully every Saturday morning when you were seeing her. And lying about having to move to a different course! You actually sat next to me and told me all about the problems with moles.’
‘The moles are true!’ he protested. ‘You saw on the website …’
‘And getting drunk on Peter’s birthday … does Peter even exist?’
Mark dropped his gaze. ‘Uh, look, Dell, I know I behaved abominably but I’m trying to apologise …’
‘It’s too late,’ she said firmly, breaking off because Angie had appeared and was grimacing apologetically.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ She glanced from Mark to Della, widening her eyes in a you-need-to-come-with-me-now sort of way. ‘It’s just, some people have arrived, Dell, and they were wondering where you were.’
‘Oh, who’s that?’ She stepped gratefully away from Mark, leaving him looking stranded amidst the lightbulbs and boxes of books.
‘I’m not sure, they’re an older couple.’ Della followed her and scanned the still bustling shop. ‘Look, they’re over there, by the till.’
Della’s heart seemed to stop as she saw Monica … and Rafael, who was gazing around with open curiosity. Della scurried towards them. ‘Hello! Oh, I’m so glad you could come.’ She kissed Monica’s cheek, then, not knowing how to great Rafael, she took hold of his hand and shook it, which seemed to startle him. He glanced at Monica as if awaiting instructions on what to do next.
‘This place is wonderful, Della,’ she enthused, turning to Rafael. ‘So beautiful and creative. We must buy something. It’s time you learned to cook, Raff.’
‘It’s a little late for that,’ he said, and Della saw his mouth curl into a hesitant smile.
She looked at the rather shambolic elderly man from whom, perhaps not entirely reasonably, she had expected so much. But the next thing she knew, he had leaned towards her and was mumbling something into her hair that sounded like, I’m sorry.
She frowned and studied his face. ‘Why are you sorry?’
Rafael shrugged. He was wearing the same brown corduroys and even the same checked shirt as the first time she had met him. ‘For yesterday,’ he said.
Della glanced at Monica who raised an eyebrow and subtly – tenderly, Della thought – touched Rafael’s arm. ‘It’s okay,’ Della said gently. ‘And, you know … it’s never too late.’
He looked up, and she saw his gaze flicker across a shelf crammed with books: the treasures she had loved as a child. ‘To learn to cook, you mean?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Yes, that,’ she said, smiling, ‘but anything, really. It’s never too late for anything at all.’