She sat down on the wobbly bench.
‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be …?’
‘I’ve buggered it up a bit,’ she said, ‘but I expect a good lawyer will get me out of it. I should have realised earlier.’
‘Realised what?’ He looked at her, her mascara running and her hair falling out of its elaborate do and her lipstick all smudged.
‘It’s you I want to be with,’ she told him.
‘Me?’
‘You’re always there for me. We always have a good time together. You love Peasebrook as much as I do. And more than anything, I want you to kiss me.’
For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of joke. If Hugh would appear with a shotgun if he did what he’d been wanting to do ever since that day in the hospital.
Well, kissing Alice was worth getting shot for.
Her veil had fallen back down over her face. He lifted it up, so he could see all of her: her beautiful eyes, her lovely mouth.
And then he kissed her. And as he did so, he swore he was going to look after her and protect her as long as he lived, whatever happened.
Twenty-Five
Two weeks later the refurbishment at Nightingale Books was complete.
The shop was still recognisable as its former self, but looked fresher and brighter. The walls were pale grey, the shelves white, with hand-painted signs.
Bea had dressed each section to feel like a room. Fiction had a pink squashy sofa and small tables either side, each with a jug of fresh roses. Crime was positioned by the fireplace, with a plaid armchair and a Persian rug, and you could almost imagine Sherlock Holmes reclining there with his pipe. Cookery was designed around a butcher’s block displaying the ingredients from a particular recipe. She’d accessorised all the other sections too: an easel for art, a spinning globe for travel.
They reopened the first week of December, ready for Christmas. There was no time to organise a party, but Emilia had a small opening ceremony for everyone who had been involved: June, Mel and Dave, Jackson and his cohorts, Bea, Andrea …
‘This means the world to me,’ said Emilia. ‘Thank you all. And I know my father would thank you all too.’
And she turned the sign to Open.
There were people waiting on the pavement, eager to shop, and they carried on flooding in all day long. There were queues at the till and Emilia was relieved she’d had the foresight to take on three new members of staff to cover the Christmas period.
At the end of the day she had just thanked the staff and said goodbye to them but hadn’t locked the door when the bell tinged. She would tell whoever it was they were closed for the day.
It was Marlowe. He was standing there with a smile and a bottle of Perrier-Jou?t.
‘Are you closed?’
‘I can make an exception. Just for you.’
‘I wanted to buy a book on your first day. To mark the occasion.’
‘Well, come in and have a browse.’
He put the bottle down on the counter and looked around in admiration.
‘It’s wonderful, Emilia.’
She looked around and saw it with his eyes. It was wonderful. And suddenly she felt overwhelmed, because the one person she wanted to see it wasn’t there. She felt tears well up.
‘Hey!’ Marlowe was at her side in a moment.
‘I’m sorry. I just wish he was here to see it.’
‘Of course you do.’ Marlowe took her in his arms. He put up a finger to wipe away her tears. ‘He’d be so proud. You know that.’
Emilia nodded. She should pull herself together. Go and open the champagne or something. But she didn’t want to move out of his embrace. On the contrary, she wanted to move closer. She shut her eyes.
They stood there for a moment, closer than close, their breathing in rhythm.
‘Which book was it you wanted?’ she asked eventually, barely able to speak.
‘Have you got a book about a man who takes ages to realise the person he loves has been right under his nose all along?’
‘There’s loads of those,’ she said. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Well,’ said Marlowe. ‘He’s a violinist. And she’s got a book shop.’
She opened her eyes, suddenly realising what he meant.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there is.’
‘Someone should write one, then,’ said Marlowe, smiling down at her.
Emilia swallowed, trying to take in exactly what this meant.
‘Is it true?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Ever since I watched you play “The Swan” at your father’s memorial. You were so scared but you were so brave and you did it with so much love … I’d never heard it played like that before.’
‘Oh.’ Emilia didn’t know what to say. She was overwhelmed, both by his confession and his comments about her performance.
‘Delphine knew before I did,’ said Marlowe. ‘That’s why she left. She was pretty good about it. She said she didn’t want to stand in the way.’
Emilia felt overwhelmed. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt his arms tighten around her.